www.twst › IS THIS THE GREATEST 3-1 COMEBACK IN RSA'S LEGACY?
💭: arriving in a whole new world sucks, but finding a job there? thats crazy. thankfully, you stumble upon a website called cupid's hotline—a romance forum dedicated to everyone's love life! you've been enjoying the financial benefits of it until one day, your recent client asks for advices on how to get close to his crush, who, unbeknownst to both of you, ends up being... you?!
pairing. rielle corallia x gn! reader
wc. 10.8k (holy yap)
warnings. fluff, rsa! reader who is also from another world, potentially ooc rielle (written before full release), rielle YEARNING for like 9k words, nct is canon in twst here, oblivious(?) reader for the sake of the plot, mutual pining, not proofread
a/n. lord ok there was supposed to be a part for minajael too but i lowk got carried away making rielle's... so now im planning another seperate fic for him 🥹 wow first twst fic and its abt rsa
You’re convinced this entire Royal Sword Academy experience in a world called Twisted Wonderland is nothing more than a humiliation ritual that is specially curated for you.
First of all, (and for the record, you would like to say that none of the circumstances mentioned hereafter is your idea) you are magicless—utterly, thoroughly, embarrassingly magicless, in an academy where magic is the fulcrum of all its ideals. To put this in an analogy, it would be like entering a swimming competition without knowing what water is.
Despite your initial reserves and protests, your gracious headmage—Ambrose LXIII—decided to enroll you anyway, regardless of your lacking prowess in all possible magical areas. Though your mental fortitude is on the brink of crumbling at the thought of having to suffer through academic hell, it’s the most favorable outcome considering the freaky, all-knowing mirror apparently said your world is basically non-existent.
Not to mention, without a valid identity or credentials recognized anywhere in this world, you are—legally speaking—either a student or a trespasser, and only one of those options comes with a viable meal plan. If you’re going to suffer with a curriculum pulled from the devil’s asscrack, you might as well enjoy seared salmon steak with mushroom gravy every single day while you’re at it.
With that said, being a magicless student in RSA means that you sit through explanations of magical theory and practical evaluations like you’re trying to understand a mana power-scaling system in some historical fantasy manhwa—which isn’t really that good of a comparison now that you think about it, granted that you are living through it real-time—and history lectures just feel like you’re playing Akinator with blindfolds. Good sweet lord, you literally have every single line in the textbook colour-coded in vivid, eye-straining highlighters, so you wouldn't play guess who this is every other day.
You don’t even want to talk about magical mathematics.
Now, academic stress is one thing—being pocketless is another. You don’t think you’ve ever felt that degree of mortification and dread when you study calculus as you did the moment you patted your pockets and found absolutely nothing.
Naturally, at first, you planned to sort this predicament out with Ambrose, but something about being more indebted to that old grandpa genuinely gives you the slight shiver me timbers, so you decided to deal with it yourself and get some sort of job… somehow, with no prior experience, qualifications, or any academic certificates.
Thankfully, however, you have found a goldmine of a Reddit-equivalent website on the school-issued phone that Ambrose gave you, and verbatim, “to stay updated on school announcements,” which you have used exactly zero times for school announcements.
That heavenly gift leads to your discovery of cupid’s hotline—a romance forum where the lovelorn, the hopeless, and the genuinely delusional all congregate to dissect their situationships, spiral about their crushes as if the forum is just one big confessional booth—one that also offers services such as providing love advices, and occasionally commissions other users on the platform to write their confession letters for them.
You found the website entirely by accident, and ever since then, you have never left it, considering the financial benefits. By week two as an active member of the forum, the mailman is probably tired of seeing your face nearly every single day to deliver sealed envelopes that contain the fruits of your hard labor (read: writing a shit ton of love letters instead of doing your history essay)—sweet piles of Thaumarks.
Now, you wouldn’t exactly call yourself an expert or professional in this whole love business, per se, it just happens that you have consumed an irresponsible amount of romance media over the course of your entire life and have been the designated third wheel often enough to have developed opinions, which are, arguably, tantamount to having a lifelong familiarity with love, no matter how theoretical it is.
A person pleading on the platform for a love letter to be written, and that the service will be paid for on top of that? Consider it done an hour after you slipped in their DMs. Advice on how to confess to your childhood friend? There’s already a clean numbered list in their inbox.
You’re acquainted with the duke of the north and engaged to the 4th prince, who is openly flaunting his affair? You have a very solid idea of what they should do.
The point is, after spending a month on the forum, you think you have seen every romantic trope, cliche, and complex relationship this website has to offer. You would argue that you have seen too much, read the posts like your bedtime stories, and delivered enough advices to know exactly how all of these stories will likely go.
In short, you are a growing expert on something that will never happen to you—or so you thought.
Rielle has always noticed you.
That phrase alone could not encompass the gossamer tangle of wonder and want that has rooted itself deep somewhere in one passing heartbeat and the next.
The prince has met humans aplenty during his stay on land—some eyes are sharp and turbulent, while some are gentle and mirthful. It never fails to fascinate him, the way humans carry the weight of nameless worlds within them.
The prince has met humans aplenty during his stay on land—yet you, he thinks, are something else entirely. Whenever you’re in sight, he can’t help but let his eyes drift back to you, as though it is the most natural thing in the world.
Whether you’re hunched over the library table, clicking your pen absentmindedly in that rhythmic way you do when something isn’t clicking, or simply passing by him in the corridor, heading toward your next class with your peers without a second glance at him, his eyes always instinctively try to seek out your familiar figure, regardless of where he is.
He’s not exactly sure what it is about you that captivates him so deeply, only that every time he tries to untangle the threads, the fragile thing shifts like light on water—like something just beyond articulation.
You unravel him—dangerously so, in a way that he is rendered completely and utterly helpless without recourse. He doubts you know you’ve rewritten the word love to him in the shape of your name. Rielle has always thought love at first sight would induce a symphonic, earth-shattering revelation—something with more fanfare and rapidly thundering heartbeats, similar to that of the Mermaid Princess’ tale.
He never thought it would be something so full of warmth like the afternoon sun against the tides—delicate like the brush of spun sugar and woven along the moment like flowing silk.
Still—for all that it settles into him like something inevitable and right—Rielle finds, almost confoundedly, that he cannot seem to do anything about it.
He is not, by nature, someone who struggles with people. In fact, it’s the contrary—the distance between stranger and someone he knows has never felt particularly vast to him; he never has to think too much when it comes to it.
That is, until you came into the frame.
The moment you so much as glance at him, something burrowed deep in his chest seizes up like a wave caught mid-pull, and whatever he had been meaning to say evaporates cleanly from the tip of his tongue like seafoam against the morning sun. He has replayed the scenarios enough times in the quiet enclosure of his room to know that what he feels extends beyond casual admiration—beyond anything he has ever felt before.
