Letters to the Stars

Norman was a name that echoed across the world. A voice that could make thousands fall silent in awe, a face that dominated magazine covers and stadium billboards. Every song he wrote told a story—deep, haunting, and heartbreakingly beautiful. His lyrics felt like secrets whispered through melodies, each one unraveling emotions people didn’t even know they had.

Emma, in contrast, painted those emotions into existence. Her art was alive, capturing movement and feeling in a way no one else could. Galleries competed for the chance to display her work, collectors paid fortunes to own a single canvas. She poured her soul into every painting, and people adored her for it.

They were two of the most beloved artists of their generation. So when they announced their relationship, the world reacted exactly as expected.

Ray wasn’t part of that world.

He existed in the shadows, his name unknown, his work recognized only by the words he left behind. He was the anonymous writer whose books sold millions—psychological tragedies so intricate and devastating that they left readers shaken for weeks. His writing was unlike anything else, sharp and deliberate, filled with the kind of pain that settled deep in the bones.

But no one knew who he was.

And he intended to keep it that way.

---

Ray scrolled through his phone absentmindedly, his black coffee cooling beside him. He never paid much attention to celebrity news, but today’s headlines were impossible to ignore.

"NORMAN AND EMMA CONFIRM THEIR RELATIONSHIP!"
"THE MUSIC WORLD’S KING AND THE ART WORLD’S QUEEN—A MATCH MADE IN HEAVEN!"

Ray clicked on the article out of mild curiosity.

A photo of Norman and Emma flashed on the screen—standing side by side at a gala, smiling at each other like they had the whole world at their feet. The article was filled with praise, calling them the perfect pair, a once-in-a-generation duo.

Ray wasn’t surprised. Norman and Emma had been close for years, their chemistry undeniable. If anything, it was more surprising that they hadn’t announced this sooner.

He scrolled through the comments.

They’re so perfect together!
Two geniuses, honestly.
They’re both at the top of their fields—who else would they even date?

Ray exhaled through his nose, setting his phone down.

It didn’t matter.

It wasn’t his world, and it wasn’t his concern.

He had a book to finish.

---

Ray sat alone in the dimly lit library, the familiar weight of his headphones pressing against his ears. He was listening to Norman’s first album—not as background noise, but as something he truly loved. There was something raw about Norman’s early songs, something less polished but deeply personal.

His fingers tapped lightly against the wooden table as he read through his unpublished manuscript, scanning for errors. The library was quiet, empty as usual. That was why he liked it here—no one ever came.

At least, that’s what he thought.

The sudden crash of a door slamming open shattered the silence. Ray’s pen paused mid-sentence, but he didn’t look up.

Footsteps, quick and frantic. Whispered voices. A brief rustling of fabric. Whoever had just barged in was hiding from something.

Ray didn’t care. He returned to his book.

A shadow loomed over his table.

Ray sighed through his nose and finally, finally looked up.

Two people stood in front of him.

He recognized them immediately. Anyone would.

Norman. Emma.

They were slightly out of breath, their expressions a mix of amusement and exhaustion. Their outfits were casual, but it didn’t matter—he had seen their faces enough times on screens to know exactly who they were.

And yet, for some reason, they were staring at him.

Ray pulled off his headphones, his voice flat.

"...What?"

Norman looked intrigued, tilting his head slightly. "You’re not freaking out."

Ray frowned. "Should I be?"

Emma crossed her arms. "I mean… yeah? You do know who we are, right?"

Ray stared at them for a long moment before shrugging. "Yeah. And?"

Emma blinked. "And… you’re just gonna sit there?"

Ray glanced around. "I don’t see any cameras or screaming fans. So, yeah." He gestured vaguely. "I’m gonna sit here."

Norman let out a quiet laugh, something genuinely amused. "That’s a first."

It was rare—practically unheard of—for someone their age to not be starstruck around them. Even people who pretended not to care usually let their excitement slip through. But this guy? He was treating them like they were just some random strangers.

Emma pulled out a chair and sat down across from Ray without asking. "So, what’s your deal?"

Ray sighed, already regretting this interaction. "...My deal?"

Norman sat beside her, resting his chin on his hand. "Yeah. You’re sitting in some old library, alone, listening to my first album and reading a book like nothing’s happening."

Ray frowned slightly. "Your first album is good."

Norman blinked. "...Huh." He smiled, a bit more genuine this time. "That’s not the one most people talk about."

"It’s the one that feels the most real," Ray said simply.

Emma whistled. "Damn. You really don’t sound like a fan."

"I’m not."

Norman raised an eyebrow. "But you do like my music."

Ray sighed, rubbing his temples. "What do you want, exactly?"

Emma leaned forward. "We’re hiding from a bunch of crazy fans outside."

"And we got curious," Norman added. "You’re interesting."

Ray gave him a dull look. "I’m really not."

Norman disagreed. This guy wasn’t just not reacting to them—he was completely unreadable.

And Norman liked figuring people out.

His eyes flickered to the notebook in front of Ray. The handwriting was small, precise, filling the pages with intricate sentences.

Ray expected them to leave.

He had answered their questions, kept his responses neutral, and made it clear he wasn’t interested in their fame. That should have been enough.

But it wasn’t.

Instead, Emma and Norman lingered.

Emma propped her elbow on the table, chin resting in her palm as she grinned at him. "So, mysterious library guy, what’s your name?"

Ray debated ignoring her.

He could lie, but what was the point? They wouldn’t recognize his name anyway.

"...Ray."

Emma lit up. "Cool name! I’m—"

"I know."

Norman chuckled. "You don’t seem like someone who keeps up with celebrities."

"I don’t," Ray said simply, sliding his fingers over the edge of his notebook. "But your faces are everywhere. Hard to miss."

Emma laughed. "Fair enough."

Ray could feel Norman’s eyes on him—sharp, analyzing. He didn’t like it.

He stood up, ready to leave, but Norman’s voice stopped him.

"Wait."

Ray looked down, mildly impatient.

Norman studied him, a calculating gleam in his eyes. "What were you writing?"

Ray’s fingers twitched slightly.

He had been careless. His book had been open on the table when they walked in. If either of them had glanced at it, even for a second, they would have seen the words—the heavy, painful sentences that made up his work.

If Norman had read anything…

Ray forced himself to relax, shifting his bag over his shoulder. "A story."

Emma tilted her head. "Can we read it?"

Ray didn’t even hesitate. "No."

Norman smirked at the immediate response. "That was fast."

"I don’t let people read my drafts."

"Perfectionist?"

Ray exhaled. "Something like that."

Emma hummed, rocking back slightly in her chair. "What kind of stories do you write?"

This time, Ray did hesitate.

If he said psychological tragedies, it would raise suspicion. His books weren’t just popular—they were unique, rare in their intensity. Norman was smart. He was observant. If he heard the words psychological tragedies and then, someday, connected that to the anonymous author of some of his favorite books…

Ray wasn’t taking that risk.

"...Love tragedies," he said, keeping his voice even. "Stuff about heartbreak, unrequited love. That kind of thing."

Emma let out a soft ooh. "So, like, the kind of books that make people cry?"

Ray nodded once. "Something like that."

Norman leaned forward slightly, resting his chin on his hand. "That fits you."

Ray tensed. "What?"

Norman shrugged, smiling slightly. "You have that kind of vibe. The 'quiet, brooding author who writes about heartbreak' thing."

Emma gasped. "Wait, wait, wait—are you a hopeless romantic?!"

Ray blinked.

Norman chuckled. "He doesn’t look like one."

"Exactly!" Emma said. "That’s what makes it even better! It’s always the quiet ones writing the most painful romance novels."

Ray wanted to laugh. If only they knew the truth.

"Right," he said dryly. "You got me."

Emma grinned. "You ever think about publishing your work?"

Ray’s fingers curled slightly over his bag strap.

I already have.

But he didn’t say that.

Instead, he adjusted his bag and nodded slightly. "Maybe."

Emma stretched. "Well, if you ever do, I’d love to read it."

Ray exhaled slowly. "I’ll think about it."

Norman studied him for a long moment before smiling. "See you around, then."

Ray didn’t bother replying. He just turned and walked out of the library.

He didn’t realize that Norman and Emma were still watching him, their curiosity growing with every passing second.

---

The moment Ray left, Emma turned to Norman. "I like him."

Norman hummed. "Yeah. He’s… different."

"Right? He wasn’t nervous, wasn’t excited—he just talked to us like normal people."

Norman tapped his fingers against the table. "And he listens to my first album."

Emma raised an eyebrow. "You think he’s lying?"

"No." Norman’s lips curled slightly. "I think he meant what he said."

Emma leaned back, thinking. "I bet he’s a great writer. People who are that closed off always have something to say in their work."

Norman hummed in agreement, but his mind was elsewhere.

Ray was interesting.

Not just because he was unfazed by their presence—but because of the way he spoke, the way he moved. Careful. Measured. Like someone who was used to keeping secrets.

Norman had spent years learning how to read people. And right now, everything about Ray told him that he wasn’t just some aspiring writer.

There was something more.

And Norman wanted to figure out what.

---

It wasn’t supposed to happen.

Norman and Emma hadn’t planned to go back to that old library, but somehow, they found themselves walking down the same street, stopping in front of the same doors.

"It’s quiet here," Emma said, pushing them open. "I like it."

Norman chuckled. "Are we just pretending we’re not hoping to run into Ray again?"

Emma grinned. "Oh, we’re definitely hoping to run into him."

And they did.

Ray was in the same spot as before, headphones on, a book open in front of him. He didn’t look up as they approached, but Norman caught the way his fingers twitched slightly—just enough to show that he had noticed them.

Emma dropped into the seat across from him. "Hey again!"

Ray sighed, pulling off his headphones. "Do you two just live in libraries now?"

Norman smirked. "Only the ones where interesting people hide."

Ray gave him a dull look. "I’m not interesting."

Emma grinned. "That’s exactly what makes you interesting."

Ray sighed through his nose. "Of course it is."

Norman’s gaze flickered to the book in Ray’s hands. "What are you reading?"

Ray closed it before Norman could see the cover. "Nothing special."

