Logan taps his pen against his notebook. Not fast. Not impatient. Just steady. Rhythmic.

The assignment this time is a collaborative short story. We’re supposed to “blend our voices” and “build off each other’s ideas.” The teacher says it like it’s exciting.

To me, it sounds like a trap.

I keep my eyes on my sketchbook, where I’m shading in the folds of a cloaked figure—face hidden, back turned. Safe.

“You don’t like talking,” Logan says suddenly.

It’s not a question.

I glance at him, then down again. “Not really.”

He nods, like that’s all he needed to know. Then he pulls a thin, lined notebook from his bag and slides it between us on the desk.

“How about we write in this?” he says. “You do a page. I’ll do a page. No pressure to say anything out loud.”

I blink.

It’s not a bad idea.

“You’re okay with that?” I ask.

He shrugs. “It’s still writing. Teacher said it just has to be ‘collaborative.’ Doesn’t say how.”

I stare at the notebook. The cover’s plain—gray, with a faint coffee stain near the edge. His name’s scribbled inside, messy and fast.

He offers me the pen.

I hesitate. Then take it.

_____________

Later that night, I’m sitting on my bed, the notebook open in my lap.

I told myself I’d just do a paragraph.

But one turned into two.

Then three.

Now the page is full.

It’s not great. It’s weird and metaphor-heavy and kind of sad. But it’s real. And it’s mine.

At the bottom, I write:

“Your turn. Don’t ruin it.”

And close the book.