It’s frankly near embarrassing how he finds himself completely speechless by just a mere glance. So instead, he does what he knows.
He watches from afar as your eyes catch the light from the stained glass windows of the library when it all clicks together after a long study session. He learns the way you unconsciously straighten your uniform blazer when you get too nervous for an upcoming test or quiz that day, or how you prefer to pair heavily savory meals with a more refreshing and refined beverage like warm oolong tea.
As infatuation continues to be nurtured every day, Rielle begins to find things that remind him of you in the small, unguarded parts of his daily life—a smooth stone by the campus pond, a pressed flower bookmark from Mrs. T’s stationary corner, a music box from the market that carries a soft melody that you might like—and he anonymously leaves them somewhere you’ll find them, because at least this way he can give you something without his voice betraying him entirely in the process.
It is not, he is aware, a particularly brave approach.
“You’re doing it again, Your Highness.”
Rielle snaps out from his dazed stupor, turning his head to meet face-to-face with Bastien—his closes companion, confidant, and the most reliable witness to every embarrasing moments he has gone through—who is staring right at him with knowing eyes, and a faint smug smirk of a person who has heard all of his friend’s rambles about his little crush and is now watching the evidence present itself in real time.
The young prince merely blinks at him, “Huh, doing what?”
“You’ve been standing in the same spot for the past 5 minutes.”
“I just like this spot, and the birds make a lovely sight.” Now he’s partly lying from his ass—sure, the courtyard does have pleasing birds to gaze at, but he’s got a different subject in mind.
Sitting tucked away in the quietest corner of the courtyard, you tap your pen against the thick pages of your book, seemingly too immersed in your studies for someone who’s not aware that a stray robin has perched itself on your head.
You don’t notice the robin until it sharply pecks you square on the crown of your head—at which point your other hand flies up with an indignant yeowch!, just in time to feel the brief, departing ruffle of wings as it immediately departs as though it has somewhere more important to be.
The expression that crosses your face is one of such pure, wordless indignation that Rielle has to press his lips together very firmly, lest he accidentally laughs.
“...I just think they’re wonderful, Bastien.”
Bastien exhales slowly through his nose, in the manner of someone quietly adding this to a very long mental list.
“I know, Your Highness,” he responds, muttering underneath his breath along the lines of he’s a lost cause. “You might want to tell them that someday.”
“I know! It’s just—” the prince starts, ears uncharacteristically dusted red that it seamlessly blends in with his hair, “I don’t know what it is—I can speak to anyone, I’ve never had any problem with it! But the moment they… look at me I just—”
He gestures vaguely, almost sheepishly.
“You just,” Bastien repeats, with the careful neutrality of a man who knows exactly where this goes. “Yes!” He nods vigorously, with a helplessness so genuine it was almost endearing. “Everything I mean to say just instantly goes like it was never there—and I’ve tried, Bastien, I’ve really tried! But every single time they’re in front of me, my brain just completely—”
He gestures again, the blush on the apple of his cheeks growing increasingly bolder by the second.
“Goes.” Again, Bastien finishes for him, without wasting a beat—which is a sad indicator of how many times they’ve had this exact conversation.
“Goes…” Rielle agrees, once again nodding miserably before the humbling truth.
A long beat of silence veils itself over them, during which Bastien appears to be doing some internal contemplations and calculations.
“Well, there is this one forum,” he begins, bringing his thumb and index finger to cup his chin in thoughtful suspense, “that has been making its rounds lately—cupid’s hotline, and apparently, people go there to sort out precisely this kind of…”
He waves a hand, “Catastrophe—sorry, situation.”
“A romance forum, if you will. They have a lot of other users who help you figure out what to say or do.” He pauses for a second. “Users who are, presumably, better at this than you currently are, Your Highness.”
Considering what his tone implies, apparently, the bar is not high.
Rielle has the grace to look slightly bashful, “...You think it will help?”
Bastien thinks back about all the late-night rambles of you, the obvious stares that the prince has been shooting at you, the smile he usually sports on when he’s too distracted daydreaming about you—yeah, no, he may as well will lose what little remains of his sanity if this keeps on going.
“Your Highness,” Bastien starts, his lips easing into a polite smile that is more exasperated than anything. “At this point I would try anything—so, yes, I think you should try the forum, for both our sakes.”
“A hand mirror today, huh?” You turn the gold-leafed hand mirror that was previously situated by your front door, closely inspecting the intricate carvings.
It’s been a good few weeks—possibly a month or more—since the daily gifts dropped by your “secret admirer” have come rolling in. You use the term loosely, considering you are no closer to figuring out who they are than you were on day one—no leads, no suspects, and no idea what you did to deserve this level of dedicated, anonymous attention.
Which, at this point, is either a testament to their discretion or your own obliviousness.
You set aside the hand mirror with the rest of the collection before sitting down on your bed, pulling out your school-issued phone to log back into cupid’s hotline with the same energy as clocking in your shift.
It is, by all accounts, a normal day on the forum—someone is spiraling, someone needs a letter written, and a bunch of r/AITA posts that are enough to be your personal bedtime stories for tonight.
Though there is one specific post that makes you pause.
I need help and my friend told me to try this forum
Hi! I was told this is the place to go for this sort of thing, and I’ve been—well, my friend has been telling me for a while that I need to do something about my situation, and I think he’s right, so here I am!
There’s someone that I really like a lot, more than a lot actually, if I’m being completely honest. The thing is, every single time they’re in front of me, I’m not sure what to say or do…
I’ve been leaving them gifts anonymously in the meantime, which I honestly don’t know if that’s been helpful or just confusing them.
I just want to tell them how I feel properly. Can anyone help me figure out how? I would really appreciate it!
The post is straightforward enough—earnest, genuine, and nothing a few simple advices can’t fix.
Someone who knows exactly what they feel and simply doesn’t know how to deal with it? All they need is a nudge in the right direction, and let romance sweep them off their feet.
Leaving them things, though?
Your eyes involuntarily drift to the collection of small trinkets that has been scattered across all your other belongings—the hand mirror on your desk, the musicbox perched on your bookshelf, the pressed flower bookmark you had tucked between the pages of your history textbook.
You glance back at your screen.
…Hm.
There is a brief moment when a thought, half-formed and flickering, begins to assemble itself somewhere at the back of your mind—it tries to draw about speculations, yet you forcefully dissolve the thought.
It’s a very common practice; there are a lot of people like that in the world.
