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Elphaba should not have let it come to this.
She was not some lovesick fool.
Not some desperate, sighing, poetry-scrawling schoolgirl, clutching at her chest and dreaming of golden curls that caught the morning light like they’d been spun from the sun itself.
And yet.
Here she was.
She had been sitting at her desk for—she wasn’t sure how long. The candle beside her had burned down significantly since she’d lit it, the wax now pooling at its base in thick, uneven rivulets. A small part of her brain, the part that was always alert to practical matters, noted that she would need to replace it soon. Another part of her—much louder, much more persistent—reminded her that she had more pressing concerns.
Like the ink smudging her palm.
Like the sheet of parchment in front of her, blank but expectant.
Like the fact that she was doing this again.
Elphaba exhaled sharply, pressing the heel of her hand against her forehead as if she could physically push the thoughts away. This was ridiculous. She knew it was ridiculous.
Her fingers twitched where they rested against the desk, itching for the quill. A habit, now. One she should have never let form.
This had started once—just once—on a night much like this one, when the silence had stretched too long, and the words had pressed too insistently against the walls of her skull. The first letter had been an accident. A fleeting thing. A release.
And then there had been another. And another.
Now, she was here again.
Elphaba curled her fingers into a fist and let out a slow breath, trying to ground herself in the steady rise and fall of her own chest. This is foolishness, she told herself. Absolute, utter foolishness.
She reached for the quill.
Her fingers closed around it before she could stop herself.
The ink was still fresh in the well beside her, shimmering faintly in the candlelight. She dipped the quill into it with a steadiness she didn’t quite feel, watching as the dark liquid clung to the tip.
Then, slowly, carefully, she pressed it to the parchment. The first stroke of the letter felt like a betrayal. She tried not to think about what that meant. Instead, she wrote.
Her hand moved with a practiced ease now, the words forming as if they had been waiting—lurking just beneath the surface, eager for escape.
The sun envies your radiance, the moon borrows your glow.
The ink gleamed wetly in the dim light.
Elphaba stared at the words, chest tightening. Her fingers flexed around the quill, knuckles white.
She should stop.
She would stop.
Right after this one.
Just this one.
Her pulse thrummed against her ribs, a too-loud thing in the quiet of the dormitory. Her candle flickered, casting long, shifting shadows against the walls. From somewhere in the distance—the main halls, maybe—came the faint sound of laughter.
Galinda.
Elphaba’s throat tightened.
She didn’t know it was Galinda. Not for certain. But the thought had arrived unbidden, immediate. Because where there was light, there was Galinda. Where there was warmth, there was Galinda. Where there was—
Elphaba inhaled sharply, shoving the thought away.
Her hand moved again before she could think too hard about it.
What power have you to make the stars flicker so?
The words settled against the page, final and damning.
Elphaba swallowed.
Too much.
Too ridiculous.
She stared at the letter for a long moment, jaw clenched.
The rational part of her—the one that was always sharp, always biting, always quick to dismiss such absurdities—was screaming at her. Burn it. Tear it up. Throw it away and never think of it again.
But the other part of her—the one that had sat up late in the dark, the one that had memorized the way golden curls bounced when their owner turned too quickly, the one that cataloged every laugh, every gesture, every tilt of a too-pretty head—was already reaching for the envelope.
The decision had been made before she even realized she was making it.
Her hands were steady as she folded the parchment, her fingers smoothing over the crease with a care that bordered on reverence. She should not be doing this.
She tucked the letter inside the envelope and pressed the flap shut, running a finger over the seam as if sealing away something more than just words.
No name. No indication.
Just the single, golden swirl she sketched onto the front. A simple thing. A meaningless thing. Just a flourish, just a thought—just an echo of something she wasn’t meant to long for.
Elphaba stared at it for a moment, the weight of it heavier than it should have been.
Her heartbeat was steady.
Steady.
Steady.
Then she stood, moving quickly before she could stop herself. Before she could rethink.
Elphaba hesitated.
Only for a second.
Then she stepped forward, heart hammering a little too fast as she crouched to slip the letter into place—not on the desk, no. That would be too much, too obvious. Instead, she tucked it between the pages of Galinda’s notebook, nestled between elegant handwriting and delicate signatures.
Tomorrow, Galinda would find it.
And Elphaba—Elphaba would pretend she knew nothing at all.
Sleep did not come easily.
Elphaba lay on her back, staring at the ceiling, her thoughts a tangle of ink and parchment and golden curls that refused to be exorcized. The bed beneath her was stiff, the blankets too heavy, too warm. She shifted onto her side, then onto her back again, then onto her stomach, but no position felt right.
Her mind would not quiet.
She had done this before—written, folded, placed, retreated. The process had become familiar, routine even. And yet, tonight felt different.
