"Ahhhh... That was refreshing." Colette said as she dried her messy white locks on a towel.

She had just put on a fresh set of pajamas, now clean and tidy after a shower. She absolutely needed one after rummaging through a dumpster in torn up clothes. After hanging her towel on its rack, Colette walked into her room. The place was a collage of chaos. Her pink walls were graffitied with countless posters and stolen pictures. A mountain of plushies sat on her bed which showed evidence of not being changed in a few weeks. Her closet was open, revealing her array of uniforms, her Trixie costume that she wore on Halloween, and a dress that suspiciously looked like the one Piper always wears. Heart stickers littered her walls and floor, which in itself was a shaggy carpet. Her room wasn't exactly the biggest, with the main feature being her desk, a station littered with brawler paraphernalia. Figurines sat on its shelf, accompanied by a collection of books all about Starr Park. Her chair was clearly stolen from the place, along with a cup full of pens. A poorly built clay sculpture of Colt sat next to a table lamp designed after Mr. P. A few band posters were above it too. After drying her hair, Colette excitedly rushed towards her new items that sat on her desk. She enthusiastically picked them out one by one, sorting them into jars marked with the names of the brawlers. She kept these jars in drawers under her desk, with some a bit empty after putting them into her massive scrapbook. Eventually she got to the crumpled letter.

"R-right, that..." she sighed, clearly disturbed, unusual for the ever creepy Colette.

She shined her lamp on it and began reading the chaotic penmanship.

Dear Colette,

It's only been a few months after (since) I started working here, but I've been feeling "funny" lately. You see, despite this world of colors within the starry gates, I live in a monochrome universe. Everything to me was black and white, with only a few things initiating (burning?) red, making my fists itch to lash out. The beast inside of my hollow heart is violent, yearning for the thrill of action. However, it craves something new now, something vibrant. Something weird and chaotic. Colette, I can't stand that you're so loud and expressive. Your devilish voice always at eleven, your eerie gaze seeing through thick concrete, your smile a picture perfect representation of your fiery soul. Your passion for these misfits is almost contagious. You love your position here in the gift shop, but your love for brawlers bends the rules set for you. Your cursed book of memorabilia is like a shelf of trophies or lockets of memories. The way your eyes shine and your face lifts when you tell me all about them, your laugh causes a sensation within me. It isn't like the fear cowards feel, but a charm within my heart. My poor chest aches at your sight, tightens at your voice, cries at the thought of you. My heart is tainted black like my dreary head as opposed to your vibrant white. Your heart is filled with passion. With Piper, Colt, Spike... I hope one day, with me too.

"Love, Edgar..." she finishes. "Hm..."

The white haired girl sat in silence after exposing herself to her co-worker's true feelings. That Edgar? The gloomy distant Edgar? The short tempered violent Edgar? The mopey emo Edgar? The lonely silent Edgar? Him? She still couldn't believe it.

Colette neatly folded the note and left it on her desk as she went off to bed. In her head she continued to mope in denial. There's no way he would write all that, it's too "flowery" to have been him, but she couldn't deny that penmanship. After all, she has a page on her scrapbook with his signature as proof. She clutched her worn beloved Spike plush as she continued to stare at the ceiling. She was anxious.

"Oh jeez..."