Norman hummed, leaning forward slightly. "So, have you written any tragic love stories since we last talked?"

Ray snorted. "Sure."

Emma rested her chin on her hands. "Any chance we can read them?"

Ray deadpanned. "No."

Norman laughed. "Figures."

Ray exhaled, setting his book down. "...Why are you guys here?"

Emma shrugged. "Dunno. Just felt like coming back."

Ray stared at her for a moment before shifting his gaze to Norman, who only smiled.

They were lying.

They were definitely here because of him.

Ray sighed, leaning back in his chair.

Norman and Emma weren’t the kind of people he could avoid forever.

And somehow, that didn’t bother him as much as it should.

---

Ray didn’t expect to see them again.

At first, he had assumed their second encounter was just a coincidence—one of those fleeting moments where paths crossed before going their separate ways.

But then it kept happening.

Over the next few weeks, Norman and Emma started showing up at the library regularly. It was never planned, or at least they never admitted it was, but Ray would look up from his notebook, and there they were—Emma dropping into the chair across from him, Norman standing beside her with a knowing smile.

They didn’t always stay long. Sometimes they just stopped by, exchanged a few words, and left. Other times, they lingered, flipping through books, talking about anything and everything.

It was… strange.

Ray wasn’t used to this kind of attention—not from people like them.

People who had everything.

Fame. Talent. Recognition.

Yet, for some reason, they kept coming back to him.

—

One evening, as Ray was leaving the library, he heard footsteps behind him.

"Hey! Wait up!"

He sighed. Of course.

Emma jogged up beside him, grinning. Norman followed at a more leisurely pace, hands in his pockets.

"You walk fast," Emma huffed.

Ray adjusted his bag. "You guys leaving too?"

"Yeah," Norman said. "Figured we’d walk together."

Ray didn’t answer. It wasn’t really a question.

As they stepped outside, a light drizzle started to fall.

Emma groaned. "Ugh, seriously? I left my umbrella at home."

Ray pulled his hoodie over his head. "It’s not that bad."

Norman smirked. "We should take cover somewhere before it gets worse."

Emma glanced around. "Oh! There’s a small café down the street. Let’s go!"

Ray sighed but followed anyway.

—

The café was warm, a soft contrast to the cold air outside. They took a seat by the window, listening to the raindrops tapping against the glass.

Emma stirred her hot chocolate. "So, Ray, how come you’re always at the library?"

Ray leaned back, fingers loosely wrapped around his coffee cup. "It’s quiet."

Emma grinned. "You don’t like people, huh?"

Ray smirked slightly. "They’re fine—in small doses."

Norman chuckled. "Fair enough."

Emma took a sip of her drink before perking up. "Oh, by the way, I saw this bookstore earlier selling limited editions of The Mind’s Lament! I was so tempted to get one!"

Ray stiffened for half a second before forcing himself to relax.

The Mind’s Lament. One of his books. One of his most well-known psychological tragedies.

"Is that so?" Ray said, keeping his voice neutral.

"Yeah!" Emma said. "I heard the author’s books are crazy. Like, mind-breaking levels of psychological pain."

Ray resisted the urge to smirk.

"Have you read them?" Norman asked her.

"Not yet! But I really want to. What about you?"

Norman leaned back, tapping his fingers against his cup. "Yeah. I’ve read a few."

Ray flicked his gaze toward him. "And?"

Norman’s lips curled slightly. "They’re brilliant. Disturbing, but brilliant."

Ray hid his amusement behind his coffee cup.

Emma sighed dramatically. "Ugh, I have to get one. I bet they’d make me cry."

Norman chuckled. "They will."

Ray sipped his coffee, watching the two of them.

It was a surreal feeling—sitting across from two people who had no idea they were praising his work.

But he wasn’t going to tell them.

Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

—

It had been three weeks since that rainy evening.

Three weeks of Norman and Emma randomly showing up at the library, sitting across from him, and talking like they had been friends for years. Three weeks of Ray pretending he didn’t notice that he had somehow become part of their routine.

It was never planned. They never made arrangements or said, See you tomorrow.

And yet—

Every time Ray came to the library, they were there.

And every time Norman and Emma came to the library, Ray was there.

At some point, it stopped feeling like a coincidence.

Ray wasn’t sure how it happened. He wasn’t sure why it happened.

But here they were.

—

One evening, Norman and Emma arrived later than usual.

Ray was already sitting in their usual spot, his headphones in, his fingers lazily tapping against the cover of an old book. He barely looked up as they sat down, but Emma wasted no time in launching into a conversation.

"Ray, do you know A.S. Lane?"

Ray’s fingers twitched.

"...What?"

Emma leaned forward, eyes bright. "The author! A.S. Lane! The one who writes psychological tragedies!"

Ray forced himself to look disinterested. "Yeah. What about him?"

Norman smiled slightly. "Emma finally bought one of his books."

"The Mind’s Lament!" Emma said excitedly. "I started reading it last night."

Ray kept his expression blank. "And?"

Emma sighed dramatically, flopping onto the table. "It’s so good. But also completely soul-crushing. I’m only halfway through, and I already feel like my heart’s being ripped out."

Ray smirked slightly. "That’s the point."

Emma groaned. "Why do I like this? I swear, I hate tragedies, but this guy’s writing is insane."

Norman chuckled. "Told you so."

Ray tilted his head. "You’ve read The Mind’s Lament?"

Norman nodded. "That one, and The Fall of Orion."

Ray raised an eyebrow. "That one, huh?"

Norman smirked. "It was brilliant."

Ray sipped his coffee. "Figures you'd like it. That one's one of the darkest ones."

Norman’s smirk deepened. "Exactly."

Emma groaned again. "I’m gonna cry so much when I finish it, aren’t I?"

Ray gave her a lazy grin. "Without a doubt."

Emma whined. "Why do people write things like this?"

Ray shrugged. "Because pain sells."

Emma huffed. "Well, whoever A.S. Lane is, they’re evil. But also a genius."

Ray took another sip of his coffee, fighting the smirk threatening to form.

Norman tapped his fingers against the table. "Who do you think they are?"

Ray blinked. "What?"

"A.S. Lane," Norman said. "Nobody knows their identity. No interviews, no photos, no social media. Just books."

Emma hummed in thought. "I bet he’s old. Like, an experienced, sad philosopher who sits in a dark study and drinks wine while writing about human suffering."

Ray nearly choked on his coffee.

Norman laughed. "I was thinking more of a tired university professor who writes books as a side job."

Emma gasped. "Oh! Maybe he’s not even a he! Maybe it’s a woman!"

Ray coughed slightly, setting his coffee down. "Does it matter?"

Emma pouted. "Well, yeah! I just wanna know what kind of person can write stories like that."

Ray shrugged. "A messed-up one."

Emma snorted. "No kidding."

Norman leaned back, watching Ray carefully. "What about you? Do you have a guess?"

Ray met his gaze evenly. "Not really."

Norman tilted his head, something unreadable in his expression. "Hmm."

Ray ignored it.

Emma suddenly perked up. "Oh! I just remembered—Ray, you never told us your last name!"

Ray blinked. "What?"

Emma grinned. "We only know you as Ray! But what’s your full name?"

Ray hesitated for half a second.

"Lane," he almost said.

But he caught himself just in time.

"...Reeves," he lied smoothly. "Ray Reeves."

Emma beamed. "Nice! Sounds cool."

Norman just stared at him for a moment before smiling slightly. "Ray Reeves, huh?"

Ray nodded. "Yeah."

Norman hummed, his fingers tapping against the table again.

Ray held his gaze, unreadable as ever.

If Norman was suspicious, he didn’t say anything.

And Ray wasn’t going to offer any clues.

The next time they met, Norman had a book in his hand.

Ray recognized it immediately.

"The Fall of Orion."

One of his own.

But he didn’t react. He just sipped his coffee as Norman set the book on the table.

Emma leaned over. "You’re reading it again?"

Norman hummed. "I noticed some things I missed the first time."

Ray smirked slightly. "You analyze books?"

Norman met his gaze. "Only the ones worth analyzing."

Ray raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment.

Emma tapped the cover thoughtfully. "This one was brutal. Like, I thought The Mind’s Lament was bad, but this? This was cruel."

Norman chuckled. "That’s what makes it so good."

Emma groaned. "You and your tragic stories. I swear, Norman, you love suffering."

Norman smirked slightly but didn’t deny it.

Ray glanced at the book. He had always been curious about how readers interpreted his stories, but hearing it directly from someone like Norman was a different experience altogether.

"Well?" Ray asked. "What did you miss?"

Norman tapped the book, thinking. "There are a lot of little details that make the story even more painful once you notice them. Like how the protagonist’s downfall was foreshadowed from the very beginning."

Ray tilted his head. "That was intentional."

"I know," Norman said. "But the way it was done was clever. The first time I read it, I thought the protagonist had a chance to escape his fate. But on the second read, I realized…"

He paused.

Ray smirked. "That he never did?"

Norman nodded. "Exactly."

Emma shuddered. "That’s so messed up."

Ray chuckled. "It’s a tragedy. What did you expect?"

Emma pouted. "At least some hope!"

Norman smiled slightly. "Hope makes it hurt more when it gets crushed."

Ray leaned back, amused. "Sounds like you should be the one writing tragedies."

Norman’s eyes flickered with something unreadable, but he only chuckled. "I’ll leave that to A.S. Lane."

Ray sipped his coffee. "Probably for the best."

Norman tilted his head. "Oh? And why’s that?"

Ray’s smirk deepened. "You’d get way too into it."

Emma laughed. "You’re so right. Norman would make it too tragic. Even Lane would be like, ‘Hey, man, chill.’"

Norman chuckled. "I wouldn’t go that far."

Ray hummed. You definitely would.

—

Later that night, Norman sat in his apartment, flipping through The Fall of Orion again.

He had read it twice now, but something about it still lingered.

There was something strangely familiar about the way it was written.

Not just in style, but in the way the author built their sentences, structured their thoughts, and crafted their dialogue.

It reminded him of someone.

But he couldn’t place who.

Frowning slightly, Norman leaned back against his couch, tapping his fingers against the book’s spine.