Perhaps it was the wording. Too much, too revealing. She had let herself slip, let herself be carried away by the rhythm of the lines. Had she made it obvious? No. Of course not. It was vague, like all the others. A few pretty words, an anonymous flourish, nothing that pointed to her.
She turned onto her side, curling an arm beneath her pillow.
Galinda would read it tomorrow. That was inevitable. She would pick up her notebook, flip through the pages, and find the letter nestled between them. Would she smile? Laugh? Roll her eyes at the ridiculousness of it?
Elphaba squeezed her own eyes shut.
It was a game to Galinda, wasn’t it? A little mystery, a small amusement. She had no idea that the writer was someone who sat mere feet away, someone who heard her hum under her breath while brushing her hair, someone who cataloged her habits as naturally as breathing.
The thought was both a relief and a torment.
Elphaba exhaled slowly.
It would be fine.
It had to be.
Morning light crept in through the dormitory windows, stretching long golden fingers across the floor.
Elphaba had managed a few hours of sleep—restless, shallow, but sleep nonetheless. It was enough. It had to be.
She sat at her desk, posture rigid, flipping through the pages of a textbook she had no real intention of absorbing. Across the room, Galinda stirred.
Elphaba kept her eyes on the text.
Sheets rustled, a soft sigh followed. The unmistakable creak of the mattress as Galinda sat up filled the silence of the room as she rubbed the sleep from her eyes.
Then, a quiet yawn. “Morning.”
Elphaba nodded. “Mm.”
She turned a page she hadn’t read.
Behind her, Galinda stretched, then swung her legs over the side of the bed. There was a familiar rhythm to her mornings—long, languid movements, unhurried and unconcerned. She would make her way to the vanity, brush out her hair, apply her creams, all while humming some tune she had likely picked up from the night before.
Elphaba kept reading words she wasn’t processing.
And then—
The sound of pages turning.
Her stomach clenched.
Galinda had picked up her notebook.
Elphaba forced herself to remain still, to keep her attention on the book in front of her, though her fingers had begun to press white into the edges of the paper.
Silence.
A quiet intake of breath.
A pause.
Elphaba could hear it—could feel it—the way Galinda lingered over the words, the way her fingers likely brushed the edges of the parchment, the way she was tilting her head in that soft, thoughtful way she did when something truly caught her interest.
Seconds passed.
A small, delighted laugh.
Elphaba closed her eyes.
“Another one,” Galinda murmured, and though the words were not directed at her, Elphaba felt them like a physical thing.
She could picture it—the smile pulling at the corner of Galinda’s lips, the way her fingers traced the golden swirl on the envelope.
Elphaba swallowed, carefully turning another page.
“Who do you suppose it is?” Galinda mused aloud, tapping the edge of the letter against her chin.
Elphaba shrugged. “Aren’t there plenty of admirers willing to fawn over you?”
Galinda giggled. “Yes, but this is different. More poetic. More…” She trailed off, considering. “Swept away.”
Elphaba’s grip tightened on the book.
She knew what Galinda meant. The letters weren’t desperate confessions or clumsy declarations. They were restrained, precise, aching.
Galinda sighed, setting the letter aside. “I wish I knew who it was.”
Elphaba said nothing.
She did not trust herself to.
The next time Galinda found an envelope tucked between her papers, it was during Doctor Dillamond’s lecture.
Elphaba hadn’t planned to watch her find it. She shouldn’t have been watching her at all. But she heard it—the soft rustle of parchment, the way Galinda’s breath caught just a little. And suddenly, nothing else in the room existed. Not the scratch of quills, not the droning of the lecture, not the half-written notes in front of her. Just that barely-audible gasp of delighted surprise.
Pfannee, of course, immediately noticed.
“Ohhh, what’s this? ” she sing-songed, leaning over with a smirk like she had personally uncovered a royal scandal. ShenShen perked up beside her, craning her neck to see. “ Another one?” she teased. “Galinda, darling, someone’s been leaving you love notes !”
Elphaba kept her head down, gripping her quill just a little too tight. This is fine. She had prepared for this. She knew Galinda would find it. She knew Galinda would be excited . She knew there was a chance people would notice. But still, her pulse felt just a little too loud, a little too there , like something pressing against the inside of her ribs.
Galinda made a flustered noise and snatched the envelope, pressing it to her chest like it was some treasured secret. “Give it back, ” she huffed, but her voice had that telltale lilt—the one that meant she wasn’t actually mad, just enjoying the attention.
Pfannee held up her hands in mock innocence. “Alright, alright,” she said, but the grin stayed firmly in place. “No need to be so defensive, unless you’re hiding something.”