“It’s probably just a coincidence.” You casually shrug it off, fingers already reaching to the reply window, and start typing at record speed about your thoughts.
u/letmegohome: hi OP ! personally, here’s what u can do:
01. START SMALL, FIND EXCUSES TO TALK TO THEM !
As it turns out, Twisted Wonderland is incredibly generous with excuses when you’re looking for one.
Rielle is on his way back from his afterschool activities, phone in hand as his screen displays u/letmegohome’s post, when a splashing sound cuts through the quietude of the campus grounds and makes him perk up—the sound seems to come from somewhere in the direction of the lake nearby.
He finds you sitting in the shallow lake at the edge of campus—your uniform soaked through to a degree that it clings uncomfortably to your body enough to make you grimace, hair plastered to your face as water droplets trickled down your chin, all the while you stare at the sky, unblinking.
For a split second, his heart lodges itself in his throat, heart blaring against his ribcage at the realization that it’s you—but concern outweighs all the nervous jitters, and his body makes the decision his brain is too flustered to, already inching closer in your direction.
You had just gotten out of the lake after a good couple of seconds of marinating in the embarrassment, having gathered enough presence of mind to drag your sopping self for a change of clothes, when he worriedly runs up to you.
“Hey, are you okay?!”
You look ahead of you, and the first thought that breaches your mind is fuck, someone saw it all go down.
The second, however, is the mortifying awareness that you are absolutely drenched in front of someone who looks like that, which somehow worsens the entire predicament you are in.
Rich rosy hair that glimmers like sunlight refracted through coral beds, round blue eyes that many surely liken them to the open sky over yonder (free, boundless, brimming with a curiosity of a fledgling barely out of the nest), and the slight mingling scent of seafoam that has tethered itself to his presence—you had to remind yourself to blink, lest you make it worse by being caught red-handed oogling at him.
Holy shit, this dude looks like Ariel.
“Yeah, don’t worry about it. I uh–I just tripped,” you try to assure him, yet the words tumble out so awkwardly at the pretty boy before you, that somewhere between the line of composure and the lack thereof, you have the urge to bang your head straight on the next hardest surface you could find.
He moves closer regardless, as if your casual dismissals aren’t enough to sway him. “Are you sure? You’re completely soaked! Here, I’ll walk you to the infirmary—it’s not that far from here, and they’ll have spares of dry clothes too!”
You open your mouth to decline, which is an immediate instinct more than ever. The words are already bubbling on the tip of your tongue, something along the lines of really it’s fine or no need to trouble yourself—but all those pre-saved phrases shrivel into nothingness the moment a particularly vicious breeze hisses through your soaked uniform, and your body betrays you with a shiver that you feel deep in the crevice of your soul.
The boy looks at you with an expression that practically screams in your face that he saw that.
“...Sure.”
His face instantly beams up the moment you agree, his lips curling into a warm and immediate smile that prompts you to mirror his, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.
He talks the whole way there.
It doesn’t feel like those conversations where one completely overwhelms the other—there’s something in the way he speaks that makes it feel as though it feels less like being talked over, and more like being let in.
The boy—who you came to know as Rielle Corallia, the seventh prince of the Coral Sea, when introductions were due between you two—points out several shortcuts that he’d discovered over the course of his stay in the Academy, of the birds perched on trees that he loves to gaze at after he wraps up his afterschool activities, of the passionate hobby he has for collecting trinkets that intrigue him—huh, maybe someday, you should ask him about all the interesting gifts you’ve received lately.
You both arrive at the infirmary before the conversation runs out, which isn’t that much of a surprise, considering how he was intensely rambling about the unique craftsmanship of human artifacts, the history behind each one of them, and his collection back in his dorm—you get the gist of it.
The attending healer of the infirmary takes one look at your drenched form and exhales an entire 10 years of their life through their nose, before disappearing to the back of the room to fetch a brand-new uniform fresh from the laundry (probably).
You station yourself cautiously near the corner, unwilling to commit to any surface while still dripping wet. Across you, your unofficial escort settles himself on a nearby chair, swinging his legs idly as his gaze drifts across the empty infirmary with open curiosity before it finds its way back to you, to which you return his stare with a short huff that might barely count as a laugh.
“Wow, something about the healer’s reaction gives me the impression I’m not the first person to walk in like this.”
Rielle blinks at you for a moment before bursting out in an easy laugh—mirthful and unguarded.
“Well, there was a third-year last semester who walked in with an entire bird’s nest in his hair—the healers are basically used to it at this point.” He pauses, tilting his head to the side as the corners of his smile twitch into something softer around the edges.
“Though I do think that you might be the first person I’ve ever seen make falling into a lake so… memorable.”
You’re not sure if you’re supposed to be offended or graciously accept the compliment, so you choose to settle it with an incredulous chuckle in lieu, “Oh, for sure—I think I’ll remember this humiliating day until I reach my deathbed.”
Something glints beyond the azure shine of his eyes—perhaps amusement, and something that teeters dangerously close to fondness. Rielle leans slightly forward from his chair, the idle swing of his legs coming to a stop in place of directing all his focus to you.
“I don’t think I’ll forget it either!” He holds your gaze as he says it, his tone laced with a quiet finality that can neither be deflected nor perturbed, “because it led me to you, didn’t it?”
He hears it the moment it leaves his mouth.
That was not planned—in fact, that was the opposite of planned, and the rational part of his brain that has been carefully, painstakingly keeping that particular sentiment under wraps for weeks on end collectively loses its mind.
Holy Sevens, just strike him now.
You look at him, and he looks right back at you with that same carefree smile that he always seems to wear (that is also trying to tuck his discomfiture deep in the clefts of his mind), as if he didn’t just utter a sentence so damning that it lodges itself somewhere in your sternum without so much as a warning.
He is, for the record, not as unbothered as it looks.
The healer chooses this precise, strategic moment to reappear from the back of the room with their arms piled with neatly folded clothes, and you have never felt more grateful for an interruption.
“Here,” The healer places the uniform and a warm, gentle-scented towel into your arms with the practiced ease and efficiency of someone who might have done this a hundred times—that, or they’ve dealt worse. “You can change in the back, just try not to drip on the floor if you can.”
Rielle remains seated in his chair and watches you disappear into the back room, perhaps a little faster than strictly necessary, and thinks, well, that’s a start.
He picks his phone up and opens his DM’s.
u/underthesea: Hi letmegohome, I talked to them!!
