To Whom it May Concern(Plus Challenge)

𝐈.𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐃𝐔𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 ━━━━━━

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￣￣  :hearts:   :hearts:   :hearts:   :hearts:   :hearts:   ￣￣

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No, I'm not turning this in last

second. Anyway, this story comes

coupled with a challenge. The

majority of this story is a letter

sent after a masquerade. The

first person to figure out who

the two characters are getting

three hundred AC. Or a free

writing commission, whichever

they prefer.

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━━━━━━ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏.𝐒𝐈𝐒 ━━━━━━

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Two unlikely people met at

a masquerade the night previous.

Now, one wishes to know who

made their evening so enjoyable.

➥ 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬: ?

➥ 𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: Romance

➥ 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 1463

➥ 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 7905

The wind carried the plane farther than he anticipated. His eyes watched the paper begin its decline down the hill toward the town. He was convinced its recipient was somewhere within the campus, but the wind had other plans for his message. Perhaps it was better this way. She would never have to open the paper and cringe at his heartfelt confession. Hopefully, a complete stranger would find it and dispose of it, and that would be the last of the potential relationship. It was all up to the wind.

The plane fluttered over the trees, lowering to its final resting place on the very outskirts of the city. Sneakers approached it, on their own schedule, but slowing upon seeing the oddity. Pale, delicate fingers retrieved it from the dirt, and turquoise eyes noted its cleanliness as it was unfolded. Neat handwriting, uniform, and practiced.

To Whom It May Concern,

Chances are, this note will mean nothing to you. I do not expect this to end up in the right person's hands. As a matter of fact, I sincerely hope it doesn't. I'm not one who enjoys writing out love letters. But after last night, how am I supposed to just remove my mask and forget about the whole experience? I know you're out there, and I may not be able to find you. I'd typically portray the sentiments written here more subtly, but that's not an option, since I've no clue who you are. So, if there's any chance I can say this to you, this is the only way I can think of.

I had no desire to attend the masquerade. It was a trivial festivity, one that wouldn't amount to anything practical. A waste of time. Nevertheless, I attended. The photographer had needed an assistant, and I volunteered. Extra credit. My job was to make sure everybody who wanted their photos taken had paid the proper amount depending on how many they wanted to be printed in different sizes. A tedious job, one that I could do in my sleep.

I you buying a single large print. You were with a friend, a woman with short black hair. While I had tallied the money, you asked why I wasn't out dancing. I told you I wasn't interested in frivolous dances and insisted you were holding up the line. You left, and I thought that would be the end of it. But not ten minutes later, you were in the line again. This time, you wanted two wallet-sized images, but your friend wasn't with you. I didn't ask what had happened; I didn't care.

This time, you didn't move. You said you were waiting for your partner, the person you wanted to take a picture with. I quickly became impatient, saying you had to take the picture now or get out of the line. I was nothing but rude to you, I just wanted you out of my hair. But instead of being rude back, you offered your hand. With an infuriatingly coy smile, you told me, "You're the one holding up the line. I'm waiting on you."

I don't know how you managed to get me out of my seat. I think your turquoise eyes brainwashed me, ironically enough. Oh, you probably don't know why that's ironic. Anyway, next thing I know, I'm standing in front of the camera, you leaning against my shoulder as if we were best buds. I'm not a big fan of physical . I pulling away from you right as the camera flashed, resulting in you losing your balance and falling over. I felt a twinge of guilt and had even started to apologize, but you were just sitting there, giggling. You told the cameraman that was the image you wanted to be printed.

I had to get back to taking money, and you had a masquerade to return to. I was eager to split ways, return to the routine I had expected of the evening. And luckily, you didn't get back in line. I thought the rest of my night would be normal. And, for the most part, it was. Near the end of the evening, the cameraman packed up, gave me some money for payment, even though that wasn't part of the deal. I left the room shortly after he did, and started toward the exit of the school.

You were in the lobby, waiting for me. You looked about ready to fall asleep. Earlier in the evening, your hair had been up in a bun, but as I headed toward the doors, I took notice that you had let your hair down falling down your chest. I knew immediately you wouldn't let me leave peacefully. Sure enough, you rose to your feet. "Everybody should enjoy the masquerade," you insisted, taking my hand once more. I wanted to pull away, tell you I wasn't interested. But you had brainwashed me again.

The dance floor was nearly empty. All that was left were a couple of students, and the teachers overseeing the dance, all of whose masks were so shoddily made it was clear who they were. The music was still playing, so you turned to me and offered a dance. I had no idea how to dance, and even cringed at the idea of anybody seeing me dance. I think the fact I was masked made me slightly more open to the idea, as hopefully, nobody would know who I was.

You taught me. You took one arm and showed me where to put the other. The movements were awkward. Your graceful steps were cluttered by my nervous shuffling. I was dancing with a complete stranger at a school event. Something I would typically find repulsive. And yet, with you, I felt a sort of tranquility. As if this was the only natural resolution of the night. No matter how many songs we danced to, I never got the hang of it. Guess I wasn't made for dancing.

You, however, were the most graceful thing I had ever seen. Your blue dress twirled around your knees as you shifting your position around me, trying different dancing styles. We were there for about an hour until one of the teachers, Vlad King, approached us. We were the only two left, and the masquerade was ending. Despite being ushered out of the room, you turned to me and explained that after a dance, the gentleman was supposed to kiss the lady's hand in gratitude.

I knew you were just messing with me, and I'm sure you knew I knew. But I was grateful. I had shown up to the dance, expecting it to be a waste of time, but you had noticed my complete boredom and forced me to have a good time. I grabbed your offered hand, planting a kiss on the back of it.

I don't expect you to me in a week. I'm a nobody, somebody that fades into the background. You're somebody, a girl who knows how to spread a smile to anybody, regardless of personality. I find it ridiculous that we attend the same school, and yet have never met before. Or maybe we have? Either way, I look forward to seeing the image the photographer had taken of us together. I believe we agreed on a place that you'd deliver it. I would love a memento of that night, just to remind myself it indeed happened and wasn't a dream.

What a cliche note. I sound like a lovestruck teenager, and I've barely spoken to you for an hour. How odd. Is this how it's supposed to be?

With what I suppose is love,

Your masked irer

*            . • .     • .                 • .    • °. •.    •     . •    . • . ✦• . • .      • . • .               •.     . • . • .    •                  ★               . • . ★     . ° . •          . • .       • *.     •         *            . •★     . ° . •          . • .           .

Two weeks had ed. Starting a few days after the dance, he had checked the designated location where she would deliver the pictures. He was starting to lose hope, believe she had forgotten him. Of course, that was no surprise. She, no doubt, made many people's days more enjoyable; he was just another edgy teenager she made smile.

He had promised he'd stop checking. He'd just get his hopes up, and look like a fool. And yet, he kept glancing over at the windowsill. Every day, until it was there. At first, he nearly missed it. It was just a coffee cup left forgotten on the windowsill. Until he did a double-take. Something was pinned under the cup. A small square paper. He investigated to find the cup completely empty and clean, and under it was the photo. A blurred image of a woman in a blue dress tipping over, a man in a suit looking anywhere but the camera.

And attached to the image was a small scrap of paper that revealed her name.

𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒 ━━━━━━

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￣￣  :hearts:   :hearts:   :hearts:   :hearts:   :hearts:   ￣￣

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I hope you enjoyed this short

story. Comment who you think

the two characters are.

#FPAALV