Who are you, A.S. Lane?

—

The next time Norman and Emma showed up at the library, Norman had done his research.

He placed his phone on the table, screen facing up. A webpage was open—an article listing every book A.S. Lane had ever published.

Ray took one look at it and had to force himself not to react.

Emma leaned over. "Whoa. That’s a lot of books."

"Fourteen so far," Norman said. "And one collection still in progress."

Ray tapped his fingers against his coffee cup. "You really looked all that up?"

Norman smirked. "Of course."

Emma whistled. "I’ve only read The Mind’s Lament so far, but now I wanna read the rest."

"You should," Norman said. "Each book is standalone, but they all share similar themes."

Emma scanned the list. "What’s your favorite?"

Norman glanced at Ray before answering. "The Fall of Orion. But Seven Doors to Nowhere is a close second."

Ray nodded slightly. He had expected that.

Emma hummed, reading through the list. "There’s The Mind’s Lament, The Fall of Orion, Seven Doors to Nowhere, The Weight of Silence, The Mirror’s Lie…"

She frowned slightly. "Why do all these sound so depressing?"

Ray chuckled. "Because they are."

Emma groaned. "Of course they are. Is there a single happy ending in any of these?"

Norman smirked. "Nope."

Ray sipped his coffee, amused.

Emma sighed dramatically. "I’m gonna suffer, aren’t I?"

Norman nodded. "Absolutely."

Ray glanced at the screen. The list was accurate. His two completed collections were there, each containing seven books. His ongoing collection—only three books published so far—was also listed.

Everything was there.

Everything except his name.

—

"Which one are you reading next?" Norman asked.

Emma tapped her chin, scanning the titles. "Hmm. Seven Doors to Nowhere sounds interesting."

Norman nodded. "That one’s brutal."

Emma groaned. "Why am I doing this to myself?"

"Because Lane’s writing is good," Norman said.

Ray tilted his head. "That good, huh?"

Norman met his gaze. "It’s unique. Different from everyone else’s."

Ray hummed, sipping his coffee. "How so?"

Norman studied him for a moment before answering.

"There’s a specific rhythm to the way Lane writes. A certain pattern in his sentence structure, in his dialogue, in the way he reveals information." Norman tapped the book’s spine. "It’s subtle, but once you notice it, you start seeing it everywhere."

Ray’s fingers curled slightly around his coffee cup.

Norman smirked. "You don’t read much tragedy, do you, Ray?"

Ray shrugged. "Not really."

"Then you wouldn’t notice," Norman said lightly.

Ray didn’t reply.

Emma, oblivious to the tension, sighed. "I’ll start Seven Doors to Nowhere tonight. But if it destroys me, I’m blaming you, Norman."

Norman chuckled. "Blame Lane instead."

Ray took a slow sip of his coffee, his expression unreadable.

—

Later that night, Norman sat in his apartment, flipping through The Fall of Orion again.

This time, he wasn’t just reading. He was analyzing.

The patterns, the sentence structure, the way thoughts were laid out on the page—

There was something familiar about it.

Something he couldn’t shake.

He didn’t have proof yet.

But he was starting to wonder.

—

The next time Ray saw them, he finally asked.

"You two are supposed to be working on new projects, aren’t you?"

Emma blinked. "Huh?"

Ray gestured at them. "Aren’t you both ridiculously busy? Why are you spending so much time here instead of, I don’t know, doing your jobs?"

Norman smirked. "You make it sound like we’re slacking off."

"Aren’t you?" Ray raised an eyebrow.

Emma pouted. "Hey! We deserve a break!"

Ray snorted. "And you’re spending it in a dead library?"

Emma shrugged. "It’s quiet. And we like it here."

Ray hummed. He supposed that made sense. But still…

"You’re a famous artist," he said to Emma. "Your paintings sell for insane prices. And you"—he looked at Norman—"are a world-famous singer with enough fans to crash websites. What are you two doing wasting your free time talking to some random guy in a library?"

Emma grinned. "Because you’re cool!"

Ray blinked. "…What?"

Norman chuckled. "It’s true. You’re interesting."

Ray stared at them. "I don’t see how."

Emma leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand. "You don’t treat us differently."

Ray frowned. "What?"

"You don’t freak out over us being famous," Norman explained. "Most people do."

Emma nodded. "Seriously, it’s exhausting sometimes. But you? You act like we’re just normal people."

Ray shrugged. "Aren’t you?"

Norman smiled slightly. "Not to the rest of the world."

Ray held his gaze for a moment before sighing. "I guess that makes sense."

Emma grinned. "Anyway, since we’re already spending so much time together, why don’t we hang out outside the library too?"

Ray blinked. "What?"

Norman smirked. "You heard her."

Ray narrowed his eyes. "You’re seriously inviting me to hang out? Outside?"

"Obviously!" Emma said. "Come on, we don’t bite!"

Ray stared at her, then at Norman, then back at her.

What the hell is happening?

—

Ray didn’t know how he got roped into this.

One moment, he was minding his own business. The next, he was sitting in a café with Norman and Emma.

Emma sipped her drink happily. "See? This isn’t so bad, right?"

Ray sighed. "I don’t know how you convinced me to come."

Norman smirked. "You didn’t put up much of a fight."

Ray scoffed. "I was outnumbered."

Emma laughed. "Yeah, yeah. Just admit you’re having fun."

Ray rolled his eyes but didn’t argue.

Norman watched him thoughtfully. "So, Ray. What do you do, anyway?"

Ray tensed slightly."I'm a beta reader"

Emma said. "You said you write Romance."

Ray almost choked on his coffee. "Not romance. Tragedies."

Norman smirked. "Big difference."

Ray nodded. "Exactly."

Emma pouted. "But why tragedies? Why not happy love stories?"

Ray snorted. "Do I look like the type to write happy endings?"

Emma studied him. "…Okay, fair point."

Norman chuckled. "I’d be interested in reading one of your stories sometime."

Ray forced himself to stay calm. "Maybe."

Emma beamed. "Then it’s settled! Ray, you’re officially our friend now!"

Ray stared at her. "I don’t remember agreeing to that."

Emma grinned. "Too bad!"

Norman smirked. "You’re stuck with us now."

Ray sighed. What the hell did I get myself into?

—

Ray didn't realize how it happened.

One moment, he was just some guy sitting in a quiet library, enjoying the solitude.

The next, Norman and Emma had become part of his routine.

At first, it was just casual conversations in the library. Then, it became café meetups. Then, somehow, they started dragging him everywhere.

Ray had no idea how he let this happen.

"Ray! Hurry up!" Emma called, waving from the other side of the bookstore.

Ray sighed, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "Why am I even here?"

"Because we kidnapped you," Norman said smoothly.

Ray shot him a deadpan look. "Not funny."

Norman smirked. "A little funny."

Emma appeared between them, grinning. "Come on, we’re picking books for you!"

Ray raised an eyebrow. "I can pick my own books, thanks."

Emma shook her head. "Nope! We’re picking books for you!"

Ray groaned. "You’re impossible."

Emma beamed. "And you love it!"

Ray didn’t respond.

Norman chuckled. "At least pretend to have fun, Ray."

Ray sighed, glancing at the books they picked out. "Really? A romance novel?"

Emma nodded eagerly. "Yep! Since you write tragic love stories, you need to experience the happy ones too!"

Ray held up the book. The cover was painfully bright and cheerful. "This looks like a sugar overdose."

Emma pouted. "Just give it a chance!"

Ray sighed dramatically but took the book anyway.

Norman smirked. "Admit it, you don’t hate hanging out with us."

Ray glanced at him before rolling his eyes. "…You guys aren’t that bad, I guess."

Emma cheered. "That’s the closest we’re getting to a compliment! I’ll take it!"

Ray huffed a quiet laugh.

Maybe… maybe this wasn’t so bad.

—
It was getting harder to keep up the act.

The more time Ray spent with them, the more Norman talked about A.S. Lane’s books.

Ray had to be careful. If he said too much, Norman might start putting the pieces together.

"Lane’s writing is just different," Norman said, flipping through Seven Doors to Nowhere. "There’s a certain rhythm to it. The way he builds suspense, the way he structures his sentences—it’s intentional."

Ray hummed. "Most writers have a style."

"Yeah, but his is unique," Norman said. "It’s calculated. Almost like he’s testing the reader’s emotions."

Ray forced himself to stay relaxed. "You’re overthinking it."

Norman smirked. "Maybe. But I’d bet Lane knows exactly how his words affect people."

Ray sipped his coffee, avoiding Norman’s gaze. "Sounds like a smart guy."

Norman chuckled. "Definitely."

Ray resisted the urge to sigh.

Emma suddenly perked up. "Wait! Ray, since you write tragic love stories, what’s your favorite love tragedy?"

Ray blinked.

Crap.

He couldn’t name his own books. That’d be too obvious.

"Uh…" He thought quickly. "Romeo and Juliet?"

Emma groaned. "That’s so overdone!"

Norman smirked. "Expected answer, though."

Ray shrugged. "You asked."

Emma crossed her arms. "No way that’s your favorite. Give us a real answer!"

Ray tensed. He needed to get out of this conversation.

He stood abruptly. "I’m getting another coffee."

Norman raised an eyebrow but didn’t stop him.

As Ray walked away, he exhaled slowly.

That was close.

---

Somehow, their outings evolved into movie nights.

Ray didn’t know how it happened.

One moment, they were at a café. The next, Emma was dragging him to her place for a movie night.

"I didn’t agree to this," Ray said flatly.

Emma grinned. "Too bad!"

Ray sighed. "You’re insane."

Emma just beamed. "Norman, start the movie!"

Norman chuckled, grabbing the remote. "You sure you don’t want to pick, Ray?"

Ray glanced at the options. They were all tragic love stories.

Emma smirked. "We’re making you embrace your genre."

Ray groaned. "I hate both of you."

Emma laughed. "Liar!"

Norman pressed play, and the movie started.

As the tragic love story unfolded, Ray couldn’t stop himself from analyzing the plot.

Halfway through, he muttered, "That transition was weak."

Norman glanced at him. "What?"

Ray froze. Crap.

