I get to class early.

I don’t know why. Habit, maybe. Or maybe because I actually want to see what Eli writes next.

He’s already there, sketchbook in his lap, same hoodie, same slouched posture. But when I sit down, something’s different.

He doesn’t flinch.

He doesn’t say anything either. But still—that’s progress.

I pull the notebook out of my bag and slide it toward him.

He doesn’t reach for it right away. Just glances at it. Then at me.

“I liked what you wrote,” he says, so quiet I almost don’t catch it.

I blink.

“You did?”

He nods once, eyes back on his sketchbook. “You could’ve made the character a jerk. Or saved the day. You didn’t.”

I shrug. “Didn’t feel like he needed saving. Just… company.”

Eli’s pencil stills. Then he flips to a new page and starts sketching again—something round this time, like a stone or maybe a planet.

“Do people usually get you?” I ask before I can stop myself.

He glances up.

“No,” he says simply. “But I stopped expecting that a long time ago.”

That lands harder than I expect. I don’t know what to say to it, so I just nod.

“I don’t get you either,” I admit. “But I’m trying.”

Eli doesn’t smile. Not exactly. But something loosens around his shoulders.He reaches for the notebook and flips to a blank page.

“Your character should have a name,” he says, like we’ve been doing this for years.

I smirk. “Only if yours gets one too.”

We don’t figure out the names that day. But we start talking.

Not much. Not deep. But enough.