ShenShen gasped dramatically. “Oh, you must know who it’s from,” she said, all wide eyes and feigned shock. “Galinda, who is he? ”
And Elphaba—who had been doing so well , who had been so determined to just keep her head down and act normal—froze.
Galinda flipped her hair over her shoulder with a practiced little motion. “That doesn’t mean you get to snoop,” she said primly, but her smile was unmistakable. Bright. Pleased. She liked this. She liked the attention, the mystery. She liked the idea that someone—some man—was writing her poetry in secret.
She should’ve expected this. Of course Galinda would assume. Why wouldn’t she? It was the logical conclusion. If someone was writing romantic poetry, it had to be a boy. That was just how things worked.
But knowing that didn’t make it any easier to hear.
Pfannee sighed, propping her chin on her hand. “So you don’t know who he is,” she mused. “Interesting. Interesting. ”
ShenShen giggled. “It’s so romantic, ” she said dreamily. “Some lovestruck boy, secretly writing you poetry—”
Elphaba clenched her jaw, her fingers going tight around her quill. She didn’t mean to react, but there was something about hearing it out loud that made it worse. It was fine when it was just a thought, when it was just inevitable. But hearing them say it, watching Galinda blush and grin about it—
Yeah. That hurt.
But Galinda was so happy. Practically glowing, fingers tracing the edges of the envelope like she couldn’t wait to open it later.
And maybe that should’ve been enough to make Elphaba stop.
But it wasn’t.
Because the next time she found herself alone at her desk, hands hovering over fresh parchment, she didn’t stop. She let the words come.
You speak, and I listen, always—
as if your words were carved just for me.
As if they ever could be.
She folded the note carefully.
She sealed it, marked it with a golden swirl.
Then, she slipped it into Galinda’s notebook.
“Oh, Elphie,” Galinda sighed wistfully, clutching the letter to her chest. “Who do you think he is?”
She kicked her feet against the edge of her bed, twirling a golden curl idly around one delicate finger. Her cheeks were pink with excitement, and the little smile playing on her lips—soft, dreamy, enamored —was enough to make Elphaba feel both victorious and utterly miserable.
She should have expected this.
Perfect Galinda, with her perfect admirer, who must, of course, be a man . Someone charming, dashing, someone who could waltz into a ballroom and twirl her around effortlessly under a chandelier’s glow. Someone who could give her all the things Elphaba never could.
It shouldn't sting. It shouldn't ache .
And yet—
“Elphie?” Galinda’s voice was softer now, her head tilting as she studied her.
Elphaba blinked, suddenly aware of the weight of her own silence. "Hm?”
“Is there something wrong?” Galinda frowned, concerned, the crease between her brows deepening. Elphaba had the absurd urge to reach out and smooth it away with her thumb.
Instead, she curled her fingers into her palms, fidgeting, focusing on the way her nails pressed into skin. She did not focus on how warm and unbearably tender Galinda's gaze was.
Elphaba was so lost in her own thoughts, she didn’t hear the soft patter of Galinda’s footsteps until—
A sudden warmth, softness , engulfed her.
Elphaba stiffened, her breath catching as Galinda wrapped herself around her —no warning, no hesitation, just embraced her, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
She smelled like roses and something sweeter, something distinctly her , and Elphaba swore she could feel the very shape of her through the layers of their uniforms. Galinda was warmth, she was softness, she was gentle hands on Elphaba’s back , squeezing just enough to be grounding.
Elphaba could hear her own heartbeat thundering in her ears.
Galinda must have heard it, too, because she pulled back slightly, just enough to tilt her head, peering up at her with a teasing little smile.
“Elphie, your heart is racing.”
Elphaba swallowed, barely managing to keep her voice steady. “ It's fine. ”
It was not fine.
It was the opposite of fine .
The sheer heat between them—Galinda’s body warm against hers, her fingers curling slightly into Elphaba’s back, lingering —was enough to make her feel like she was on the verge of combustion.
Galinda must have realized something, because her hold tightened, just a little. Something about the way Elphaba froze , how her breath caught, must have given her away.
A flash of understanding crossed Galinda’s features, and then—oh. Oh.
Her grip softened. Her hands ran soothingly along Elphaba’s back, careful, deliberate, gentle . As if she had just realized, for the first time, that Elphaba had never been held like this before. Not in kindness. Not in care .
Elphaba felt something crack in her chest, something fragile, something terrifyingly new .
Then Galinda pulled back, just slightly, just enough to reach up and cup Elphaba’s face between soft, delicate hands.
Elphaba stopped breathing .
Galinda giggled, her thumbs brushing over Elphaba’s cheeks, amusement flickering in her eyes. “You're blushing !”
Elphaba was not blushing .
(Elphaba was absolutely blushing.)