It isn’t until that night that u/letmegohome responds to his message.
u/letmegohome: hey sorry for the late reply! and???? what happened
u/underthesea: I think it went well…
u/underthesea: I also may have said something I didn’t entirely plan to say…
u/letmegohome: WHAT
u/underthesea: It went well though!! I think
u/letmegohome: U THINK? nvm its ok, onto the next one
02. SHOW UP CONSISTENTLY, LET THEM REALIZE YOUR PRESENCE !
Of all things RSA’s curriculum has thrown at your face, Aquatic Civilization and Maritime History is perhaps the most miserable you’ve been in your studies—not because it’s inherently complicated, but because you lack the foundational knowledge to build on, and the textbook is written as though the reader already knew everything and was simply reading for the fun of it.
Now, at the very least, the human segments are manageable—wars, petty politics, territorial disputes—the broad strokes of it aren’t so different from the world you come from, and you can follow the thread well enough to understand—but merfolks?
Shit, dude, a two-month-old infant might have a better understanding than you.
You stare at a two-page spread on the Coral Sea with a hollow expression of someone who has reread the same paragraph 6-7 times and retained absolutely nothing, your highlighter poised uselessly over a sentence you have not processed in three minutes.
Reading walls of text for what feels like hours on end definitely fries your brain in some way or another. It is evident in the way you don’t even register a particular warmth that hovers over you, and the shadow that falls over your page.
“Oh! Are you studying the Coral Sea?”
You jolt in your seat, eyes frantically looking up to meet the summer sea that rests in the eyes you’ve come to be familiar with.
Rielle stands behind your chair with a library book tucked under one arm, looking at your open textbook with a twinkle of genuine interest—oh right, he is the seventh prince of the Coral Sea, isn’t he?
“Yeah,” you sigh in defeat, “I’ve been stuck on it for a while.”
Something lights up in his expression—that particular quality of attention that is uniquely his, the kind that doesn’t feel practiced or fabricated; rather, it feels like a hearth crackling into life—warm and steady as it crawls its way to the fore of your heart, gently soothing it.
“What part of it?”
Your gaze flickers to your scattered notes, and the bold highlights galore, “...All of it.”
He laughs—a tune so effortlessly bright and airy that the heavy weight simmering in your chest feels, just for a moment, considerably lighter—and moves to pull out a chair across from you.
“Are you sure?” you ask, nodding at the book in his hand, “You look like you were in the middle of something.”
He glances back down at the book before looking right back, “Oh, this? Don’t worry, it can wait!”
“I’m serious, Rielle, I don’t want to pull you away from your own studies—”
“Nonsense! Don’t worry about it.” There is something in the easy certainty of it that makes the protest dissolve before you can finish structuring it. He sets the book down on the table, unhurried in his ministration, before leaning forward on his elbows and tilting his head slightly.
“Think about it,” he begins, and something glints in his expression—a deliberate mischief that is found when he has a plan brewing up in his mind. “You’re studying the Coral Sea.”
“And I happen to know someone well familiar with it.”
You stare at him, utterly unamused.
Rielle looks back at you with an expectant yet barely concealed eager look of someone who has just pulled out an excellent card and is simply waiting for you to catch on.
“...You.”
“Me,” He confirms confidently, nodding his head proudly and all. What a silly guy, you think.
“You’re the seventh prince of the Coral Sea.” You quip back, deciding to humour him a little longer.
“I am.”
“And you’re offering to tutor me on your own kingdom.”
“I am,” he continues to nod along, the grin that breaks across his countenance so guileless and unrestrained that you feel your own lips betray you with the faintest twitch of a smile in response. “So, shall we?”
You glance back down at the two-page spread, the long paragraphs of text and terminologies you barely comprehend, and the highlighters that do nothing but strain your eyes—honestly, at this point, you’re completely hopeless.
“...Yeah, alright.” Finally caving in, you push the textbook across the table toward him, “Where should we start?”
Rielle, bless his soul, probably took pity on all the scribbles of a poor annotation and the vibrant mix and match colours of your highlighters. “From the beginning, I think. It would be better for you to know the general context first.”
Just like that, you find yourself being tutored on the Coral Sea by its seventh prince, who explains it the way someone explains a place they so dearly love—less like reciting from the dry tone of the textbook and more like letting you in on something personal and kept.
He weaves through the explanations with details that make the whole thing feel suddenly, startlingly real—as if you could just reach and touch. The tidal currents along the eastern shelf and their importance for navigation, the Coral Sea’s extensive musical traditions, the coral formations that predate the kingdom itself, some of which are said to have been shaped not by human nature but by the earliest merfolk who settled the deep.
You’d be plain dead lying if you tell yourself you are listening for the sake of your notes.
It starts innocuously enough—your pen moves across the page, keeping up with the flow of his explanations. Yet somewhere between trade routes and coral formations, there is an imperceptible shift that happens, and you stop writing without quite noticing you have, and you stop noticing because you are watching him instead.
You watch the way his eyes crinkle in delight when the topic reaches the recorded instances of merfolk coming to land throughout history, you watch something luminous and unbridled stir within the azure of his irises—the deep fondness of someone revisiting a memory, turning it over their hands like a smooth river stone.
His hands move as he speaks, tracing the invisible geography of a world you cannot physically see but find yourself yearning for—the southern coast, the border reefs, the stretch of coastlines where two worlds have always quietly, tentatively reached for each other in their embrace.
He talks about old tales last.
The famous Mermaid Princess’ tale, he says, who has always been drawn to the surface—to the human world and all its curious, ephemeral warmth.
“It’s considered either a cautionary tale or a love story,” Rielle mentions, momentarily snapping you out from your (hopefully not) blatant gawking at him and his damn pretty eyes, “depending on who’s telling it.”
“Which do you think it is?” you ask, the question tumbling out of your mouth before you can catch yourself.
“A love story,” he replies without missing a beat, with the certainty of someone who has never once entertained the alternative. “I think it has always been a love story.”
You hold his gaze a beat longer than necessary before tearing your eyes away to look back down at your blank notes—pristine white and untouched for the past 10 minutes. Clicking your pen, you begin to recite what you’ve remembered from Rielle’s recitation in an effort to distract yourself from the warmth that currently takes residence somewhere between your ribs.
No, the inexplicable thumps of your increasing heartbeat are simply the product of a well-done study session, and so are the twitch of your lips when you recall the smile that softened the sharp edges of the afternoon and all its weight.
Oh, you realize, this is dangerous.
Later that night, your phone lights up.
u/underthesea: UPDATE
u/underthesea: I’ve been showing up a lot more, and I even helped them study today!
u/letmegohome: woah study session? ur on a really good progress streak
u/underthesea: They even took notes about what I was saying… I feel like I’ve achieved everything in life
u/underthesea: 🐚
u/letmegohome: what does that mean
u/underthesea: It’s a shell. I thought it was fitting
u/letmegohome: boy…
03. DO SOMETHING THOUGHTFUL, CREATE A MOMENT THAT BELONGS JUST TO THE TWO OF YOU !
“What a pretty pocket watch.”
