She's incredibly beautiful, and every time I think about approaching her, I feel a rush of nerves that leaves my heart racing. Back when we first enrolled, the moment I laid eyes on her during orientation, I swear time stood still; it felt like the world around us faded away, and all I could focus on was her radiant smile. Since then, our schedules have lined up perfectly, which happens to be both a blessing and a curse.

To express my feelings without revealing my identity, I've taken to slipping love letters into her bag whenever she's distracted. It started as a small hope—maybe, just maybe, she'd find joy in my words and begin to notice me. However, for the longest time, I feared that she didn't appreciate my gestures. Today, though, something changed.

During class, I noticed a shift in her demeanor; she seemed unusually quiet, and a look of sadness crossed her face. My heart raced as I watched her reach into her bag, pull out a piece of pink paper—one of my letters—and start to read it. I couldn't believe my eyes when her cheeks flushed a delicate rose; in that moment, it was as if a spark of recognition lit up her expression.

I feel compelled to approach her now, to finally talk and see if she feels anything for me. The fear of rejection grips me tightly, though, and I find myself frozen, unsure if I can take that leap. What if I ruin everything by trying to get closer? I'm torn between my longing to bridge the distance and the paralyzing doubt that continues to hold me back.