Emma blinked. "Wait, what do you mean?"

Ray scrambled for an excuse. "Uh, the pacing. It’s rushed."

Norman tilted his head. "You think so?"

Ray nodded. "It doesn’t give enough time for the emotional weight to settle."

Norman narrowed his eyes slightly, studying him.

Ray kept his expression neutral.

After a moment, Norman smirked. "You really are a writer, huh?"

Ray shrugged. "I guess."

Emma grinned. "See? You fit right in with us!"

Ray rolled his eyes. But…

Maybe he did fit in.

Just a little.

---

Ray wasn’t sure when it happened.

But somehow, Emma and Norman had infiltrated his life.

It started with the library. Then the bookstore. Then cafés. Then movie nights.

Now?

Now, Ray was sitting at a park bench with Norman while Emma ran off to get them snacks from a nearby stand.

"You’re spending an awful lot of time with us," Norman said casually.

Ray huffed. "Not by choice."

Norman smirked. "Sure."

Ray clicked his tongue but didn’t argue.

Norman leaned back, watching the sky. "You know, it’s nice. Having someone who doesn’t treat us differently."

Ray glanced at him. "Huh?"

Norman smiled slightly. "You never ask for autographs. Never freak out. It’s refreshing."

Ray shrugged. "You’re just people."

Norman looked at him, expression unreadable.

Ray raised an eyebrow. "What?"

Norman chuckled. "Nothing. Just thinking."

Ray wasn’t sure if he liked the sound of that.

Before he could ask, Emma returned, carrying snacks. "Alright, I got everything!"

She handed Ray a cup of coffee and grinned. "Black coffee, no sugar. Just like a bitter old man."

Ray rolled his eyes. "I don’t like sweet things."

Emma laughed. "You really live up to your writer stereotype."

Ray took a sip of his coffee. "If I were a stereotype, I’d be drinking this in a dark, candlelit room while writing poetry about my suffering."

Emma gasped dramatically. "You mean you don’t?"

Norman chuckled. "I could actually picture that."

Ray groaned. "I hate both of you."

Emma beamed. "No, you don’t!"

Ray sighed. Maybe not.

—

They were at another movie night. This time, the movie was really bad.

Like, horribly written.

Ray wasn’t even watching anymore. He was just mentally rewriting the script.

"Okay," Emma groaned, "why is the main character suddenly in love with the villain?"

Ray, without thinking, muttered, "Because the writer’s trying to force emotional complexity without actually developing the relationship—"

He stopped.

Too late.

Norman turned to him, smirking. "You say that like a professional."

Ray quickly covered. "It’s obvious."

Norman hummed. "You sure?"

Ray sipped his coffee, avoiding eye contact. "Positive."

Emma pouted. "You’re too good at analyzing this. I bet your books are amazing."

Ray nearly choked.

Norman chuckled. "We’ll have to read one someday."

Ray forced a neutral expression. "Maybe."

Emma grinned. "I bet you’re secretly some bestselling author!"

Ray let out a dry laugh. "Yeah, right."

Norman narrowed his eyes slightly, but didn’t say anything.

Ray exhaled.

That was way too close.

—

It was late at night when Ray caught himself doing something really stupid.

He was staring at a signed copy of Norman’s first album.

Not because he wanted an autograph. Not because it was rare.

But because it was Norman’s.

And that realization made Ray shove the album into his drawer immediately.

He sighed, rubbing his temples.

This was bad.

He was getting too comfortable. Too attached.

Ray had been fine on his own before. He didn’t need people.

So why was it so easy to fall into step with them?

Why did it feel nice?

Ray scowled at himself.

He needed to be careful.

—

Ray regretted everything.

Emma had somehow convinced him to read a romance novel.

Now, he was stuck listening to her and Norman argue about which love stories were realistic.

"This one’s totally unrealistic!" Norman said, waving the book. "They fall in love in three days!"

Emma pouted. "It’s romantic!"

"It’s insane," Ray muttered.

Emma turned to him. "You write love tragedies, right? What do you think makes a good romance?"

Ray blinked.

Shit.

He couldn’t talk about what he actually wrote.

So, he made something up. "A slow build. Realistic conflict. And—not dying."

Emma gasped. "You don’t like tragic endings?!"

Ray shrugged. "I like realistic endings."

Norman smirked. "That’s surprising."

Ray sipped his coffee. "Why?"

Norman tilted his head. "You just seem like the type to write really painful stories."

Ray forced a laugh. "Nah."

Emma smiled. "Well, one day, we have to read one of your books!"

Ray stiffened. "Maybe."

Norman studied him again.

Ray kept his expression neutral.

But in his head?

He was screaming.

—

Ray had a problem.

A big problem.

And it had orange hair and freckles.

And it had silver hair and sharp blue eyes.

Ray groaned, slumping onto his desk.

This was not supposed to happen.

Emma and Norman were supposed to be friends. Just people he hung out with. Nothing more.

But then Emma smiled at him like that.

Then Norman looked at him like he was figuring him out.

And suddenly, Ray’s carefully constructed walls had cracks.

It wasn’t fair.

He had spent years being alone. Keeping people at a distance. It was safe. It was easy.

But now?

Now he was thinking about them when he should be working.

Now he was replaying Emma’s laugh like it was a song stuck in his head.

Now he was remembering the way Norman’s eyes lingered on him when he thought Ray wasn’t looking.

Ray let out a frustrated sigh.

This was bad.

—

It happened at a café.

Emma had leaned too close, practically in his personal space, pointing excitedly at the book he was reading.

"You’re finally reading romance!" she grinned.

Ray rolled his eyes. "I lost a bet."

Norman chuckled. "Who did you lose to?"

Ray sighed. "My cousin" he lied. Because Ray had none. He just wanted to know what this feeling in his chest was.

Emma beamed. "That means you’re open to recommendations!"

Ray deadpanned. "That’s not what that means."

Emma ignored him. "You should read this one!"

She pulled out her phone and showed him a book.

Ray glanced at it. A Hundred Ways to Fall in Love.

Typical.

Ray was about to refuse when Norman spoke up.

"I’ve read that one."

Ray turned to him, raising an eyebrow. "You? Reading romance?"

Norman shrugged. "I was curious."

Emma grinned. "And?"

Norman smirked. "It was... educational."

Ray snorted. "That’s one way to put it."

Emma pouted. "You guys are so bad at this."

Ray rolled his eyes. "If you’re expecting me to swoon over romance novels, you’re going to be disappointed."

Norman chuckled. "I don’t know. You seem like a closet romantic."

Ray nearly choked on his coffee. "Excuse me?"

Norman smirked. "Just a thought."

Emma giggled. "I can totally see it!"

Ray scowled. "I hate both of you."

But his heart was pounding.

—

Ray figured it out when Emma looped her arm through his.

They were walking through a bookstore, and she was excitedly dragging him along.

"Come on! You have to see this section!"

Ray barely heard her.

Because all he could focus on was the warmth of her hand.

And how natural it felt.

And how, when he glanced back, Norman was watching him.

Norman, who always looked at him too closely.

Norman, who always knew things before Ray was ready to admit them.

Norman, who was smirking now.

Like he had already figured out the mess in Ray’s head.

Ray yanked his arm free and muttered, "I hate you both"

It was a lie.

He hated what was happening to him.

—

Ray was fine.

Totally fine.

Absolutely not developing feelings for both of them.

Nope.

He was just... overthinking.

That was it.

The way Emma’s laugh made his chest ache? Overthinking.

The way Norman’s voice sent shivers down his spine? Overthinking.

The way he found himself watching them too much?

...Okay. Maybe that one was a problem.

Ray groaned, rubbing his face.

This was so unfair.

They were already a couple. Publicly, even. There was no room for him in that equation.

And yet—

Emma gravitated toward him.

Norman studied him.

And Ray was stuck in the middle, pretending he wasn’t falling apart.

—

Ray wasn’t stupid.

He knew love wasn’t like books or movies.

It was complicated. Messy. Unpredictable.

But this?

This was a whole new level of impossible.

Because he wasn’t falling for just one person.

He was falling for two.

Two people who already had each other.

Ray sighed, leaning back against his chair.

If he were a different kind of person, maybe he’d hope for something.

Maybe he’d dream about something more.

But he wasn’t that kind of person.

He was Ray.

And Ray didn’t get happy endings.

—

Ray was a master of pretending.

He had spent years crafting the perfect mask—apathetic, detached, untouchable.

So when he caught himself staring at Emma’s bright smile or the way Norman’s fingers tapped against his cup when he was thinking, he knew what to do.

He buried it.

He shoved it into the same locked box where he kept every other emotion that would only make things harder.

And he acted normal.

—

Hanging out with Norman and Emma had become routine.

It was strange how easily they had wormed their way into his life.

One moment, they were two famous artists he had nothing in common with.

Now, they were sending him texts, dragging him out to cafés, and making him laugh when he was supposed to be the brooding loner.

It was a dangerous game.

Because every second he spent with them made it harder to remember why he shouldn’t be.

—

Ray didn’t realize he was too comfortable until it was too late.

It happened during one of their late-night calls.

Emma had been ranting about a painting that wasn’t coming out right, and Norman was half-asleep on the other end, mumbling something about color theory.

Ray, exhausted and comfortable, let his guard down.

"It’s fine," he muttered. "Not everything has to be perfect, Emma. It’s art. It’s yours."

There was silence.

Then, Emma’s soft laugh.

"That’s surprisingly sweet, Ray."

Norman hummed in agreement. "You really are a closet romantic."

Ray froze.

Shit.

He should’ve just insulted her painting.

—

Ray was getting sloppy.

Too many lingering looks. Too many near-slip-ups.

And Norman was noticing.

Ray could feel those sharp blue eyes on him. Studying him.

It made his skin itch.

Norman was too smart. If Ray wasn’t careful, he’d figure it out.

And that was the last thing Ray needed.

—

There was only one solution.

Distance.

He had to put space between himself and them.

Before it got worse.

Before they noticed.

Before he fell any deeper.

Avoiding them was hard.

Because Emma noticed immediately.

"Are you ignoring us?" she pouted.

Ray scoffed. "You’re imagining things."