It sits unassumingly near the end of Rielle’s shelf—unapologetically opulent and resplendent in its aged splendour. The gold of its casing catches the evening light and pools it into the illusion of molten metal, so brilliant against the lacquer that you might’ve postulated it was Midas’ Touch itself, had you not known better.
Despite having been possibly underwater for decades, it still retains its immaculate lustre—unmarred and unbothered before the erosion of time.
You pick it up carefully, turning it over in your hands, and the weight of it is satisfying to speak. The casing is engraved along the edges with details that resemble flower petals, or vines—hard to tell underneath the golden light, the pattern shifting depending on the angle you hold it at.
Now, truthfully, it had started as nothing more than a passing comment on the walk back to your last class—you’d mentioned his collection in offhanded intrigue, and Rielle had lit up with the kind of enthusiasm that you have found, consistently and against your better judgment, very difficult to walk away from.
So it’s no surprise to you that the moment he extended an invitation to his dorm to see the collection yourself, you find yourself standing in his dorm room after school, moving slowly along a shelf that is considerably more impressive than you have been anticipating, while he sits perched on the edge of his desk behind you.
“Isn’t it?! I found it in an old shipwreck—the whole ship has probably been down there for ages, but the watch is still completely intact!” Rielle pipes in keenly, a permanent smile seemingly etched onto his visage every time your fingers dance to trace the various thingamabobs stored in a shelf, or each moment your eyes twinkled in interest and fascination.
“Does it still work?” You ask, twirling the golden chains attached to it in your other hand.
“Sadly, no. The mechanism stopped working a long time ago.” Well, a pocket watch that can survive underwater for that long would be too crazy impressive, you reckon.
You fiddle with the clasp, and it opens smoothly, the hinges surprisingly precise and well-maintained despite its age. Inside, the face of the watch is cream-coloured and regal, giving off a sophisticated air around it—well, you argue, I think that’s the main aesthetic it’s going for.
The same couldn’t be said for its components, however—the numerals have faded to near-illegibility, and the hands are forever frozen at a quarter past three.
“Still, the owner must’ve taken good care of it.” You hum, setting the pocket watch carefully, exactly where it had been, and continue along the shelf—a brass compass with a crack on its face, small amphora jars, candelabras, fine bone china tea cups—and somewhere between one item and another, something snags at the back of your mind.
“Oh, wait,” you begin, neatly arranging the pile of books you’ve taken out before, “this reminds me of something.”
From behind you, Rielle tilts his head. “Hm? What is it?”
“Someone’s been leaving me stuff—for quite some time now, actually.” You turn to look at him, leaning back against the empty wall next to the shelf with your arms loosely crossed.
“Anonymously, though, so I don’t know exactly who’s doing it. All the gifts they’ve given to me are really nice, actually—something similar to your collection, if I have to describe it? A hand mirror, bookmarks, cutlery sets, a music box, and pearl necklaces, to name a few.”
As you continue to ramble on about your mysterious “gift mailperson”, you fail to notice how Rielle has gone still, very still.
“...Oh!” He manages to squeeze out, despite how fast his mind and heart are racing—hell, he is probably seconds away from cold sweat dripping down his forehead.
Play it cool, play it cool, play it cool—
“That’s—wow.” He nods fervently, the word wow serving an extraordinary weight for how little it actually communicates his feelings, “Someone’s been doing that every day?”
“Every day,” You confirm, frowning slightly, “Thing is, I have no idea who it could be, so I thought I’d ask you if you know anyone who might, you know, have a similar hobby or taste like yours, since you know a lot when it comes to this.”
While you look at him expectantly, Rielle is in the seconds from jumping out the window, and swimming into the deepest trench in Sage Island. The only thing stopping him from doing so is the distant, exhausted voice of Bastien in the back of his mind saying please don’t
He prays, with every single fibre of his being, that Bastien were here—and also that Bastien were not here, because he would not live this down.
“...Aha, someone with the same hobby, you say?” he says, seemingly thoughtful on the outside and certainly on the inside as well, where his brain attempts to locate an exit from this conversation.
Uhh, oh no—should he just tell them? He could just tell them, in fact, it would only be a very simple ”Actually, that’s me! I’ve been leaving you things because I think about you constantly, and I’m in love with you!”
No, no, this isn’t it—this is not how he imagined it to go down.
“I’m—I’m not sure about that, but that’s quite something, haha! The gifts sound lovely!” Son, who are you trying to fool. Rielle nearly physically cringes at his too cheery tone—it’s a specific scene of someone who has never been a particularly good liar and is finding it out in real time.
You look at him for a beat longer than comfortable before mercifully turning back to the shelf.
“Anyway,” you continue, fingers drifting idly to the rest of the trinkets, “I just thought I’d ask you, but don’t worry about it too much—I’m not losing sleep over it, anyway.”
“Right,” he says, exhaling very quietly as though one wrong move, and he’s going to have his entire head shaved. “Right, of course! Uh, don’t worry, I’ll try to dig around for you!”
You chuckle at his words, and Rielle swears he might seriously melt into a puddle one of these days. “It’s actually kind of nice, whatever their reason is.”
“Makes this place a little less… I don’t know, far from everything—more welcoming.” Twisted Wonderland still isn’t anything close to home—there are moments when the chandeliers dim, and the hushed murmur of the night lingers more than the warmth of your hearth, where the realization pools unfathomably heavily in your chest.
Yet it passes, as all things do, and when it does, it leaves something in its wake—something quieter and warmer that you haven’t quite named yet but have stopped trying to explain away.
There remains a bleeding gap in your chest that is on the lines of home, but as the small kindnesses from a person you cannot put a face to, accumulate slowly, it gradually becomes something more bearable than it was.
“So, I’m thankful for that.” The tone of your voice seeps into something more gentle and sincerely bare, your gaze dropping back to a compass you’ve unconsciously picked up in your hands, turning it over as though the admission didn’t land directly at him.
The words settle into the room, and Rielle finds, unexpectedly, that they stir a familiar sentiment.
He knows the feeling—not in the same way, and certainly not with the same weight, but he knows the feeling all too well. The Coral Sea is not far from here, as in the way your world is far from here, yet on nights when the stars lack their usual luminosity, the absence of saltwater in the air sits strangely in his lungs, the silence of his room feels like a held breath more than anything—it is on nights like those does he find himself listening for the sounds of tides that aren’t there.
Rielle loves it here on land, don’t get him wrong—he loves it tenderly and wholly, in the way he has loved everything about the human world since before he took his first step on the grainy sands and found it waiting for him. The vibrant flush of flowers, the towering trees, the croons of forest birds—he does not regret a single moment of it.