Galinda’s expression shifted into something softer now, something tender . It was as if she was seeing Elphaba properly for the first time, and whatever she saw must have made something inside her ache.
She let out a soft, breathy laugh—one that wasn’t teasing, but fond .
“Oh, Elphie,” she whispered, her fingers still ghosting over Elphaba’s cheek. “You’re so sensitive to touch, aren’t you?”
Elphaba wanted to deny it. She wanted to roll her eyes and scoff and pretend that her skin wasn’t burning beneath Galinda’s hands.
But Galinda was already pulling her into another hug, tighter this time, as if to make up for all the ones Elphaba had never received.
Elphaba let herself sink into it, just for a moment. Just long enough to feel what it was like to be held and meant it.
Galinda rested her chin atop Elphaba’s shoulder and squeezed her once more, as if sealing a promise.
“Well,” she declared, voice bright and certain, “I suppose I’ll just have to make sure you get plenty more of these, won’t I?”
Elphaba’s heart stuttered .
“And don’t you worry about this admirer, Elphie,” Galinda added, pulling back just enough to beam at her, still holding her hands. “You are my bestest friend in the whole world. No mysterious man with pretty words could ever replace you.”
And oh.
Elphaba could have wept .
It was not a confession. It was not a declaration of love.
But it was something.
It didn’t matter that she didn’t even consider her .
It only mattered that she looked happy .
Elphaba could not give her a perfect man , nor the perfect romance Galinda imagined—but she could give her this.
She could give her poetry. She could give her words .
She could give her more .
It wasn’t soon until Elphaba found herself hunched over her desk again.
Elphaba’s hand hovered over the page, the quill trembling between ink-stained fingers. Her jaw clenched as she stared at the words she had just written, hating them, hating herself for writing them.
You touch, and you go
The scratch of her quill against the parchment was the only sound in the dim candlelit room. The ink bled slightly at the edges, as if the words themselves couldn’t hold their shape beneath the weight of her longing.
Pathetic.
That’s what this was. Pathetic.
She should be studying. She should be sleeping. She should be doing anything else besides sitting here like some tragic fool, writing poetry to a girl who would never—could never—look at her that way.
You touch, and you go. No pause, no thought, no ache.
Her fingers tightened around the quill, a sharp, painful grip, as if she could anchor herself to something, anything, other than the aching, bottomless void inside her.
And I stay, and I burn, and I wait.
The words stared back at her, damning in their honesty.
Elphaba wanted to tear the page to shreds.
Instead, she set the quill down with deliberate care, pressing her fingers into her temples.
Galinda had spent the entire day touching her—absent, thoughtless touches that meant everything to Elphaba and nothing to her. A hand brushing her sleeve, a weight against her shoulder, fingers curling around her wrist like it was second nature.
She doesn’t even realize she’s doing it.
And why would she? To Galinda, touch was effortless. Simple. Affection was easy, warmth was given freely—something she never had to think about.
Elphaba did.
She thought about it constantly.
Because every time Galinda’s fingers skimmed her skin, every time she leaned in too close, every time she so much as breathed Elphaba’s name, it carved deeper into her ribs, into the space where something whole should have been.
And still, she stayed. And still, she burned. And still, she waited.
For what? For something that would never come?
Her mouth twisted in something that wasn’t quite a smile.
She was a fool.
Elphaba barely had time to react when the door creaked open, and before she could even process the sound, Galinda’s voice filled the room, bright and unbothered. “Elphieee, you will not believe what Fiyero just said to me at lunch—”
Elphaba jerked upright so fast she nearly knocked over the ink bottle. The quill slipped from her fingers, landing unceremoniously atop the half-finished poem. Her heart kicked against her ribs, panic surging hot through her chest.
Galinda paused mid-step, heel hovering inches above the floor, eyes flicking immediately to the way Elphaba was moving—too fast, too sudden, too guilty.
“What are you doing?” Galinda asked, head tilting slightly.
Elphaba’s brain caught up a second too late. “Nothing,” she said, far too quickly, already crumpling the parchment in her palm as subtly as she could.
Galinda’s eyebrows lifted. “Oh?”
Elphaba had never been a good liar, but this was bad even for her. She could feel Galinda’s eyes narrowing, scanning the desk, the ink-stained edges of her fingers, the way she was still half-hunched over the paper as if she could will it out of existence.
“I was—” Elphaba began, fumbling, “—working on… notes. For—Doctor Dillamond.”
Galinda’s lips parted, her expression blank for a single, stretched-out moment.
“Elphie.”
Then, in a tone far too knowing, she said, “You’re a terrible liar, you know.”
Elphaba flinched.
“I—”
Galinda took a step closer, and Elphaba curled her fingers tighter around the parchment, pressing it against her palm so hard she was sure the ink would smudge against her skin. But Galinda’s attention had already drifted downward.