Norman narrowed his eyes. "Are we?"

Ray shrugged. "I’ve just been busy."

It wasn’t a lie.

He had thrown himself into his writing, using it as an excuse to dodge their invitations.

But it wasn’t working.

Because Emma kept trying.

And Norman kept watching.

And Ray?

Ray was still falling.

—

Ray's plan was simple.

Step 1: Avoid Norman and Emma.
Step 2: Bury his feelings.
Step 3: Go back to his normal, solitary life.

It should’ve been easy.

Except Emma was persistent.

And Norman was suspicious.

And Ray?

Ray was losing his mind.

—

"You’re avoiding us."

Ray didn’t even have a chance to escape.

Emma had cornered him in the bookstore, her hands on her hips, eyes burning with determination.

Norman stood beside her, arms crossed, his expression unreadable.

Ray sighed. "I’ve been busy."

Emma frowned. "That’s not an answer."

Norman’s gaze sharpened. "Are you okay?"

Ray clenched his jaw.

No.

No, he wasn’t okay.

But he couldn’t say that.

So he forced a smirk. "Why? Miss me?"

Emma huffed. "Obviously."

Ray’s heart stumbled.

Norman tilted his head, watching him too closely.

Ray needed to end this conversation.

So he exhaled and shrugged. "Fine. I’ll hang out."

Emma beamed. "Great! We’re getting lunch."

Ray cursed internally.

He had walked right into their trap.

—

Lunch was a disaster.

Not because of the food. Not because of the atmosphere.

Because of them.

Emma was too bright, too warm, too Emma.

Norman was too sharp, too smooth, too Norman.

And Ray was stuck in the middle, pretending he wasn’t staring too long or thinking too much.

Emma had no idea.

Norman definitely had suspicions.

Ray was doomed.

—

Ray was laughing.

A real, genuine laugh.

Emma had just finished a ridiculous story about one of her art events, and Ray had forgotten himself.

He had let his guard down.

And Norman saw it.

"You should laugh more," Norman said casually, but there was something in his tone.

Ray hesitated. "Why?"

Norman smiled. "It suits you."

Ray’s breath caught.

Emma nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah! You look so much cooler when you’re not scowling all the time!"

Ray scoffed. "You’re delusional."

But his heart was pounding.

—

Ray was in trouble.

Because it wasn’t just a crush.

It wasn’t just admiration.

It was them.

Both of them.

Together.

The way Emma’s energy balanced Norman’s control.

The way Norman’s intelligence complemented Emma’s spontaneity.

The way they fit together so seamlessly.

And the terrifying realization that Ray wanted to fit with them too.

But that was impossible.

Because they already had each other.

And Ray?

Ray was just the extra piece that didn’t belong.

—

There was only one choice.

He had to kill these feelings before they destroyed him.

He had survived alone before.

He could do it again.

He had to.

Because love wasn’t for people like him.

—

Ray’s plan to emotionally distance himself was failing.

Badly.

Because somehow, in the middle of everything, he had made a critical mistake.

He had gotten comfortable.

And comfort led to disaster.

—

It started with Norman.

They had been at a café, Norman reading something on his phone while Emma doodled on a napkin.

Ray, ever the observational one, noticed the way the soft lighting made Norman’s pale hair glow almost unnaturally.

So, without thinking, he muttered, "You look like an albino rat."

Norman blinked. Emma choked on her drink.

Ray immediately regretted everything.

But instead of getting offended, Norman just smirked. "Creative. Is that supposed to be an insult?"

Ray huffed, looking away. "Take it however you want, Albino."

Emma cackled.

And just like that, it stuck.

—

Emma was next.

They were at her studio, watching her paint while she rambled about colors and brush strokes.

Ray wasn’t really listening—he was too busy watching the way the afternoon sun turned her hair an even brighter shade of orange.

It was ridiculous.

"Pass me the red, Ray!" she chirped, holding out her hand.

Ray grabbed the paint and tossed it to her. "Here, Carrot Top."

Emma gasped. "Excuse me?"

Ray smirked. "What? It’s accurate."

Emma pouted. "Rude."

Norman chuckled from the couch. "You do look like a carrot, Emma."

Emma whipped around. "Traitor!"

Ray just leaned back, satisfied.

—

The problem with nicknames?

They were double-edged swords.

Because if Ray was going to start handing them out, he should have expected retaliation.

It started when Emma called him Gloomy.

Then Norman, ever the genius, started calling him Shadow.

Then Emma upgraded it to Mister Broody.

And suddenly, he had an entire list of dumb names that refused to die.

Ray regretted everything.

—

Despite his complaints, the nicknames became routine.

"Oi, Albino, pass me the sugar."

"Hey, Carrot Top, this is the wrong order."

"Don’t ignore me, Shadow, I see you."

It was ridiculous.

It was stupid.

It was...

Dangerously comfortable.

—

Nicknames meant familiarity.

Familiarity meant attachment.

Attachment meant—

Ray clenched his jaw.

No.

He wouldn’t let it get that far.

He couldn’t.

—

Ray should’ve seen it coming.

Norman was too famous. Emma was too successful.

Eventually, their careers were going to pull them away.

But knowing didn’t make it hurt any less.

—

It happened on a quiet afternoon.

Ray was reading, Emma was sketching, and Norman was sipping coffee when his phone rang.

Ray barely glanced up—Norman was always getting calls.

But then Norman’s expression changed.

His easy confidence turned into something carefully neutral.

And Ray knew.

This was different.

Norman stood, walking a few steps away before answering.

"Yes… Right now? Alright… I understand."

When he returned to the table, his expression was unreadable.

Emma put down her pencil. "Norman?"

Norman exhaled. "It’s my producer."

Ray’s grip on his book tightened.

Here it comes.

"I have to go on tour," Norman continued. "It’s global. Multiple countries, multiple months."

Silence.

Then Emma beamed. "That’s amazing!"

Ray swallowed hard. He kept his face blank. "When do you leave?"

Norman’s gaze softened. "A week."

Too soon.

—

Emma of course was going with him.

That wasn’t even a question.

Which meant Ray…

Ray was staying behind.

He told himself he was fine with it.

He needed to be fine with it.

"Write to us," Emma said suddenly.

Ray blinked. "What?"

Norman nodded. "Our personal phones are usually taken during these events. But if you send letters, we’ll get them."

Emma grinned. "It’ll be like an old-school pen-pal thing!"

Ray hesitated. "You want me to… write letters?"

Norman’s expression was unreadable. "Yeah."

Emma nudged his shoulder. "Come on, Gloomy. You are a writer, aren’t you?"

Ray exhaled. "Fine."

—

As the days passed, the reality settled in.

They were leaving.

Ray told himself it was temporary.

It wasn’t like they were disappearing forever.

But something about it felt final.

And Ray didn’t know why that terrified him.

—

The morning they left, Ray didn’t go to the airport.

He couldn’t.

Instead, he sat at his desk, staring at a blank sheet of paper.

A letter.

He was supposed to write a letter.

Ray scoffed at himself.

What was he supposed to say?

“I miss you”?

“Come back soon”?

No.

That wasn’t who he was.

So instead, he picked up his pen and wrote:

"I don’t see why you need letters. You’ll probably be too busy to read them."

It was a lie.

And Ray knew it.

—

Ray stared at the blank page.

He felt ridiculous.

Writing letters in an era of instant messaging and video calls? Stupid. Beyond stupid.

But Emma had pouted, Norman had smirked knowingly, and both had looked at him with those expectant eyes until he caved.

Now here he was. Pen in hand. Paper in front of him.

Thinking of them.

Thinking of how much he missed them.

He scowled at himself.

Then he started writing.

—

Dear Idiots,

It’s been two days. I already regret agreeing to this.

Emma, you were the one who made me promise to write, but I know you’re going to forget to reply. And Norman, I’m sure you’re too busy charming the world with your stupidly perfect voice to even read this.

But whatever.

How’s the tour? Any disasters yet? Did Emma accidentally knock over a mic stand? Did Norman get mobbed at an airport?

Things here are the same. The library is still as dead as ever. The old man who owns it tried to recommend me a romance novel. Can you believe that?

I didn't take it.

Anyway. I’ll write again soon.

Ray

—

He folded the letter, sealed it, and sent it off the next morning.

Then, he waited.

And waited.

And waited.

—

A week passed.

Then two.

No reply.

Ray didn’t let it bother him at first. He told himself they were busy. Norman was performing every night. Emma was probably running around exploring every city they landed in.

It made sense.

So he kept writing.

—

Dear Morons,

Still no response. Not even a "Hey, Ray, we’re alive." I could be dead for all you know.

I hope you both trip on stage.

Ray

—

Two more weeks.

Nothing.

—

Dear Jerks,

Okay, I get it. You’re famous. You’re busy.

But I’d at least expect one of you to scribble out "We got your letter, still alive." Is that so hard?

Don’t make me regret this.

Ray

—

A month.

Still nothing.

—

Ray sat at his desk, staring at the stack of letters he had sent.

He reached for another page.

Then stopped.

What was the point?

His fingers curled around the paper, crumpling the edge.

Emma and Norman were famous.

They had fans. Millions of them.

People who cheered their names. People who followed them around. People who actually belonged in their world.

Why would they bother with him?

He swallowed.

They wouldn’t.

The realization settled deep in his chest, sharp and suffocating.

He pressed his lips together, forcing himself to take a breath.

He wouldn’t cry.

Not over something so—so pathetic.

And yet—

(I miss them.)

A tear slipped down his cheek, staining the paper.

Ray clenched his jaw, rubbing his eyes furiously.

This was stupid.

He was stupid.

They had better things to do.

It was his own fault for believing otherwise.

—

Emma frowned, gripping her phone. "It’s been weeks. Why hasn’t Ray sent anything?"

Norman was just as confused. "I don’t know. Maybe he changed his mind?"

"But that’s not like him," Emma said, shaking her head. "If he didn’t want to write, he would’ve just told us."

Norman hummed. "We can’t even send him anything back since we don’t have his address."

Emma groaned. "Ugh. I knew we should’ve asked before we left!"

Norman nodded, but something felt off.

