The person who dropped the letter wrote something after the article. It was me. John. They didn’t do a very good job of striking their name out. I could read what it said: John. John who? There were at least seven Johns on the newspaper.

I look behind me and there was a girl, holding the same paper as I. She must’ve just finished reading because her blue eyes lifted to meet mine. She looked down quickly.

I looked again to the left and right. Still no one.

John…John…John… I was trying to think of a John who might live close to the park where I’m standing.

I walk down the street, headed for home, when I’m stopped by another gust of wind. My eyes water at the dryness that came when I didn’t close them in time.

When I open them, John Gracie is standing right in front of me.

“Did you write this?” I asked him. I wasn’t sure if he could hear me; I practically whispered.

He smirked. “I got jealous,” He said plainly, and kissed me on my cheek.