“Elphie, your hands are shaking,” she murmured, voice quieter now, softer, like a careful touch against something fragile. Her gaze flickered up, searching Elphaba’s face, and without thinking, she reached out—small, warm fingers brushing lightly over Elphaba’s knuckles, hesitant but steady.
“What’s wrong?”
Everything.
Nothing.
You.
Elphaba had to get a grip. Immediately.
Her pulse was pounding so hard she could hear it, an awful, suffocating thrum in her ears, drowning out everything except the unbearable realization that Galinda was still watching her, still waiting for an answer.
“It’s nothing,” she said, stiff and final.
Galinda pouted, lower lip jutting out slightly. “Oh, you’re no fun.”
Elphaba almost laughed at that. No fun. Yes, because that was the problem here. That was the issue. Not the fact that her heart had just been torn from her chest, stomped on, and left out in the sun to wither like a discarded flower.
She took a deep breath. “I swear it's nothing, Galinda,” she said, keeping her voice as steady as she could.
Galinda giggled, then sighed. “Well, if you insist on keeping secrets,” she said airily, tossing her curls over her shoulder, “I suppose I’ll allow it.”
Elphaba had never felt so relieved in her entire life.
“Thank you,” she muttered.
Galinda beamed at her like she’d just granted her the greatest gift imaginable. “Of course,” she said brightly. “But I will figure it out eventually, you know.”
Elphaba made a noncommittal noise in response, tucking the letter further into her fist, willing herself to breathe normally again.
Galinda hummed and flopped back onto her pillows. “But if you don’t want to tell me, I suppose I’ll just have to wait.”
Elphaba stiffened.
Elphaba closed her eyes, exhaled slowly, and ignored the way her hand itched to reach for her quill.
And if Elphaba rewrote her crumpled up poem to slip between Galinda’s notes, well, no one had to know about that.
The dormitory was silent, save for the occasional rustle of fabric as Galinda shifted on her bed. The candle at her bedside flickered softly, casting long, wavering shadows across the room. Neither of them had managed to fall asleep.
Elphaba lay on her back, staring at the ceiling, willing herself not to think too hard, not to listen too closely to the sound of Galinda turning pages, to the soft exhale of her breath, to the way the entire room seemed to be filled with her presence even when she wasn’t speaking.
A pause.
A rustle.
And Galinda’s voice, lilting and curious, cutting through the quiet like a blade.
“You touch, and you go. No pause, no thought, no ache.”
Elphaba’s breath stopped.
“And I stay, and I burn, and I wait.”
A long silence.
Elphaba turned her head just enough to see Galinda sitting up, candlelight catching on her golden hair, eyes fixed on the scrap of parchment in her hands.
Galinda glanced over at her. “Now this ,” she said, waving the paper slightly, “is interesting. ”
Elphaba forced herself to sit up, to look normal, to breathe . “Where did you—”
“It was tucked in with my notes,” Galinda said, turning the paper over between her fingers. “I almost didn’t see it, but—” She grinned. “I always notice things like this.”
Elphaba clenched her jaw.
“Isn’t it romantic?” Galinda mused, eyes flickering over the words again. “It’s so… tragic .” She sighed dramatically, pressing a hand to her heart. “The longing. The yearning. Oh, Elphie, isn’t it just devastating ?”
Elphaba said nothing, because she couldn’t.
Galinda turned to her expectantly. “What do you think it means ?”
Elphaba’s fingers curled into the sheets.
What did it mean?
It meant she was a fool. A fool with ink-stained hands and an incurable need to press her love into the pages of letters that could never be signed. It meant she was standing at the edge of a cliff, watching Galinda twirl on the other side, blissfully unaware that one wrong step would send Elphaba plummeting.
And it meant—most dangerously of all—that Galinda still had no idea.
The silence stretched. Galinda was still waiting.
Elphaba forced herself to shrug. “Maybe,” she said, voice carefully even, “they’re closer than you think.”
Galinda’s brow furrowed slightly. “Hmm?”
She let the words sit there, deliberately unadorned, a quiet offering. Not a confession, not a declaration—just a possibility, set gently between them like a delicate thing that could be picked up and examined, turned over in careful hands.
They . Not he .
She had been so careful, so deliberate. It was the smallest of nudges, just enough to test the edges of Galinda’s perception. To see if she would notice. To see if she would wonder .
For a long moment, Galinda said nothing. She just stared at the poem in her hands, brows drawn in the kind of deep thought she so rarely wore.
And then, softly—almost to herself—she murmured, “They.”
Elphaba felt her whole body go rigid.
Galinda’s eyes lifted, unfocused, as if turning something over in her mind, tracing a thought down a path she hadn’t considered before. “You didn’t say he ,” she mused, tapping a finger against the parchment. “You said they .”