Still, there are times—quieter times that are unlike grief or longing in the way it aches terribly so in his chest—when something wordlessly pulls at him. It’s more so a gentle and persistent reminder that the tides of the ocean are still there, a reminder that no matter how far he walks from the shoreline, or how long he’s last reveled in the ocean breeze, the sea will always be there waiting for him.
“I’m glad.” He says with a smile that is softer than his usual ones—less bright, more settled, and relieved at its edges.
You glance back at him over your shoulder.
“Glad about what?” “That whoever they are,” he says, looking at you in that distinct way of his that you have not yet found a name for, “is making it feel that way.”
You hold his gaze for a moment, and his breath hitched imperceptibly—infinitesimally, at the sight of your eyes that settle on his, carrying a weight that reaches somewhere he hadn’t thought to guard, something that makes the distance between you feel considerably smaller than it is.
It is the light, Rielle thinks—the last of the evening, threading itself through your eyes like it has found somewhere worthy of its final, gilded reverence. It catches there, refracts, and sinks at the very depths of your gaze in a way that glimmers with the trembling brilliance of something precious—something that makes the breath stall between his lungs and lips.
You hum—soft and considering—before a delighted smile graces your lips.
“Yeah,” you say, quietly. “Me too.”
Oh, he thinks.
Your eyes twinkle like the marmoris of home.
u/underthesea: OK.
u/underthesea: letmegohome I’m going to write a letter to them. Tomorrow night. This is the moment!!
u/letmegohome: finally
u/letmegohome: idk what happened for u to suddenly get that amount of determination but god bless omg
u/underthesea: 🐚🐚🐚🐚🐚
u/letmegohome: boy stop sending me those shells and get to WORK
u/underthesea: drafting it as we speak!!
04. IF YOUR WORDS FAIL YOU, WRITE THEM DOWN !
[💌] HOW TO WRITE A LOVE LETTER 101: a humble guide by u/letmegohome
I. START WITH SOMETHING SPECIFIC, LIKE A SHARED MEMORY
“Like that time you nearly blurted out you were the one sending them gifts?” Rielle lightly groans at Bastien’s chaff, dropping his pen onto the desk with a clatter that communicates his feelings rather well.
“I thought we agreed not to speak about that again!” The prince huffs out, shooting him a look that is intended to be withering and lands considerably short of that—it is not-so intimidating to speak, which further amuses Bastien if anything.
In return, his closest friend merely snickers—Lord, he’s having a field day, watching everything unfold as though it is all one big, theatrical soap opera. “Well, Your Highness, you agreed; I made no such commitment.”
“That’s—” Rielle starts, and then closes his mouth the next second, because he cannot, in good conscience, argue with that. To be fair, he had simply stated that they would not be speaking about it again, and Bastien said mm—and he had taken that as a binding contract, which, in retrospect, was perhaps optimistic for him.
He picks his pen back up, ignoring the knowing stare that drills at the back of his head, “Never mind that! I’m writing the letter.”
“Alright.”
“I’m not thinking about it!” He argues in his fluster, the scratching of a pen on paper seemingly emphasising his words.
“That’s good.”
“It was one moment, and it will never happen again!”
“Mhm.”
“I handled it very well, actually!” Now, maybe he needs to slow down a bit, considering the way his hand moves almost industriously against the letter.
Bastien looks down at the letter, eyes raking over the handwriting that has started as careful penmanship into something progressively what one might generously describe as abstract.
“Your Highness, perhaps the recipient would want a declaration of love, rather than a hexing script.”
Rielle buries his face briefly in his hands.
II. SAY THE THINGS YOU’VE BEEN AVOIDING SAYING
“Is this the part where you finally confess your secret identity?”
“Or is it the part where you write the heart-pounding…” Bastien playfully bats his eyelashes, his hands clasping together in a dramatic flair, “I love you?”
Rielle sputters out a sound that is not a word—something caught between indignation and an old whistling kettle that’s about to blow its lid entirely, pen nearly slipping from his fingers. The tips of his ears have gone the telling shade of pink that emerges exclusively in moments of complete and utter defeat—a colour that is doing a lot of confessing on his behalf.
Why do you need enemies when you have friends like this?
Well, cut that poor guy some slack, he had to deal with a few months of Rielle barging into his room—giggling and kicking his feet, recounting the entire day with you, debriefing every single second, while poor Bastien was just trying to mourn over the news of Mark Lee leaving NCT.
“I am not writing ‘I love you’.” Rielle manages to say between his sputters, with the dignity of someone who absolutely will be writing ‘I love you’ by the end of the conversation.
“Why not,” Bastien says, which is not quite a question.
“Because!—” The prince stops, his eyebrows furrowed in the same way every time he’s deeply tense about something. “...What if it’s too much?”
He loves you truly, in a way that it feels almost too large to fit inside something as small as a letter—and the thought of handing that to you all at once, unmediated, three words on a page, feels like setting something enormous down at your feet and hoping you don’t step back from it.
Bastien stares at him for a moment. “Your Highness, you have been leaving them gifts for months. You have memorized their tea order, their habits, and other small details about them—I think they can handle three words.”
This time, his voice takes on the tone he reserves exclusively for moments when the situation has moved past the point of gentle ribbing into something that quietly reminds Rielle that Bastien has always been in his corner.
“Rielle,” he says. “You left the ocean despite your family’s displeasure, because something up here called to you and you couldn’t ignore it. You have never once decided something was too much and turned back.”
His eyes cut briefly to the letter and back. “Don’t start now, and certainly not over three words.”
Rielle’s eyes look back at the letter before dragging the pen’s nub over the paper again.
III. DON’T OVERTHINK THE ENDING, JUST MEAN IT
“...I beg your pardon?”
u/letmegohome: huh?
Bastien turns to look at the prince—who was just on his phone, his screen displaying the familiar UI of the forum’s chat he talked about—with the air of someone who has just watched nearly four months of racked-up patience arrive at a crossroad he did not entirely anticipate.
“The letter,” Rielle smiles, with the sudden, convinced energy of someone who has just figured something out, “I know you said it’s good, but I don’t think I want to use it! I want to tell them in person—I want to see their face when I say it.”
u/letmegohome: ur not going to use it???
u/letmegohome: didn’t u spend a long time on it tho?
Bastien stares at him.
“Your Highness,” he says, very carefully, “I have sat here for the better part of two hours, watching you cross out seventeen sentences, listening to you describe your feelings in seventeen different ways that all meant the same thing. I read the letter—I told you it was good.”
“And you are now telling me you are not going to use it.”
