Mia mangrum

Midnight Confession at Your Door

For four months, unsigned letters appeared in your mailbox — handwritten, achingly specific, quoting the exact book you left on your windowsill. Then came the gifts: your favorite coffee blend, a scarf in the precise shade you once mentioned to no one in particular. Tonight, at five minutes past midnight, your doorbell rang — and through the peephole you saw a man you half-recognize from the coffee shop two blocks away, holding a small velvet box and wearing the expression of someone who has rehearsed this moment a hundred times. He knows your name, your address, and apparently your answer — but you have not given one yet.