Elphaba forced herself to stay still, to keep her face impassive, though her pulse had begun a frantic drumbeat behind her ribs.
Galinda exhaled, shaking her head as though trying to clear it. “Maybe I’ve been looking in the wrong places this whole time,” she murmured, a quiet, contemplative thing. Not quite a question, but not not one, either.
Elphaba swallowed. This is it. This is the moment.
She could say something. Steer Galinda’s thoughts just a little further down that road. Make her see .
Elphaba watched as Galinda traced the edge of the poem with her fingers, something unreadable flickering across her face before she let out a quiet hum. Then, instead of tucking it between the pages of her notebook, where the rest of them lay—where they could be stumbled upon, or lost, or carelessly folded into nothing—she reached for the drawer of her bedside table..
Galinda pulled it open, revealing a neatly arranged stack of envelopes, all familiar. All hers.
Her stomach dropped.
Galinda had kept them. Not just in the haphazard way she treated most of her school notes or the silly valentines she received in excess, but carefully, deliberately, in a place that was safe.
Elphaba’s breath felt like it had stopped somewhere between her ribs.
Why?
Why go through the trouble? Why not just—throw them away, or leave them scattered among her papers like meaningless trifles? Galinda was sentimental, yes, but she was also casual with her affections. Why this ? Why them ?
Galinda placed the new poem on top of the pile, smoothing it down with the softest touch, like she was handling something delicate, something precious. Then, with a contented little sigh, she shut the drawer.
Elphaba looked away, heart hammering against her ribs.
She had spent so long thinking of these poems as fleeting—mere indulgences of her own longing, things she should not have written in the first place. But Galinda kept them. Protected them. Held them close.
It was a small thing. A meaningless thing.
But—no, Elphaba couldn’t let herself think like that. Couldn’t let herself entertain foolish maybes.
She forced her shoulders to relax, shifting beneath the blanket. Galinda, unaware of the small hurricane raging inside Elphaba’s chest, yawned as she settled back onto her pillows.
“Well,” she murmured sleepily, “I suppose I’ll just have to keep my eyes open tomorrow. Maybe I’ll catch them in the act.”
Galinda caught her looking, misreading the expression entirely. She grinned. “Unless you plan on telling me, Miss Knows-More-Than-She’s-Saying.”
Elphaba scoffed, shaking her head. “It’s hardly my business.”
Galinda pouted but didn’t push. Instead, she turned onto her side, fingers once again brushing over the now-closed drawer—the one where Elphaba’s lovesick words now rested safely, tucked away with the kind of care Elphaba had never dared to hope for.
“Goodnight, Elphie,” Galinda murmured.
Elphaba didn’t answer.
She was too busy staring at the drawer, at the poems Galinda had kept, and wondering if maybe—just maybe—she wasn’t as hopeless as she thought.
Elphaba had known dread before. It was a feeling she was well-acquainted with—looming deadlines, the ever-present threat of humiliation at the hands of her peers, the suffocating awareness that she would never quite fit in. But this—this was something else entirely.
Galinda was sitting on her bed, legs tucked neatly beneath her, head tilted just so in that way that meant she was deep in thought. And deep in thought meant dangerous things when it came to Galinda Upland.
Elphaba sat stiffly at her desk, quill poised over a textbook she had not turned a page of in the last ten minutes. She could feel Galinda watching her, gaze flickering between her and the small stack of poetry she had been collecting—poetry that Elphaba had, against all reason, continued to write and slip into her belongings.
There had been something different about Galinda when she entered the dorm tonight. Some kind of sharp-edged curiosity tucked beneath her usual brightness. And now, as she twirled a strand of golden hair around her finger, there was an undeniable look of knowing in her eyes.
“So, Fiyero had some very interesting thoughts on my secret admirer,” Galinda said at last, her voice light, teasing.
Elphaba did not look up. She willed herself to stay still, to keep her grip on her quill loose. “Oh?” she said, as disinterestedly as possible.
“Mmm,” Galinda hummed. “He seems to think I’ve been looking in the wrong places. ”
Elphaba’s fingers tightened minutely around her quill. A calculated risk, she told herself. Galinda was prone to theatrics—she was probably just relaying whatever nonsense Fiyero had come up with. But still, the words rang in Elphaba’s head like an alarm. Looking in the wrong places.
“And what exactly does that mean?” Elphaba asked, finally glancing up. Her voice was even, measured. But Galinda’s expression was too intent, too searching.
“Well, I suppose I’ve been assuming certain things,” Galinda said, tapping a perfectly manicured nail against her bottom lip. “Like that he’s a he, for example.”
Elphaba could not breathe.
There it was.