“Yes!” says the prince, who has been stripping years of his life, “And I was thinking of how it could be done in a dramatic backdrop, like—like while we’re both out on a rowboat at sunset, with a lot of willow trees and fireflies!”
Something appropriately cinematic, something that would do justice to the enormity of what he feels.
u/undethesea: I have a plan to confess, maybe like in a dramatic setting!!
u/letmegohome: hmm
u/letmegohome: well that is nice
“Your best bet would be the shallow lake by the edge of campus, considering how I doubt you could last until our summer break.” Bastien points out, as though he had seen it coming long before Rielle uttered it.
“And, Your Highness, how are you going to acquire a rowboat and willow trees?”
Bastien regards him for a moment with the expression of someone who has watched this specific thought process play out in real time and has made peace with it a long time ago.
“The rowboat, the willow trees, and fireflies,” He begins, ticking them off one by one with a patience that is perhaps borderline admirable. “None of it is what they’re going to completely remember.”
u/letmegohome: i wouldnt exactly fuss abt the place first thing
u/letmegohome: its a nice detail but im sure they will remember you first and foremost, not the setting
“What they’re going to remember,” He continues, and Rielle wonders distantly if Bastien is an active user on cupid’s hotline like letmegohome, “is you. Standing in front of them as you say it.”
Or maybe he’s truly a shifu in romance, unbeknownst to him.
“That’s merely the backdrop, Your Highness. What matters isn’t where you say it—it’s that you say it at all.”
Rielle looks at him and thinks of all the messages letmegohome sent as well—the carefully imagined cinematic sequence he has been building in his head, all of it, gently dissolves, leaving something much simpler and truer in its place.
Oh, he thinks—and then he’s standing up.
The night air greets him the moment he steps on campus, carrying with it the particular atmosphere of an evening that has settled into itself, the day’s warmth still clinging to the stone paths like a departing guest reluctant to leave entirely.
The campus breathes differently at this hour.
The lampposts that wind through the cobblestone paths have come on, their warm aureate glow pooling across the stone, gilding the edges of leaves and casting long shadows against the grass—and the hushed murmur of the night unravels itself against the ground, undemanding as though the world itself has exhaled.
Rielle finds you before he has walked very far at all.
You are sitting on the edge of the campus fountain, legs dangling idly over the side, face tilting upward toward the darkening sky—looking for all the world like someone who has nowhere to be and is enjoying the freedom thoroughly. There is a half-eaten snack in your hand, and your school bag sits slumped on the ground beside you like a faithful, exhausted companion.
The lamplight finds your figure the way its rays embrace everything it touches with a thin veil of golden sheen—it nestles against your hair, traces the line of your shoulder, and settles at the corner of your expression.
You look up at the sound of approaching footsteps, and your face evidently brightens at the sight of him.
“Oh, hey,” You greet him with a smile, “Perfect timing, Rielle, I was about to start talking to myself.”
“Looks like I came at the right time, then!” He laughs and comes to sit beside you on the fountain, close enough that what remains of the warmth of the night rests between you like something shared.
It is then that you begin, unceremoniously, telling him about your eventful day—and he attentively listens to every single comment you make.
He has always listened to you—it is something that never requires effort, it has never felt like something he had to remind himself to do. Your voice carries the unadulterated, unperformative lull that inexplicably draws him in the way the arches of tides are perpetually drawn to the shore.
You somberly talk about the mathematics quiz that had gone either very well or catastrophically—it truly depends on the professor’s goodwill—and then, without breaking the flow, pivot to the upcoming alchemy examination that has half of the student body sweating buckets (because the professor is lowkenuinely out for blood, you have noted—to which he can only be perplexed on what lowkenuinely means).
“Man, but alchemy sure has a lot of surprises—I just saw a third-year coming in the cafeteria with his hair up and vividly orange this morning… like those orange highlighters.”
“He just sat down and started eating,” you added, with a tone that more or less indicates you’ve been seeing things. “Like… full orange wall on his head and bro just sat down.”
“Maybe he liked it?” Rielle offers.
“He was crying a little.”
“Oh!”
You continue your rambles—you chime in about the cafeteria’s ridiculous decision to remove your favorite seared salmon from the daily menu, which you take as a personal slight against you. Then, your conversation shifts to the first-year student who had accidentally turned his entire dorm room into a swamp when he got his Unique Magic—a feat that his roommate had described as impressive in the worst possible way.
Rielle listens, and listens, and listens—sometimes throwing in his own comments, a little ooo and ahh on the more shocking details, perhaps a boisterous laugh and barely contained grin here and there when your stories reach their climax on something particularly incredulous that he can’t help but let them spill out.
Truly, Rielle listens, and listens, and listens—until he’s not, until he realizes, all too belatedly, that now, he’s too focused on looking at you.
He’s not sure when it started; maybe it’s the way the threads of light catch the edges of your hair, the way your hands move when you’re mid-story (regardless of your snack), animated and completely too absorbed in your deliverance, the way your eyes widen a fraction when you reach a segment of a story that excites you, or maybe it is when you pause halfway to think of a right word, your brow slightly furrowing the same way it does when you’re stuck on difficult problems—and something in his chest wedges up in that familiar, helpless way that he has long since stopped trying to brace for.
He looks at you and thinks of how you have absolutely no idea that he has a letter perched on his desk, and nearly four months of burgeoning feelings pressing against the inside of his ribs.
Before he can think better of it, his mouth opens.
“It was me,” he says.
You stop mid-sentence.
“...Sorry?”
“The gifts,” he finally admits, and there is something within his voice that is steadier than he feels, which is a surprise even to him, as though the words, having waited this long, have decided to come out properly, or not at all. “I was the one who gave you the gifts.”
The rushing water of the fountain murmurs softly behind you both.
“It was never really about the gifts, it was just the only way I knew how to—” he mutters out, exhaling a short, rueful sound that isn’t quite a laugh, and to his credit, he holds it well, considering the rapid thumps his heart is deafening against his eardrums. “—reach you without my brain… malfunctioning on the spot.”
You still haven’t said anything—He’s not sure if that’s good or bad, and not knowing is doing something genuinely awful for his composure.
“Every time I tried to just—talk to you, the way I meant to, it would just… go. Everything I’d gone over in my head a hundred times—it would be gone the second you look at me.”
“And I kept thinking, okay—tomorrow, I’ll just say it tomorrow.” His voice is quieter now, stripped of the careful management he’d been keeping over it. “And then tomorrow comes, and you’d be right there and I’d just—”
He briefly looks at his hands, “I didn’t know what to do with how much I meant it.”
“So I left you things instead,” he finishes, simply. “Because at least that I could do.”
