There's a letter on my desk.

Not in the mail, delivered by a mailman, but sitting on the top of my desk as if someone had placed it there. I stare at it for too long, willing it to evaporate into thin air. My uneventful life has was interrupted by an uncommon occurrence. My fingers graze the white envelope. It wasn't mailed—there's no name or address—which can only mean that someone came into my apartment while I was out of the house pretending to be productive.

Someone had the key or broke in somehow—maybe came in through the window—purposely planting this bomb in my house. He or she had been in my home and possibly through my things, finally placing this letter they wrote here. This someone had to know I have a liking for writing letters. Or maybe they didn't know. Maybe they found it more convenient to break in then to ask around for my email or something.

My first thought is to call my sister, but I decide I can deal with this on my own. Eleonora would either overreact and worry unnecessarily or under react and tell me it's nothing. All I need to do is open it and read its content. Maybe it's a mistake, or maybe Eleonora is the one to leave it there. While she doesn't have a key to the apartment—I told her a million times I don't want here when I'm not messing with my things—the doorman would let her in as he knows she's my sister.

Maybe she planned a spontaneous vacation that's technology-free—I highly doubt she would do this—and decided to start by writing a letter. This sounds like the kind of thing she'd think of, but not commit to long enough for it to matter.

It's nothing to freak out about. Just a piece of paper.

Maybe I wrote this and forgot that I put it on my desk. Except that I know that it's impossible. I never take the letters out and I don't remember putting one on the desk. I always leave them at the bottom of the drawer where I can't read them again.

There's nothing on my desk when I leave and my pillows are propped up on the bed. I know these things by heart.

I take out the piece of paper staring at the cursive handwriting. It's quick and messy and I've never seen it before today. El's handwriting is neater than this and it's definitely not mine. The way the As curl at the top . . . I never do that.

My eyes go down to the signature. It only takes that one second as I take in his name for my heart to begin racing. The name signed at the bottom is familiar, yet not familiar at all.

The letter is signed by Atlas Hyde.

It's large, taking up most of the bottom page. The loop of the Y alone is huge. Even disregarding how impossible it is, the handwriting looks nothing like Atlas's.

How could this be? I read the letter realizing that it answers back to my own, something about how we can still go to Paris, telling me about the first time we met. I scan through the letter, not bothering to read it thoroughly. The facts are all wrong. I met Atlas in high school and not in the public library after hours (we were both trapped there, apparently). It continues to paint a picture of things that never happened and includes people I don't know. The letters I write I never signed, so whoever wrote this abstained from using a name.

For one thing, his last name is Gallagher, but I'm not even worried about that. The thing that's concerning me is who would actually do this. The person doesn't seem to realize that Atlas is dead, but why send a letter? Why follow me home? I'm sure he or she would realize that none of the details are real. If he was going for realism, he wouldn't have included so many specific details.

I retrace my steps. The only person I talked to yesterday was Henry and then there's the guy I spotted at the coffee shop who commented on my writing gear. Could it be him? How would he get my letter?

I frantically search through my bag for the letter. I usually place it in the pocket on the side, but there's nothing there. When I realize it's missing, the pieces come together, finally making sense. I must've dropped it. The boy from the coffee shop read it, followed me home, then snuck in and left me a reply. For some wild reason, he didn't think it would be a big deal. I can't think of any valid reason that would push someone to do something like this. The fact that he violated my privacy instead of handing the letter back to me alone is outrageous. But for him to actually write out a reply and give it to me . . . I don't know what to think.

How exactly does he expect me to respond to this?

Sitting down on my chair, I take in a few minutes to think. I reread the letter a few times. It's idiotic and the writing is all over the place, but it's good. He mimics my writing style, giving it a nostalgic feel. To him, I'm a girl whose boyfriend broke up with and now I'm struggling to cope. Not a person who lost a loved one . . . One time too many.

I grab my bag. If he's planned this far, then he knows I'm reading this right now. He's probably hoping for me to stop by and give him the next letter in the series. That's defiantly not how this is going to end.

I'm running. I don't realize this until I'm halfway toward the cafe. The only thing going through my mind is his face. I try to remember his features. Blond, blue eyes, and too tall to be human. Too cruel.

I'm clutching his letter in my hand. He has exactly six spelling mistakes that I'm willing to point out and one comma splice. He keeps writing defiantly, for one.

