When Hate Writes Back
Chapter 12 — Worlds Collide
It started with a simple ping on my pen-pal chat.
"Tell me everything. Today. Every little interaction. Don't leave out the details."
I stared at the screen, fingers hovering over the keyboard. My pen pal had never been so… insistent before. My stomach twisted in anticipation.
"Fine," I typed slowly, "but you might regret it. It's him. The boy at school. He… he's infuriating, but also…"
I paused. Couldn't write that last part. Couldn't admit it, even in words.
"Also what?" came the reply, simple, patient, teasing all at once.
"Also…" I hesitated again, then typed: "He does things that make me… feel safe. Weird, right? The guy I hate."
The reply blinked at me instantly:
"Not weird. That's called noticing. Pay attention. He's teaching you something about yourself. And maybe… about him, too."
I chewed my lip, staring at the screen. My pen pal was dropping hints, cryptic ones, as usual — but tonight, it felt different. Almost urgent.
And then, as if the universe had decided to play a cruel trick, Keifer walked past my window just outside my bedroom — completely unaware I was looking — carrying a stack of books I had forgotten to bring home.
He didn't see me. He didn't know I was there. But the way he adjusted the books, muttered under his breath about deadlines, and gave a tiny smirk to himself… it mirrored exactly what I had just described to my pen pal.
"You see?" my pen pal's words popped up on the screen again. "The pieces are moving. Pay attention. Worlds collide when you least expect it."
I blinked. Worlds collide?
I sank back into my chair, heart hammering. The words weren't just advice anymore — they were a warning. A tease. A promise.
"I think…" I typed slowly, "something impossible is happening. And I don't know if I'm ready for it."
"Impossible things often make the best stories," my pen pal replied, calm as always, "and the best feelings. Trust yourself. Trust what you feel. The rest will follow."
Outside, Keifer laughed at something entirely mundane, unaware that his actions were perfectly echoing the words I'd just typed. My chest tightened.
Oblivious. Completely oblivious.
But the collision of these two worlds — the online one, safe and intimate, and the offline one, infuriating and frustrating — was happening right before my eyes.
And I couldn't look away.