The very thing she had been hoping—no, praying —that Galinda would piece together. But not like this. Not while she was still unprepared, still so close to being found out.
“And you think that was a mistake?” Elphaba managed, her throat suddenly dry.
Galinda shrugged, but there was something undeniably mischievous in her expression. “I don’t know yet.” She leaned forward slightly, peering at Elphaba in a way that made her want to run. “But I do know you’re acting very strange right now.”
“I’m always strange,” Elphaba shot back, the retort too sharp, too rushed.
Galinda’s lips curved. “Oh, Elphie,” she murmured, tilting her head. “You’re nervous.”
Elphaba gritted her teeth. “I am not. ”
But her hands had betrayed her. She realized with horror that her grip on the quill had tightened too much, her knuckles taut and white. The realization must have shown on her face, because Galinda’s eyes lit up.
A slow, knowing smile spread across Galinda’s lips, and she shifted forward, her weight pressing into her elbows as she rested them against her knees. “You are,” she said, sing-song and delighted, like she had just cracked some grand mystery. “Elphie, you look positively terrified.”
Elphaba swallowed, forcing herself to release the quill. “I just think this conversation is ridiculous," she said stiffly. "And I have work to do.”
“Do you?" Galinda mused, her eyes darting toward the unopened book in front of her. “Because you haven’t so much as glanced at that page in ages.”
Elphaba pressed her lips together. "Maybe I’ve just been distracted by your incessant questioning.”
Galinda let out a hum, as if considering that, but her gaze was still sharp, still calculating. “You know, I’ve been wondering something, Elphie. This poetry—whoever’s writing it must know me well. They must see me in a way that most don’t. That means they must be someone… close.”
The word lodged itself in Elphaba’s chest, tightening her ribs. Close. It was too much. Too dangerous. Too near to something she could not let Galinda see.
“What’s your point?” Elphaba said, feigning indifference.
Galinda’s smile turned sly. “Just that you seem awfully invested in avoiding this conversation.” She reached out, lightly tapping Elphaba’s wrist. “Almost as if you’re hiding something.”
Elphaba jerked back, far too quickly. She cursed herself immediately for the reaction, for the sharp inhale that made her ribs ache, for the way her fingers twitched toward the desk drawer like a guilty child caught in the act.
Galinda, of course, noticed everything.
Her lips curled, the corners of her eyes crinkling in amusement. She tilted her head, blonde curls bouncing slightly, and leaned in just enough to make Elphaba’s skin prickle. Too close. Too close, too knowing, too much.
“Elphie,” she murmured, voice dripping with conspiratorial delight, “do you know something I don’t?”
Elphaba swallowed hard. “I know that you should probably let this go.”
Galinda's brows lifted, her expression all mock innocence. “Now why would I do that? This is the most fun I've had all week.”
Elphaba groaned, dropping her head into her hands.
Galinda was having fun. That was the problem.
Because Galinda, when she was determined, was impossible to shake off. She latched onto ideas with the same unshakable conviction that she latched onto Elphaba’s arm in crowded hallways—with certainty, with enthusiasm, with no intention of letting go.
And now, she was latched onto this.
Elphaba exhaled sharply and pressed the heel of her palm against her temple. “ Galinda. ”
Galinda leaned in further, her breath warm against Elphaba’s wrist where it still hovered uncertainly in the air. “ Elphie. ”
A shiver ran down Elphaba’s spine. She ignored it.
“There is nothing to investigate,” she said, keeping her voice level.
Galinda hummed, tapping a manicured finger against her chin. “And yet, you’re acting very suspicious.”
Elphaba sighed. “That’s just how I act.”
“Yes, but normally you’re suspicious in a general , ominous way,” Galinda pointed out. “Right now, you’re suspicious in a guilty way.”
Elphaba shot her a flat look. “That is an incredibly flimsy argument.”
Galinda beamed at her, completely undeterred. “Then you won’t mind if I prove you wrong.”
Something sharp twisted in Elphaba’s gut.
Her fingers curled around the edge of the desk. “What does that mean?”
Galinda’s smile turned positively wicked . “It means I’m going to catch them.”
Elphaba’s stomach dropped .
“Catch who ?” she managed, though her throat felt tight, like something had wedged itself between her lungs.
Galinda blinked at her. “My secret admirer, of course.”
Elphaba stared.
She had to be joking. She had to be joking.
She wasn’t joking.
Elphaba’s heart lurched into her throat as she watched realization spark behind Galinda’s eyes—an idea clicking into place with horrifying enthusiasm.
“Now, obviously, they’re someone who has access to my room,” Galinda said, pacing now, her hands fluttering as she worked through the thought aloud. “That narrows it down to a very select few.”
Elphaba’s pulse roared in her ears.