The letter is crumbled in my hand as I reach the coffee shop. I peer in from outside, searching for a blond male, but I don't spot one. There's a guy working the register who's not Henry.

When I look up, I spot a similar figure, staring at a few cars passing by.

He's waiting for me by the side of the road, his eyes moving around from one side to the other At first, I'm hesitant, wondering if I should jump right into it or if I should hint at the letter and see if knows what I'm talking about. I was a lot more confident about this a moment ago.

Before I can make a decision, he begins to turn around as if he knows I'm standing there. He starts to walk in my direction, halting when he notices me. His face lights up in surprise while mine is filled with confusion. The guy takes long and confident strides my way, a bright smile on his face as if we're friends. As if he wrote me a nice letter about our friendship and not one where he impersonates my dead boyfriend.

"Hey, stranger. You know, I honestly didn't think you would come—"

Before he could finish his sentence, I crumbled his letter, throwing it back at his face. I hear him wince, stepping back. He's about to ask what's wrong. "You callous, immature prick," I yell, alerting the whole universe. "How could you do that to me?"

My first thought is to punch him in the face. I want to hurt him so badly, but I'm too weak and he's too tall. My fist can't even reach that far up.

I'm crying and I don't realize this until I see the wet stains on the sidewalk near my shoes. I walk up to him as if we know each other. I do know him. I know he's cruel enough to do something like this.

From the look on his face, I can see this isn't the reaction he was expecting, wondering why he hadn't been mailed the rewrite of the script of this little movie. He clears his throat looking around as if waiting for someone to point tell him his next line.

I'm glaring at him. Still, he says nothing, waiting for me to offer more explanation.

"The letter I was writing is to my dead boyfriend. It's not some book I'm working on. These things happened to me. How could you mock me this way?" I pause, but only to wipe my tears away. Realization begins to sink in and there's shock in his expression. "You don't even know me. I woke up today wanting to forget about my shitty life, but instead I see this letter, and you know what? I was almost hopeful as if he'd come back from the dead."

"Please tell me you're joking."

I say nothing, but take in a deep breath and try to collect myself. There's a man passing by holding hands with a little boy. They walk slowly, trying to figure out what's going on.

"God, I'm so sorry. This is a huge misunderstanding. I can explain," he says, holding his hands up in defense. "My name is Kal Roat. I'm a writer, just like you. Sometimes I like to go around and create peculiar situations that motivate me and give me ideas to write," he says, pausing, but only for a second when he sees the look on my face. He continues, wanting to clear things up before I start yelling again. "I know this sounds strange and I can't justify my behavior, but I didn't know you were writing to an actual person. I thought you would understand from the comment I said earlier when you were getting a drink."

My tears have dried ages ago. All that's left is rage. Enough to flip this world upside down. "So you violate my privacy, follow me home, break into my apartment . . . just to get motivated?" My eyes are three times bigger than their usual size and he'd somehow gotten shorter.

"Hey. I didn't break into your apartment. You have a lousy doorman. I told him I was your boyfriend and that you'd left your purse upstairs. Frankly, I think he was too glad to know you have a boyfriend to ask me any questions."

My lips part, I curl my fingers into fists and punch the air. I'm so angry right now that I could actually hit him, and I've never even had a similar thought before. I just want to hurt him.

"Your last name is 'Roat?' You expect me to believe that?"

A smile rips his cheeks. He shrugs a little. "Believe or not. It's real."

"Is this funny to you?"

He sighs and takes a step closer. "I'm really sorry," he says, and I almost believe it. "I didn't mean for any of this to happen." His voice is sincere, but the situation is too bizarre for me to handle.

"What kind of sick hobby is this, Kal Roat," I say, over pronouncing the letters in the stupid name he's expecting me to buy.

"Nothing like this has ever happened before. It never crossed my mind that this could've been a real letter. Otherwise, I wouldn't have said anything."

I close my eyes for a second. "You're that stupid? You didn't think someone could be writing a letter addressed to an actual human being?"

Kal slips his hands in his pockets and looks away, his cheeks getting red. I can tell that I'd gotten to him, and it doesn't feel as good as I thought it would. Now I'm the one feeling guilty.

I nod quickly, suddenly not knowing what to say. Turning around, I walk back to the apartment.