Love Letter

It was just an ordinary day. Nothing special. Just me going through my usual routine and doing my daily chores-waking up, rolling out of bed, and taking a quick snooze on the couch. Yes, that’s a chore. An important one. If I skip it, everything else falls apart. You’d be surprised how many people don’t realize that’s an essential part of the day. Let’s normalize waking up from the bed and take a quick nap on the couch. It’s not fair that I’m the only one who does that.

But enough of my ridiculousness-not that I’m gaslighting myself into thinking I’m productive first thing in the morning or anything. Because I am and I don’t need anyone’s thoughts about how I should be acting first thing in the morning. If I wanted to go back to sleep, then I’ll go back to sleep. At least I didn’t go back to sleep on a bed where I just woke up.

In all seriousness, I’m just a simple person living a simple life, running a simple bakery. Nothing extraordinary happens. A handful of customers walk in, buy some pastries, and leave. It’s not the most popular bakery in town, but it’s enough. Enough to keep me afloat, to indulge in the little things I enjoy.

Like romance novels. God, there’s just something about losing yourself in a fictional world where-okay, let’s be real, it’s not always perfect. But the way men grovel in those books? Chef’s kiss. There’s one novel where the guy messes up so badly that he starts writing letters to the woman he lost-every single day, pouring out his love and regret and pain and sorrow. Something about that is so painfully romantic. If I were her, I’d cave after three letters. Tops.

But if there’s one thing I learned from that book, it’s this: don’t swoon too early. Wait it out. Much like how the woman in the story made him suffer for three whole months just to see if he’d stop. Joke’s on her-he never did. I imagine she had a mountain of unopened letters piled up in some corner of her house. The book didn’t specifically show that happened, but I like to imagine her actually having a mountain of letters. Honestly, iconic.

That’s one of my favorite tropes: love letters. When words were written by hand, sealed with care, and carried across distances to reach the person they were meant for.

Too bad that’s dead now.

No one writes letters anymore. Everything is instant-texts, emails, DMs of random dick picks from strangers. And let’s be real, receiving an “I love you” through a notification just doesn’t hit the same as unfolding a handwritten note.

That’s why I never expected to receive one. A real one.

Because, one, like I’ve said earlier, I’m just an ordinary person with an ordinary life. I’m not the heroine of some grand romance novel. I don’t have an extravagant job, I’m not royalty-I run a bakery in a small town where everyone knows everyone. And two, I’m happy with the way things are. Single. Content. Earning enough to enjoy life.

Besides, no one warns you about the downside of reading too many romance novels. At some point, you start expecting too much. And reality? Reality doesn’t play by the same rules. Every heartbreak is a reminder that fiction and real life are two entirely different things.

Wow. That got depressing fast.

Anyway. Back to the point.

In a town this small, if someone were to send a love letter, it would be the talk of the town. No secrets here. Gossip spreads faster than wildfire.

Which is why I nearly short-circuited when I saw one.

Right there, in front of my bakery. A soft pink envelope with a heart-shaped wax seal. Okay, I may have accidentally stepped on it before realizing it was down there. I’m sorry, that’s my bad.

But-get this-it’s scented. Not just any scent, but fresh strawberries after a morning rain. Do you know how hard it is to get scented paper around here? I’ve always wanted to have a rim of scented paper, for display only, obviously.

I blinked. Once. Twice. Five times. Still there.

I pinched myself. Once. Twice. Six times. I’m wide awake.

A letter. In broad daylight. Where anyone walking past could’ve seen it lying on the ground. It wasn’t even blending it with its surroundings. The pink paper is like a beacon to anyone walking by the bakery.

By the time I fully processed what I was looking at, a small crowd had gathered behind me, peering over my shoulders. I shooed them away before they got any ideas about opening it themselves. Okay, fine-they were my nosy friends. But still, boundaries still exist.

The first thing I did was check if it was actually meant for me. And sure enough, it was.

To Ellyn Roberts

Then came my second thought-let’s be real, if you mysteriously receive a letter out of nowhere, your first reaction should be concern. Because what if this isn’t cute? What if this is stalker behavior? That was a valid possibility.

But when I opened it and read the words inside, I realized it wasn’t that.

It wasn’t an obsession. It wasn’t anything creepy.

This was just some guy... confessing his infatuation.

Wait.

Wait a fucking minute.

This letter. Is for me. And it’s from someone who has a crush on me.

Holy shit. Why did it take my sleep-deprived brain so long to process that? Oh, right, the sleep-deprived part. That explains it.

I scanned the letter for the fifth time, looking for clues. A name, an initial, anything. The only thing the sender left was a signature. A nickname, maybe.

Bumblebee.

Who the hell is Bumblebee?

My first thought? The Transformer. Yes, I had a childhood crush on a giant yellow robot-don’t judge me. My “hear me out cake” is not for display and doesn’t like to receive any judgment from anyone.

But seriously... who is this?

I glanced around, searching for any sign of someone watching, but there was nothing. Whoever wrote this letter had already disappeared, leaving me standing there, heart pounding, holding a mystery in my hands.

Well, whoever it is, I have a bakery to manage. This mystery can wait—just like whoever was responsible for sending this letter to me. They can wait. Too bad there’s no return address. Not that I’d write back. Maybe it’s just a prank, anyway.

Yeah. A harmless little joke.

Either way, I’m not about to let one mysterious (and admittedly cute and sweet and whatever those Power Puff Girls are made out of) letter distract me today.

Or at least, that’s what I told myself.

But as the seconds ticked by, the image of the letter—and a vague silhouette of someone—kept flashing through my mind, drowning out any other thoughts that tried to enter. My friends certainly didn’t help, either. They wouldn’t stop nagging me about figuring out who sent it, swearing they were all more than happy to help crack the case.

So, while I went through the motions of my daily routine—kneading dough, ringing up customers, arranging pastries—I couldn’t stop my brain from playing detective. The words in the letter echoed in my head on a loop. And I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t secretly analyzing every sentence, trying to find some hidden clue.

The curiosity of a human being knows no bounds, so forgive me if I kept fidgeting and sneaking glances at the letter sitting on the countertop.

I thought I could ignore it. Move on with my day.

Nope.

Every time the bakery door opened, my head snapped up, half-expecting to see them. Or to spot another letter lying at the entrance, left behind while I wasn’t looking.

I imagined all the possibilities.

But let’s be real—I have a life. A business to run. I’m not about to let a love letter consume me.

Maybe it’s just some random guy hoping to impress me, thinking he can win me over with handwritten words. Now that I really think about it, it’s a little suspicious that this person knew I have a soft spot for love letters. What if they knew my favorite romance trope? What if they read the same book I did?

Wait.

The library.

I should check the records. Good thing a great friend of mine works at the library. See if I can ask him if someone else checked out that book recently—

Oh my God. What the fuck is happening to me?

It’s just one letter. One.

Maybe I should do what my favorite fictional heroines do—stash it somewhere, forget about it, move on. Besides, it’s probably just a one-time thing. A fleeting crush. By tomorrow, there won’t be another letter. No pink envelope waiting at my doorstep.

Because this? This is just infatuation. And infatuations fade.

Yeah. That’s it. Everything’s back to normal.

I’m just an ordinary person again. No surprises.

… But damn.

That letter was so sweet.