He glances up at you, just enough for you to see that there is something in his expression that is neither the easy smile nor the lightness he usually wears without thinking—just Rielle, unmediated and a little undone, sitting with everything he’s just handed over and waiting to find out if you’ll hold it delicately.
“And I don’t know what to do except to tell you.” The last of his steadiness vanishes here, landing somewhere bare and true underneath it all. “I’ve tried gifts, a letter, and I had this whole plan, and—”
He lets a short, breathy laugh, rubbing the back of his neck as though he couldn’t quite believe his own lack of restraint. “—you were just sitting here, and I—I just couldn’t wait anymore.”
The laugh fades into an amber of weighted silence—it is dense and thick, in a way that it trembles with the sudden gravity of a confession that has been months in the making.
“I left them because I’m in love with you.”
Rielle doesn’t look away this time—his eyes stay locked on yours, even as his pulse thunders a frantic rhythm against the quiet of the night, watching as the slow realization ripples across your face.
“I don’t know exactly when it started,” he continues, the golden lamplight catching the hues of his eyes that are bathed in sudden, raw honesty. “Only that somewhere along the way, it became the most obvious thing about me.”
A fuzzy feeling presses warmly and insistently against the inside of your sternum as if your own heart is trying to lean into his words.
“Rielle,” you breathe out after god knows how long, your voice barely a notch above the water’s whispers.
He winces slightly, a reflexive bracing for impact, his fingers slightly digging into the smooth stone of the fountain’s edge. “I know it’s a lot. You don’t have to say anything back! I just—I just needed you to know, haha! I’m sorry, I probably ruined the flow of a perfectly good retelling of the drama between the astrology professor and a first-year student—”
“Rielle,” you say.
“...Yeah?” He replies quietly.
You look at him for a moment that stretches long and soft at its edges before you reach out, your fingers brushing hesitantly against his, where they are still gripping the fountain’s edge. His skin is warm, you note, a sharp contrast to the coolness of the stone, and you feel the slight tremor in his hands the moment you make contact.
He stills completely, his breath hitching as if he’s afraid that moving might break the spell of your touch.
“The music box,” you begin.
Rielle blinks. Of all the things he’s anticipated to come, apparently, this wasn’t it. “...Huh?”
“The one you left me.” You look down at your hands that are in his briefly, then back up at him. “I play it every night before I sleep.”
The confusion in his eyes ebbs into something wide and vulnerable, a small oh escaping his lips as he absorbs the weight of your admission.
“It’s the only thing that makes the room feel less empty—it makes me feel less… lonely. It lulls me to sleep every single time.” You offer him a small, sheepish smile, your voice dropping to a hum that barely carries over the splashing water. “For a few minutes, while the music is playing—it feels like home.”
The silence that follows isn’t heavy anymore; it is expansive and vast in a way his surprise finally gives way to a profound, simmering sort of relief.
“You didn’t ruin anything.” You say, your voice finally finding its footing, soft but steady against the night. “And you definitely don’t need to apologize for being… this.”
Your gesture vaguely toward the space between the two of you—a shared place that feels charged with a new air.
“All those gifts,” you continue with a knowing smile, “The little things that made me feel like someone was looking out for me when I wasn’t even looking at myself… I spend quite some time wondering who could possibly be that thoughtful.”
You squeeze his hand, leaning in just enough that the salt-swept scent of the sea fills your senses.
“I’m glad it was you, Rielle. I think, deep down, a part of me already knew—or maybe I just wanted it to be you.”
“...Yeah?” He says, and the word barely makes out—barely above the breath, carrying the enormous, trembling weight of everything he isn’t saying around it.
“Yeah.” You quip, a fond smile plastered on your lips.
The bracing tension in his shoulders collapses all at once, and he lets out a long, shuddering exhale, his head bowing for a second as the sheer force of his anxiety finally hits the ground. When he looks back up, there is a flicker of something bright and hopeful, dancing in the reflection of his eyes.
“You really wanted it to be me?” He repeats, his voice cracking just the slightest bit, a boyish disbelief lacing his tone.
“Every single time.” You say, the playfulness in your voice softening into something more sincere.
Rielle lets out a breathy, melodic laugh—the kind that finally reaches his eyes and makes that incessant fuzzy feeling in your chest expand until you feel like you might as well float right off the fountain. He doesn’t let go of your hand; instead, he turns his palm upward, lacing his fingers through yours with a permanence that feels like a promise.
“You have no idea how many times I almost tripped over my own feet just trying to say ‘hello’ to you.” He admits, a sudden energy sparking in his eyes as the heavy tension finally breaks.
You can’t help the laugh that bubbles up, watching him as he continues his frantic, adorable confessions. The frantic buzz in your chest quietens, smoothing out into a deep, steady warmth—a quiet frequency that feels less like a discovery and more like an old truth unearthed. “I love you too, Rielle.”
You collapse onto your bed, the weight of the day finally catching up to you, and unconsciously reach out for your phone. The screen lights up with a notification from the one person whose entire life feels like a chaotic fanfiction plot.
u/underthesea: LETMEGOHOME
u/underthesea: I told them
u/underthesea: I told them EVERYTHING
u/letmegohome: AND????
u/letmegohome: WHAT HAPPENED NEXT OMG
u/underthesea: THEY SAID THEY LOVED ME TOO
u/underthesea: 🐚🐚🐚🐚🐚🐚🐚🐚
u/letmegohome: HOLY SHIT
u/letmegohome: CONGRATS IM SO HAPPY FOR U!!!
u/underthesea: On another note, I think I'm gonna give them the letter someday
u/underthesea: I'm a little proud of the letter actually
u/underthesea: Here u should read it
u/underthesea: [digitalscan.pdf]
You tap the attached file—a digital scan of a handwritten letter.
As the image loads, you stop dead in your tracks because—you recognize this graceful, slightly slanted script of a handwriting.
???
Your thumb freezes over the screen of your phone, the cool light reflecting in your wide eyes. You blink once, twice, thrice, certain that the fatigue from the math quizzes is finally causing hallucinations—but the pixels don’t shift.
Your eyes snag on the very first sentence, and the air leaves your lungs in one sharp, silent rush.
“I know I’ve been a bit of a mess. I spent months leaving those trinkets on your front door because I was afraid that my words wouldn’t be enough, or that I’d say too much. I thought that if I could just give you something small to make your day better, it would be enough for me—and it was, until the moment we walked to the infirmary after you soaked your uniform in that lake; it was the first time I realized that being near you was better than any secret.”
The realization hits you like a splash of cold water—your fingers frantically typing across the keyboard before you could even fully register it.
Oh, what the fuck.
u/letmegohome: rielle???
u/letmegohome: IS THIS RIELLE?????
