I walk into the creative writing classroom. Late.

Everyone’s already sitting, heads down, scribbling or pretending to. The teacher—a sub, I think, definitely not someone who knows my name—looks up and gestures toward the only empty seat.

“Logan, right? Grab a spot next to Eli.”

Eli. Hoodie up. Head down. Totally absorbed in whatever he’s drawing in that beat-up sketchbook. Doesn’t even look at me when I sit down. Just keeps his pencil moving like I’m not there.

Cool.

“Hey,” I say, trying to keep it casual.

Nothing.

I glance over. He’s sketching—really sketching. Not doodles. This is… good. Way better than I expected from some quiet kid in the back row.

The teacher clears her throat. “You and your partners will be working together on a semester-long project. Storytelling. Real, personal writing. Honest stuff.”

I sigh and slouch back in my chair.

So much for easy.

The teacher drones on about deadlines and word counts, but I’ve already tuned her out. I’m too busy wondering how I got stuck with the one kid who might actually be allergic to eye contact.

Eli’s still sketching, pencil flying across the page like the rest of us don’t exist. I glance over again. It’s a forest now—trees twisted with sharp, jagged branches, shadows curling at the edges of the paper. There’s something alive in it. Angry, maybe. Or scared.

“You always draw like that?” I ask, leaning in a little.

He flinches. Barely. But it’s there.

“Like what?” he says without looking up.

I shrug. “Like it’s the only thing keeping you from exploding.”

This time he does look up. Just for a second. His eyes are a pale gray-blue, stormy. There’s a flicker of something—surprise? Annoyance? Whatever it is, it’s gone as fast as it came.

“I guess,” he mutters, and goes back to drawing.

I sit back, chewing on the inside of my cheek. I’m not great with quiet people. I’m used to banter, noise, filling space. Eli doesn’t leave room for any of that. Just silence and lines on paper.

The teacher finishes her speech and hands out some vague project brief: Write something together. Something real. Use your voice.

“Awesome,” I mumble under my breath.

Eli slides the paper to his side of the desk without a word.

“Okay,” I say, trying again. “So… what do you want to write about?”

He looks at me like I’ve asked him to name all his secrets out loud.

“I don’t know,” he says finally. “You’re the one who talks.”

I huff out a laugh. “Right. Talking. That’s my specialty.”

Eli doesn’t smile, but his pencil stills for a beat, like maybe he almost did.

When the bell rings, Eli’s already halfway to the door before I’ve packed up my stuff. No goodbye, no see-you-later. Just gone.

I sling my backpack over my shoulder and sigh.

This project’s gonna suck.

But for some reason, I can’t stop thinking about the sketch of the forest. About how his hand moved like it knew something mine didn’t.