She needed to stop this. She needed to shut it down now.
“Or,” she blurted, grasping at anything, anything, “it could be someone else’s handwriting.”
Galinda froze.
Then, slowly, she turned.
Elphaba regretted everything.
“That’s brilliant, Elphie,” Galinda breathed, eyes sparkling.
Elphaba did not like that sparkle.
Not one bit.
Before she could protest, Galinda gasped, clapping her hands together. “ I just need to compare everyone’s handwriting to the letters! ”
Elphaba felt the world tilt beneath her feet.
Oh. No.
No no no no—
Galinda practically vibrated with excitement. “This is going to be so much fun. ”
She found Elphaba in the library.
There had been no hesitation—no carefully planned approach, no delicate unraveling of the truth. Just a rush of certainty, of urgency, of something breaking open inside her.
Elphaba had barely looked up before the notebook slammed onto the table in front of her, the force of it sending a tremor through the polished wood, drawing startled glances from the other students.
Elphaba blinked. “Well, hello to you too.”
Galinda didn’t bother with pleasantries. “Write something.”
Elphaba went still.
The words coiled around her ribs, tightening, tightening.
She glanced from Galinda to the notebook, then back again, pulse quickening like a hunted thing. “What?”
Galinda’s eyes burned . “Write something,” she repeated, each syllable clipped, breathless.
Elphaba felt her stomach drop .
She forced a dry laugh, brittle as dead leaves. “I don’t—”
Galinda shoved a pen into her hand. “Write.”
Elphaba swallowed hard.
If she refused, Galinda would know.
But if she wrote—
The air in her lungs thinned. Her fingers ached with the force of her grip. Slowly, she lowered the pen to the page, let the ink bleed out a single word:
Galinda
The second the last stroke was finished, the notebook was snatched from beneath her hands.
Silence crashed down around them.
And Elphaba saw it. Saw the precise moment Galinda broke , her breath catching, her expression cracking like a mirror struck too hard.
Because there it was. The truth, laid bare.
The letters had always belonged to her.
Galinda’s lips parted. “Elphie—”
But Elphaba was already gone.
She ran.
Out of the library, down the halls, through the courtyard—heart hammering, legs burning, run run run—
She didn’t know where she was going. She only knew she had to move. Had to escape.
Because she had been so foolish.
Letting herself want , letting herself hope —what a pathetic, wretched thing. She had known better. She had always known.
No one was supposed to know.
No one was supposed to see her.
“ Elphaba! ”
Galinda’s voice rang out, sharp and close .
Too close.
Elphaba stumbled, her hands catching against the door for their dorm, breath ragged in her throat.
Nowhere to run.
Galinda reached her in a rush of motion and fury, curls wild, chest heaving. “You—absolute— idiot —”
Elphaba flinched.
There it was. The rejection, the disgust, the—
But then Galinda was grabbing her , hands fisting in the sleeves of her coat, shaking her like she could rattle the self-loathing straight out of her bones.
“You thought I wouldn’t want this?” Galinda’s voice cracked, raw, desperate. “You thought I wouldn’t want you? ”
Elphaba’s lungs seized.
“I—” The word strangled itself before it could form.
Galinda’s grip softened—just barely. Her hands, trembling, slid up, brushed against the sharp planes of Elphaba’s face, cradled her like something delicate.
“Elphie,” she whispered, oh so softly .
And Elphaba shattered.
Galinda kissed her.
And Elphaba let herself fall.
Elphaba had spent years dreaming of escape.
Of vanishing into the background, into shadow, into silence. Of being nothing, because nothing couldn’t be hated .
She had never once dreamed of this.
Of warmth, of softness, of a touch so tender it made her want to shatter.
But Galinda was touching her now, fingers brushing over Elphaba’s cheek like she was something precious, like she was something that could be touched. Her breath ghosted over Elphaba’s lips, close enough to taste, close enough to undo her entirely.
Galinda moved slowly—achingly, devastatingly slow—as if giving Elphaba every chance to run.
Elphaba stayed.
And then— oh.
Galinda kissed her like a sunrise, like a promise, like she had all the time in the world.
Elphaba felt herself crumble.
She had spent so long convincing herself she was unlovable, that the world had been built to reject her. And yet here Galinda was, tilting her head, pressing in like she wanted more, like she had been waiting for this.
Galinda sighed against her lips, something sweet and aching, and Elphaba nearly fell apart.
She reached out, grasping for something, anything to ground herself, and found Galinda’s waist—warm, real, here.
Galinda smiled into her mouth, impossibly soft.
“See?” she whispered, pressing their foreheads together. “You deserve this.”
Elphaba’s throat tightened.
“You deserve me. ”
And then she kissed her again, slow and certain , like she had always known.