Ray wasn’t the type to break a promise.

So where were the letters?

---

The producer sat in his office, flipping through a stack of letters.

Unsent. Unread.

His lips curled in disdain as he skimmed the latest one.

"Pathetic."

Norman Sinclair was an icon. The world’s rising star. There was no room in his life for some nobody writer.

The last thing they needed was some random fan clogging up Norman’s mind with distractions.

With a sigh, he dropped the letters into a drawer.

Out of sight.

Out of mind.

—

Ray didn’t write the next letter.

He sat at his desk, staring at the blank page.

His pen hovered over it.

Then he scoffed and tossed it aside.

There was no point.

There never had been.

Emma and Norman had outgrown him.

And Ray—Ray had been stupid enough to think otherwise.

---

Ray told himself it didn’t matter.

That he didn’t care.

That Emma and Norman were busy. That they were famous. That they had each other.

And he had his writing.

So he kept writing.

Not letters.

Not to them.

But a book.

A tragedy.

One that never should have existed.

—

A.S. Lane had always written psychological tragedies. Twisted stories. Mind games. Stories that broke people apart and left them gasping for air.

But this book?

This one was different.

It wasn’t about mind games.

It was about love.

And loss.

And the kind of pain that seeps into your bones and never leaves.

It was called “Letters to the Stars.”

The story followed a boy who loved two people—two shining stars—but he was nothing more than a shadow trailing behind them.

He called them Carrot Top and Albino.

The boy—Shadow—was never meant to be noticed. Never meant to be loved the way they loved each other.

But he loved them anyway.

And when they left, they asked him to write to them.

So he did.

At first, the letters were long, filled with stories and thoughts and little details from his day. He poured everything into them, hoping, waiting.

But no reply ever came.

Still, he kept writing.

Weeks passed. Then months.

The letters grew shorter. Less detailed.

Then they stopped altogether.

And Shadow realized something.

They had moved on.

And he had been nothing more than a passing thought in their perfect, shining lives.

So he did the only thing he could do.

He let them go.

—

Emma tossed her phone onto the couch, frustration boiling over. “That’s it. I’m done.”

Norman glanced up from his laptop. “What now?”

“Ray.” Emma crossed her arms, scowling. “It’s been four months, Norman. Not a single message. Not even a text.”

Norman sighed, rubbing his temples. “I don’t get it either. He promised to write.”

“Exactly!” Emma threw her hands in the air. “So either something happened to him, or he just—” She hesitated, her voice quieter. “Or he just doesn’t care.”

Norman’s expression darkened. “That’s not true.”

Emma’s frustration wavered. “Then why hasn’t he—”

Her phone buzzed.

She grabbed it without thinking, expecting some meaningless notification.

Then she saw the headline.

“A.S. Lane’s Newest Tragedy Breaks Pre-Orders Within Hours!”

Emma frowned, reading aloud. “Huh. I thought he was still working on his third collection?”

Norman leaned over, scanning the screen. “What’s the book about?”

Emma skimmed the article, her voice slowing as she read the description.

“It’s a love tragedy.” Her brows knitted together. “A guy in love with two people he can never have…”

She kept reading.

Her breath caught.

“Wait.”

Norman glanced at her. “What?”

Emma read the words again.

Her stomach twisted.

She sat up straighter, gripping her phone tighter.

“What is it?” Norman asked, leaning closer.

Emma’s voice was barely above a whisper.

“… The main character calls them Carrot Top and Albino.”

Norman froze.

Silence stretched between them.

Neither of them spoke.

Neither of them breathed.

Emma swallowed hard, her heart pounding. “No way.”

Norman took the phone from her, scrolling through the article. His jaw clenched. His grip tightened.

“… This is about us.”

It wasn’t a question.

Emma’s mind raced. “But that’s— That’s impossible. How could A.S. Lane know—”

She stopped.

They looked at each other.

The realization hit at the same time.

“… No.” Emma’s voice shook. “There’s no way.”

But Norman was already reaching for his laptop.

Already searching.

Already digging.

Because if this book was what they thought it was…

Then Ray wasn’t just ignoring them.

Ray had been writing to them.

And they had never even seen his words.

—

Norman scrolled through articles, his fingers moving fast across the keyboard. His usual composure was gone, replaced by something sharp—something desperate.

Emma sat beside him, gripping her phone like it held the answer to everything.

Neither of them spoke.

Neither of them wanted to be the first to say what they were both thinking.

But the words were already there, hanging heavy in the air.

Ray wrote this book.

Ray, who had never mentioned A.S. Lane.

Ray, who had always deflected when they talked about their favorite books.

Ray, who had never told them what he was working on.

Ray, who was supposed to be writing to them—

But never did.

Or so they thought.

Norman clenched his jaw. His hands tightened into fists. “There’s no way this is a coincidence.”

Emma’s chest felt tight. “What if—” She hesitated, her voice unsteady. “What if he really did write to us?”

Norman’s gaze snapped to her.

She didn’t want to say it. Didn’t want to believe it.

But the words slipped out anyway.

“… What if we just never got his letters?”

—

Ray sat in his apartment, staring at the unopened letters on his desk.

Not their letters.

His.

Letters he had written.

Letters he had sent.

Letters that had never been answered.

For months, he had checked the mail every day, hoping, waiting. At first, he convinced himself they were just busy. That they’d reply when they could.

But nothing came.

Weeks passed. Then months.

The first few letters had been filled with everything—stories, jokes, questions, little details about his life.

Then, when there was no reply, they grew shorter.

Less hopeful.

Less detailed.

Then he stopped writing altogether.

He had told himself he was done. That it didn’t matter. That they had moved on, and he should too.

But he hadn’t been able to stop the words from spilling out.

So he wrote this instead.

A story.

A tragedy.

A final goodbye.

He hadn’t even planned to publish it.

But what did it matter?

It wasn’t like they would read it anyway.

—

Norman was still digging, his expression unreadable.

Emma was pacing. “Norman, how do we even know if he wrote to us?”

Norman didn’t look up. “Because he wouldn’t just ignore us.”

Emma bit her lip. “So what? Someone’s been hiding his letters?”

Norman’s fingers stilled on the keyboard.

Emma stopped pacing. “Norman?”

Slowly, he turned the laptop toward her.

It was an article from an interview A. S Lane had done online years ago.

The interviewer had asked: "Would you ever write a love tragedy?"

A.S Lane's answer or well Rays answer had been blunt.

"No. I don’t do love stories."

Emma’s stomach twisted. “Then why would he—”

Norman’s voice was tight. “Because it’s not just a story.”

Emma’s hands clenched.

If Ray had never written love tragedies before…

If he had never been interested in them…

Then this book—

This wasn’t fiction.

This was real.

And they had missed it.

—

Norman’s fingers trembled over the keyboard. His mind was moving too fast, thoughts tangled together, pulling him in different directions.

A.S. Lane had written a love tragedy.

A love tragedy where the main character called his two crushes Carrot Top and Albino.

A love tragedy where the main character never got a reply to his messages.

Norman swallowed hard, his chest tightening. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what that meant.

Ray had written to them.

And they had never written back.

Emma sat frozen on the couch, her hands pressed against her lips. She looked like she was going to be sick. “Norman… If Ray really wrote to us, if he—” She sucked in a breath. “Why didn’t we ever get them?”

Norman had been asking himself the same thing.

Because there was only one possibility.

Someone had taken them.

Someone had kept them from ever reaching their hands.

He reached for his phone.

Emma straightened. “What are you doing?”

His jaw was clenched. “Calling my producer.”

Emma’s eyes widened. “You think—”

“I know.”

The moment the call connected, Norman didn’t bother with greetings.

“Where are Ray’s letters?”

There was silence.

Then a low chuckle.

“… So you finally noticed?”

—

Norman’s grip tightened around the phone. “I’m not in the mood for games. Tell me where they are.”

His producer’s voice was as smooth as ever, as if they weren’t discussing something unforgivable. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Norman.”

Norman’s stomach twisted. He could hear the lie in his voice.

“Don’t play dumb.” Norman’s tone was sharp. “HE wrote to me. To Emma. For months. But we never got a single letter. Why?”

Emma was sitting tensely beside him, her knuckles white.

His producer sighed. “Norman, be reasonable. You’re a public figure. You don’t have time to waste on someone like—”

Norman’s blood ran cold.

Someone like Ray?

He cut him off before he could finish.

“What did you do with them?” His voice was dangerously quiet.

His producer let out an exasperated sigh. “You think you’re the only one who gets letters, Norman? Fans send thousands every week. We filter them for you. I was just doing my job.”

“Filtering?” Norman’s voice was cold. “Ray isn’t some fan.”

“He’s not your priority.”

Norman felt Emma tense beside him, her expression dark.

His producer continued. “You’re Norman—Norman. Your entire career is built on your image. And do you really think people would support your relationship with Emma if they saw you entertaining some nobody?”

Emma’s hands clenched. “Ray is not a nobody!”

Norman’s patience snapped. “Where are the letters?”

His producer chuckled. “Gone.”

Norman’s breath hitched. “You destroyed them?”

“Relax. I kept a few—out of curiosity. But most of them? They were never meant to reach you.”

A slow rage burned inside Norman.

He had missed four months of Ray’s words.

Four months of his thoughts.

Four months of pain that they had unknowingly caused.

Because of this man.

Norman’s voice was ice. “You’re fired.”

A pause.

Then a dry laugh. “Be serious, Norman.”

Norman didn’t waver. “You’re. Fired.”

Emma took the phone from his hand and hung up without another word.

The room was silent.

Norman ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. “We need to find Ray.”

Emma nodded, already reaching for her coat.

Because now that they knew—

There was no way in hell they were letting him think they had abandoned him.

—

Ray was curled up on his couch, staring blankly at the ceiling.

The book was out.

People were talking about it.

And no one—not even for a second—suspected that it wasn’t just another one of A.S. Lane’s fictional tragedies.

No one but them.

And why would they?

It wasn’t like Carrot Top and Albino would ever read it.

It wasn’t like they even cared.

Ray let out a bitter laugh.

The truth was, he had done something stupid.

He had let himself believe that he mattered to them.

