Story cover for From P.O. Box to Boyfriend by laydeeshannon
From P.O. Box to Boyfriend
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    Reads 1,198
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    Parts 16
  • WpHistory
    Time 1h 23m
  • WpView
    Reads 1,198
  • WpVote
    Votes 97
  • WpPart
    Parts 16
  • WpHistory
    Time 1h 23m
Ongoing, First published Nov 09
They didn't start with real names.

Just anonymous usernames, matched by a nostalgic "penpal" writing app that pairs strangers and mimics the charm of old-school postboxes - one message a day, no images allowed, no social links, no identities revealed. Just words.

He is "Box14."
The other is "MailboxS."
Two strangers who start writing for fun... who end up becoming each other's favourite notification of the day.

What begins as casual messaging evolves into something deeper - comfort, trust, and eventually the kind of love that doesn't rely on looks, only connection.

They're nervous.
Excited.
And stupidly in love with someone they've never seen.

But when they finally meet... they realise the truth.

...they discover the person they've been falling for is the enemy who lives literally next door.

Their penpal is their neighbor.

Zee. And Net.

The boy whose laugh drives him crazy.
The boy whose silence annoys him daily.

Suddenly, everything they thought they hated about the other - is the same person they already love.

Now they have to navigate:
- the anonymous tenderness they've built
- the real-life clash they've always had
- and the terrifying question of which version is real

From P.O. Box to boyfriend...
turns into: can sworn neighbors become lovers - both online and offline?
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The streets were loud. Always loud. Always hungry. Dunk's body ached. His stomach had stopped growling days ago - as if even it had given up. The city didn't care who fell on its concrete. Not when there were parties to attend and purses to clutch. He sat curled against a rusted lamppost, wrapped in a rag that used to be a shirt, eyes barely open, mind long past caring. The world had turned grayscale. Then it happened. A voice-young, sharp, bubbling with laughter-floated from across the sidewalk. Talk of brands and boutiques, a string of designer names like spells: "Prada, Gucci, Balenciaga-no, not that again, please-" and then... footsteps slowed. A boy, maybe 14, with warm skin and a smile too bright for this city, stepped forward. He wasn't dressed in gold, but his confidence shimmered. His eyes flickered to Dunk, just for a second. He didn't say a word. He just walked up, pulled out a packet of food from his glittery tote bag, and placed it beside Dunk. Then a folded bill-crisp, blue, too generous. He turned, already laughing again with his friends as they walked away. He never looked back. But Dunk... Dunk never stopped looking. ⸻ Thirteen years later. The party pulsed like a vein, neon and expensive. Chandeliers trembled with bass. Flutes of champagne floated past on silver trays. Everyone glittered, but no one glowed. Dunk stood by the entrance in a tailored black-on-black ensemble that screamed "touch me and die, but take a photo first." A soft silk scarf looped around his neck like smoke. Rings on every finger. The room shrank when he walked in. "Who invited the bodyguard in Chanel?" a voice snapped across the room. Dunk's eyes turned, slow and hungry. There he was. Joong. Older. Wilder. Dressed like sin on sale. Lips curled in mischief, eyes narrowed like he already knew he'd be the problem tonight. Dunk's breath didn't hitch. He didn't melt. He smiled.
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