#sappy

★ “The author’s publisher. I sent a letter.” Shes blushing now, actually blushing, and it’s adorable. “I know it’s probably silly, but I wanted her to know how much these books mean to me. How the writing is—” She struggles for words. “How it’s changed the way I think about storytelling. About connection.”

★ You’re going to tell her. Right now. This moment.

★ “Coupé—“

★ “I probably won’t hear back,” she continues, not hearing the confession building in your throat. “But I had to try. I had to at least tell someone that this author is—” She looks at you, and her eyes are so soft it hurts. “That she’s brilliant. That her work matters.”

★ “I’m sure that—” Your voice cracks. “I’m sure that she would appreciate it.”

★ “I hope so.” She smiles, and it’s shy and hopeful and you are gone. “Because I meant every word.”

•••

★ The letter arrives at your publisher’s office three days later. Your editor forwards it to you with a string of heart emojis. You read it seven times, alone in your room, and try not to cry.

★ Coupé’s handwriting is neat and careful. Her words are thoughtful and specific. She quotes your own passages back to you like their poetry, analyzes your themes with the precision of a scholar and the passion of a devotee. At the bottom, she’s written,

★ “Please tell the author that her books have made me believe in magic again. The real kind. The kind that happens when someone sees you clearly and won’t look away.”

★ You hold the letter against your chest and let yourself feel it. Everything. Holy cow you’re in deep.

•••

★ Week seven.

★ Youve been writing her into your new book even more lately. The love interest has started quoting Coupé word for word. Has her laugh, her careful way of holding eye contact like it’s something precious. Your editor has noticed.

★ “This is your best work yet,” they’d written. “What changed?”

★ Everything, you thought. Everything changed. Now you’re standing outside Coupé’s door with wine and the letter—you brought the letter, folded in your pocket, evidence and confession both—and you think…

★ Fuck it.

★ She opens the door.

★“I need to tell you something.”

★ Her expression shifts. Careful. “Okay.”

★ “Can I—can I come in first?”

★ She steps aside.

★ You walk to the center of her room, and you turn to face her, and you pull the letter from your pocket.

★ “This is from you,”

★ Coupé’s eyes widen. “How did you—”

★ “Because I’m the author.” The words come out in a rush. “I wrote the book. And the other two. I’ve been writing under a pen name because I needed the money and also because I was processing some stuff, and I never thought—” You stop. Breathe. “I never thought someone like you would read them. Would love them. Would see—” Your voice breaks. “Would see me in them.”

★ Silence.

★ Coupé is staring at you like you’ve just rewritten reality.

★ “You,” she says finally. “You wrote—“

★ “Yeah.”

★ “The throne room scene. The knife scene. The—” She presses her hand to her mouth. “The rain scene?”

★ “All of it.”

★ “Oh my god.” She’s laughing now, breathless and disbelieving. “Oh my god. I’ve been sitting here telling you—analyzing your own work like some kind of—” She breaks off, and when she looks at you again, her eyes are shining. “You let me.”

★ “I liked hearing it,” you admit. “Hearing what you thought. What it meant to you.”

★ “It meant everything.” She crosses the space between you in three steps. “Do you know how rare it is? To find writing that feels like someone reached into your chest and pulled out all the things you’ve been too afraid to say?”

★ “I—”

★ “That’s what your books did.” Her hands find yours. “That’s what you did.” She leans in slightly, whispering now. “The rain scene, when you wrote that, were you—” She pauses, gathering a bit of courage. “Were you writing about someone real?”

★ “I was writing about what it felt like to want someone I thought I couldn’t have.”

★ “And now?”

★ “Now I’m standing in her room, holding her hands. Hoping I didn’t just ruin everything.”

★ “You didn’t ruin anything.” She squeezes your hands. “But you should know—I’m going to have so many questions about your writing process.” Her lips curl into something genuine and you laugh, shaky yet relieved. “Yeah?”

★ “Yes. Starting with,” She nearly closes the space between you, and her breath ghosts your lips. “Starting with whether you’d let me kiss the author of my favorite books.”

★ “I think that could be arranged.”

★ She kisses you, and it’s soft, certain and tastes like wine and possibility. When she pulls back, she’s grinning. “This book club just got a lot more interesting,” she says.

★ “Two person club,” you remind her.

★ “The best kind.” She kisses you again, quick and sweet. “Now come on. We have six more chapters to discuss, and I have notes.” You let her pull you to the couch, let her settle against your side, let yourself have this. Coupé, curled warm against you, talking about your words with that same awe.

★ And when she pauses her analysis to kiss your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth, you think ‘This right here… is what I was writing about all along.’