But they had left.

And he had been left behind.

He turned his head to the stack of unsent letters sitting on the table.

Letters he had written even after he stopped getting replies.

Because a part of him had still been hoping.

Idiot.

With a sigh, he reached for them.

And one by one—

He started to rip them apart.

—

Two days.

It had been two days since Norman and Emma had found out the truth.

And they still didn’t know where to find Ray.

Emma paced in the hotel room, her frustration evident. “I can’t believe this. We know he’s hurting, we know he thinks we abandoned him, and yet—” She let out a sharp breath. “We don’t even know where he lives.”

Norman leaned against the desk, eyes locked on the glowing laptop screen. “That’s the problem, Emma.” His voice was tense. “No one knows.”

Because A.S. Lane was a ghost.

There were no interviews. No public appearances. No known address.

Even the top private investigators—who had spent years trying to uncover A.S. Lane’s identity—had come up with nothing.

Ray had built a wall around himself so perfectly that even now, when they needed to find him, they had no way in.

Emma ran a hand through her hair. “We need another way.”

Norman clenched his jaw.

There was one way.

But he wasn’t sure if Ray would hate him for it.

“… The publisher.”

Emma blinked.

Norman met her gaze. “His publisher. The person who handles A.S. Lane’s books. They must have a way to contact him.”

Emma hesitated. “Wouldn’t they refuse to tell us?”

“Maybe.” Norman’s voice was firm. “But I’m not leaving until they do.”

—

The office was small but elegant, tucked away in the heart of the city.

Norman and Emma sat across from a middle-aged woman with sharp eyes and an unreadable expression.

She folded her hands together. “I assume you’re here about Letters to the Stars.”

Norman’s fingers tightened around the edge of his seat. “Yes.”

The publisher studied them. “You must be quite close to him.”

Emma flinched.

We were.

The woman tilted her head. “And yet, he didn’t mention you.”

The words cut deeper than they should have.

Norman forced himself to stay calm. “We just need to know if he’s okay.”

A small smile. “I can’t give out his address.”

Norman expected that.

But that didn’t mean he was giving up.

“Then pass a message,” he said. “Tell him we read the book.”

The woman raised an eyebrow.

Norman exhaled. “Tell him Carrot Top and Albino read the book.”

That got a reaction.

The publisher’s fingers twitched.

Norman pressed forward. “Please.” His voice softened. “Just tell him that.”

The woman studied them for a long moment.

Then, finally, she nodded.

—

Ray stared at his phone.

His publisher had just sent him a message.

It was short.

Just a single sentence.

Carrot Top and Albino read the book.

His heart stopped.

He reread the words. Again. And again.

They knew.

They knew.

Ray felt his throat tighten. His hands shook as he reached for the last remaining letter he hadn’t destroyed.

A letter he had never intended to send.

A letter he had written when he was still hopeful.

To Carrot Top and Albino,
I don’t know if you’ll ever read this.
I don’t even know if you’d care.
But if I could say one thing—just one—
It would be that I miss you.
Even if you never missed me.

His hands clenched.

He should throw it away.

He should.

But he didn’t.

Instead, for the first time in months—

He wrote his address on the back of the envelope.

And sent it.

—

The knock came late at night.

Ray froze.

No one ever knocked on his door.

No one should know where he lived.

Cautiously, he stepped forward. His heart was pounding.

He opened the door.

And his breath caught.

Norman and Emma stood outside, eyes full of something raw, something unspoken—

Something that made Ray want to slam the door shut.

But he didn’t.

Because before he could, Emma threw her arms around him.

And Norman whispered, voice shaking, “Why didn’t you wait for us?”

Ray swallowed hard.

He didn’t have an answer.

Because he had been waiting.

He just never thought they’d come.

—

Ray didn’t move.

Emma’s arms were wrapped tightly around him, her face buried in his shoulder.

Norman stood stiffly beside them, his gaze locked onto Ray like he was afraid he’d disappear.

Ray wanted to say something.

Anything.

But his throat felt tight, like the words had been buried under months of loneliness.

Emma pulled back just enough to look at him, eyes glassy. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

Ray swallowed. “Tell you what?”

Norman’s voice was hoarse. “That you thought we abandoned you.”

Ray flinched. He hated how easily they saw through him. “It doesn’t matter.”

Emma’s hands clenched into fists. “It matters to us!”

Norman exhaled, his fingers pressing into his temples like he was trying to contain his emotions. “You didn’t even give us a chance, Ray.”

Ray’s jaw tightened. “I did give you a chance.” His voice was sharp, bitter. “I wrote. I waited.”

His hands curled at his sides. “But nothing ever came.”

Norman’s breath hitched. Emma’s lips parted in silent realization.

And for the first time since they arrived—

Ray felt something crack.

Because they hadn’t denied it.

Because they hadn’t received his letters.

They never abandoned him.

They never ignored him.

The weight that had been crushing him for months shifted—just slightly—but his chest still ached.

Emma reached forward again, her fingers trembling. “Ray…”

He took a step back.

He needed space. He needed to breathe.

But Norman didn’t let him.

Norman grabbed his wrist, his grip firm but not forceful. “Please.” His voice was quiet. “Let us talk. Let us fix this.”

Ray let out a slow breath.

Then, finally—

He stepped aside.

—

The apartment was small, dimly lit, and cluttered with books and papers.

Ray never had guests.

Now he had two.

Emma and Norman sat on his worn-out couch while he remained standing, arms crossed.

The silence was thick, suffocating.

Emma was the first to break it.

She pulled something out of her bag and placed it on the table.

Letters to the Stars.

The book that had brought them here.

Emma’s fingers ran over the cover before she whispered, “You really thought we’d never reply.”

Ray exhaled through his nose, looking away. “I stopped thinking about it.”

Norman didn’t believe that for a second. “We never got them.”

Ray let out a dry laugh. “Right.”

Norman clenched his fists. “I’m serious, Ray. We never got them.”

Ray’s expression didn’t change. “And I’m supposed to believe that?”

“Yes,” Norman snapped. His patience was fraying. “Because we were waiting for your letters. We never got anything, and we couldn’t send one first because we didn’t have your address.”

Ray froze.

Emma hesitated. “We thought… maybe you didn’t care anymore.” Her voice was small. “Or that something happened to you.”

Ray’s breath caught.

Because that was exactly what he had thought.

He had convinced himself they stopped caring.

And they had convinced themselves he stopped caring.

Norman’s voice was quieter now, steadier. “Someone took them, Ray. Someone stopped them from reaching us.”

Ray’s mind reeled.

Someone… stopped them?

Someone had kept his words from reaching them?

His chest ached. His fingers dug into his arms. “Then who?”

Norman’s voice was clipped, cold. “My producer.”

Ray’s eyes widened.

It made sense. Too much sense.

The letters had never been lost.

They had been taken.

And all this time, Ray had been drowning in a lie.

—

The room felt suffocating.

Ray’s hands were trembling, so he shoved them into his pockets.

Emma was watching him carefully, like she was afraid he’d bolt.

Norman exhaled sharply. “We’re going to fix this.”

Ray let out a quiet laugh. “Fix what?”

Norman’s jaw tightened. “Everything.”

Ray finally looked at him. “And how exactly are you going to do that, Albino?” His voice was sharp, defensive.

Norman didn’t react to the nickname.

He just stared. “We’re taking you with us.”

Ray blinked. “What?”

Emma straightened. “Norman’s right.” She leaned forward, determination blazing in her eyes. “We’re not leaving you here alone.”

Ray’s heart pounded.

He shook his head. “No. You have a tour. You have—”

Norman cut him off. “And you have a half-finished book.”

Ray’s breath hitched.

Norman’s gaze was unwavering. “Come with us.”

Ray’s lips parted, but no words came out.

Because a part of him—

A stupid, desperate, lonely part of him—

Wanted to say yes.

Emma smiled, reaching for his hand. “Please, Ray.”

And just like that—

He caved.

—

The airport was bustling, the air thick with noise.

Ray adjusted the strap of his bag, still trying to process what he was doing.

Norman was on the phone, likely handling arrangements. Emma was beside him, practically bouncing in place.

And Ray?

Ray was still wondering if this was a mistake.

Emma nudged him. “You okay?”

Ray sighed. “I don’t know.”

Emma grinned. “Well, you’re stuck with us now.”

Ray rolled his eyes. “Fantastic.”

Emma laughed, looping her arm through his. “It is.”

Ray exhaled, glancing at Norman, who had just ended his call.

Norman met his gaze, a small smile forming. “Ready?”

Ray hesitated.

Then, for the first time in months—

He nodded.

—

The jet engine roared as the plane lifted off the runway, the lights of the city shrinking beneath them.

Ray sat by the window, forehead resting against the cool glass.

Norman and Emma sat beside him, their presence both comforting and suffocating.

He still couldn’t believe he was here.

Couldn’t believe he had agreed.

The past four months had been nothing but silence and shadows, but now—

Now he was being dragged into the light.

Emma nudged him. “Hey.”

Ray didn’t look at her. “What?”

Emma leaned closer, voice soft. “You okay?”

Ray closed his eyes. “I don’t know.”

Emma hummed. “That’s okay.”

Ray let out a breath, but he didn’t respond.

Norman’s voice cut through the hum of the plane. “I booked a hotel for tonight.”

Ray glanced at him. “Where?”

Norman barely looked up from his tablet. “Paris.”

Ray blinked. “Paris?”

Emma beamed. “Yup!”

Ray exhaled, rubbing his temples. “You two are insane.”

Norman smirked. “And yet you’re here.”

Ray clicked his tongue but didn’t argue.

Emma grinned. “It’s gonna be great.”

Ray wasn’t so sure.

But maybe—

Just maybe—

He wanted to believe her.

—

The streets of Paris were alive with energy.

Tourists bustled past them, cameras flashing, voices overlapping in a mixture of languages.

Emma was practically bouncing on her feet, eyes wide with excitement. “This place is amazing.”

Ray adjusted the strap of his bag, unimpressed. “It’s crowded.”

Norman chuckled. “You sound like an old man.”

Ray shot him a look. “I feel like one.”

