Dearest, you said?
- MGA BUMASA 12
- Mga Boto 1
- Mga Parte 1
"Dearest you said? Dearest? You've gotta be kidding me."
Yeah, that's me. Camari, Cam.
I'm just a 16 year old.
Boring, Yeah.
But what the hell does it mean when somebody starts sending you letters for no reason?
Camari, just an average teen age girl, wants to be writer. She feels she can prove all the people she knows wrong and achieve her dream, even though that sounds childish, she can't waste her life and she won't. But why is somebody sending her letter about stranger things?
Will she respond to them?
Will she tell somebody?
Will she find out who's sending the letters?
Read to find out.
_______________________________
Hello! This is a book I'll hopefully try to update and thank you so much for coming across this. If this isn't your genre I have dystopian fanfics on my page if you want to check that out!
Thank you for reading this and I hope you enjoy this story!
This isn't for selling it's just for fun and feedback on my writing.
All Rights to me as I made this story myself !
All Rights Reserved
#24
girlmc
Sumali sa pinakamalaking komunidad ng pagkukuwentoMakakuha ng personalized na mga rekomendasyon ng kuwento, i-save ang iyong mga paborito sa iyong library, at magkomento at bumoto para lumago ang iyong komunidad.
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'The night was alive with silence. I moved through it like a shadow, black leather gloves tight on my hands, boots soft against the grass. My gas mask hid my face, leaving only darkness where my eyes should be. The world narrowed to a single point: the house ahead. Tonight, it would belong to me. The farmhouse rose stark and white beneath the moonlight, silent except for the occasional grunt of a pig or the low hum of a cow. They were unaware. They were insignificant. I crouched behind the hedge, eyes scanning, senses alert. Every detail mattered: the flicker of light across the curtains, the faint rustle of movement inside, the way a shadow shifted across the floor. She was there. Oblivious. Popcorn in hand, murmuring to herself as the television flickered. Every motion was a note in tonight's symphony, and I was the conductor. I studied her, cataloging. Timing. Patterns. Fear. She didn't notice me yet, and that was perfect. Patience was everything. One sound, one misstep, and it could all unravel. I rang the doorbell once. Silence. Again. Still nothing. She flinched slightly, just enough to make my pulse quicken. Her small reaction was delicious. A sudden movement in the yard caught my eye-a neighbor's dog barking at some unseen intruder. Its voice was loud, startling, but contained. I froze. My breath slowed. Patience. Observation. The dog's curiosity would pass. I remained still, hidden in shadow, letting the moment stretch. The animal lost interest and padded away. Perfect. I moved to the back of the house, hammer in hand.' ...
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