Emma pouted. “Come on, Ray! Lighten up.”

Ray sighed, shoving his hands into his pockets.

It wasn’t that he wasn’t happy to be here.

It was just—

Unfamiliar.

He wasn’t used to this.

Wasn’t used to them.

Not like this.

Norman was walking ahead, checking directions on his phone. “The hotel isn’t far.”

Emma looped her arm through Ray’s. “Let’s go, Shadow.”

Ray stiffened at the nickname.

Emma didn’t notice.

Norman did.

But he didn’t say anything.

---

Their hotel suite was massive.

Floor-to-ceiling windows, sleek modern furniture, a city view that stretched for miles.

Ray dropped his bag onto the couch, feeling out of place.

Emma spun around, arms outstretched. “This is insane!”

Norman chuckled, setting his suitcase by the door. “Glad you approve.”

Ray sat on the edge of the couch, rubbing his temples. “So, what now?”

Norman sat beside him, arms resting on his knees. “Now?”

He met Ray’s gaze.

“We talk.”

Ray exhaled. “Great.”

Emma sat cross-legged on the floor. “Ray.”

Ray tensed. “Yeah?”

Emma’s voice was softer now. “You really thought we didn’t care?”

Ray looked away. “It doesn’t matter.”

Norman frowned. “It does.”

Ray clenched his fists. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Norman didn’t push.

But Emma did.

She crawled onto the couch beside him, resting her head on his shoulder.

Ray stiffened. “Emma—”

She hummed. “You missed us.”

Ray’s throat tightened. “Shut up.”

Emma smiled. “We missed you too.”

Norman watched them, quiet.

Ray sighed. “You two are exhausting.”

Emma laughed. “And you love it.”

Ray didn’t respond.

Because maybe—

Just maybe—

She was right.

—

That night, Ray stood on the hotel balcony, cigarette between his fingers.

The city stretched below him, golden lights flickering like stars.

He should go inside.

Should sleep.

But his mind wouldn’t stop.

A quiet voice broke through the silence.

“You shouldn’t smoke.”

Ray turned.

Norman stood in the doorway, arms crossed.

Ray sighed. “Old habits.”

Norman leaned against the railing. “Bad ones.”

Ray huffed. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

Norman was quiet for a moment.

Then—

“You never sent that last letter, did you?”

Ray’s grip tightened around the cigarette.

“…No.”

Norman exhaled. “Why?”

Ray flicked ash over the edge. “Didn’t see the point.”

Norman’s expression softened. “You didn’t think we’d come back.”

Ray swallowed. “No.”

Norman didn’t hesitate.

He reached out—

And took Ray’s hand.

Ray flinched. “Norman—”

Norman’s grip tightened. “We did come back.”

Ray’s chest ached.

He looked away.

Norman squeezed his hand once before letting go.

Then, quietly—

“Come inside.”

Ray hesitated.

Then, finally—

He followed.

—

Morning sunlight streamed through the massive hotel windows, casting golden light over the suite. Ray lay on the couch, eyes half-lidded, staring at nothing. He hadn’t slept much.

Emma sat on the floor, flipping through a travel magazine. Norman was by the window, nursing a cup of coffee.

The silence wasn’t uncomfortable.

But it was heavy.

Ray knew what was coming.

He had been waiting for it.

It was Norman who finally broke the quiet.

“Ray.”

Ray didn’t look at him. “What?”

Norman set his coffee down. “Your book.”

Ray’s fingers twitched.

Emma looked up, her expression unreadable. “You called yourself Shadow.”

Ray forced himself to shrug. “So?”

Norman’s voice was too careful. “And your two love interests…”

Ray exhaled. “It’s just a story.”

Norman’s gaze didn’t waver. “Is it?”

Ray’s jaw tightened.

Emma hesitated. “Ray.”

Her voice was soft.

Too soft.

“You wrote about a character who fell in love with two people and never got a reply to his letters.”

Ray swallowed. “Yeah.”

Emma’s fingers curled around the magazine. “And you called them Carrot Top and Albino.”

Ray’s chest ached.

Emma set the magazine down. “That wasn’t just a story, was it?”

Ray didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

Norman leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. His voice was quiet, but sharp.

“You wrote about us.”

Ray let out a dry chuckle. “Took you long enough.”

Emma’s breath hitched. “Ray…”

He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter.”

Norman frowned. “Of course it does.”

Ray looked away. “Not really.”

Emma’s voice wavered. “Ray, you love us.”

Ray’s stomach twisted.

He should lie.

Should brush it off.

Should pretend it was nothing.

But—

He was tired.

So, he sighed.

Ran a hand through his hair.

And said—

“Yeah.”

Emma’s eyes widened.

Norman’s fingers twitched.

Ray exhaled. “I love you both.”

Norman’s throat bobbed. “Since when?”

Ray laughed, bitter. “Since always.”

Emma opened her mouth, but no words came out.

Ray leaned back against the couch, voice flat. “But it doesn’t matter.”

Norman stiffened. “Why not?”

Ray gave him a tired look.

“Because you’re already together.”

Emma inhaled sharply.

Norman’s fingers curled into fists.

Ray forced a smirk. “And I’m not an idiot.”

Emma’s eyes burned. “Ray—”

Ray shrugged. “It’s fine.”

Norman’s voice was barely a whisper. “It’s not.”

Ray met his gaze. “It has to be.”

The silence stretched.

Heavy. Suffocating.

Then—

Emma reached for him.

Ray flinched.

Emma hesitated—just for a second—

Then ignored it.

She wrapped her arms around him, burying her face in his shoulder.

Ray went rigid.

Emma’s voice cracked. “You idiot.”

Ray swallowed. “Emma—”

She held him tighter.

“Four months.”

Her fingers trembled against his back.

“Four damn months, and we thought you didn’t care.”

Ray let out a breath. “I do care.”

Emma shook her head. “Then why didn’t you say anything?”

Ray hesitated. “Because it wouldn’t change anything.”

Emma pulled back. Her eyes were red. “You don’t know that.”

Ray sighed. “Emma—”

Norman’s voice cut through the tension.

“We were never going to leave you behind.”

Ray turned to him.

Norman’s expression was unreadable.

But his hands—

They were clenched tight.

Ray’s throat felt dry. “Norman—”

Norman inhaled.

Then—

“You love us.”

Ray flinched. “I already said that.”

Norman’s gaze softened.

“And we love you.”

Ray’s chest constricted.

Emma nodded. “We do.”

Ray’s breath hitched.

His entire body went still.

Norman exhaled.

“It does change things.”

Ray’s fingers trembled.

Emma reached for his hand.

Norman took the other.

Ray’s heart pounded.

Norman’s voice was steady.

“Let us prove it.”

—

Ray’s heart pounded.

Norman’s hand was warm in his. Emma’s fingers squeezed his tightly. His mind was spinning, unable to process their words.

We love you.

He must have heard wrong.

It does change things.

It couldn’t be real.

But their hands—

They were holding him.

Keeping him grounded.

And then Emma moved first.

She cupped his face, her thumb brushing over his cheek, eyes filled with something so soft it made his chest ache. “Ray,” she whispered, “we love you. We always have.”

Ray swallowed. “But—”

Norman leaned in, voice quiet. “No more buts.”

Ray’s breath hitched.

Emma smiled, watery and bright. “You’re not alone, Ray. You never were.”

And before he could say something stupid—

Before his mind could ruin the moment—

Emma closed the distance.

Her lips were warm, gentle, and full of unspoken words. Ray stiffened, eyes going wide.

But then—

He melted.

His fingers curled against her wrist, gripping her tightly, terrified she’d disappear.

She didn’t.

And when she pulled away, Norman was there.

His expression was unreadable, but his eyes—

They burned.

Ray barely had a second to breathe before Norman kissed him too.

It wasn’t soft like Emma’s.

It was deep, certain, and filled with a quiet kind of desperation. Like he was making up for every lost second, every unsent letter, every moment of silence between them.

Ray gasped against his lips.

Norman didn’t let go.

Not even for a second.

And when he finally pulled away, he pressed their foreheads together. “Four months,” he murmured. “We lost four damn months.”

Ray exhaled shakily. “You’re making up for it now.”

Emma chuckled, her fingers tangling in Ray’s. “Yeah. And we’re never letting go again.”

Ray blinked.

His chest was tight.

His throat burned.

And then he laughed.

A real, breathless, almost disbelieving laugh.

“God,” he muttered, shaking his head. “You two are ridiculous.”

Norman smirked. “Took you long enough to notice.”

Emma grinned. “We’re your ridiculous people now.”

Ray looked at them.

And for the first time in a long, long time—

He let himself believe it.

The world held its breath when A.S. Lane announced his next book.

A sequel to Letters to the Stars.

No one had expected it. A.S. Lane never wrote sequels. He wrote tragedies—one-and-done stories that left readers breathless, shattered, and haunted.

But this—

This was different.

"The Stars Answer."

A book that promised not loss, not regret—

But hope.

—

Ray leaned back in his chair, staring at the finished manuscript on his screen.

For the first time in years, writing didn’t feel like bleeding onto the page.

It felt like breathing.

Like living.

Emma draped herself over his shoulders, chin resting on his head. “You know,” she mused, “this is the first book of yours that won’t make me cry in a bad way.”

Ray scoffed. “You always cry.”

Norman smirked from his spot on the couch. “She cried reading the title.”

Emma smacked his arm without looking. “Because it’s beautiful, Norman.”

Ray rolled his eyes but didn’t fight the warmth creeping into his chest.

Emma hummed, tilting her head. “So…does Shadow get his happy ending?”

Ray’s fingers brushed the keyboard. “Yeah,” he murmured. “He does.”

Norman smiled. “Good.”

—

When The Stars Answer was released, it broke records.

Critics were speechless. Fans who had sobbed over Letters to the Stars finally got their closure.

And for the first time, A.S. Lane’s readers saw something new in his writing.

A shift.

A warmth.

An answer to the letters that had once gone unread.

And when Norman and Emma found their copy on their doorstep, signed with a single handwritten note—

"I was always waiting for you to find me."

—They knew.

This was not just A.S. Lane’s first love story.

It was theirs.

The End.