I stare at my phone way longer than I should before I finally type it.

Logan:

You doing anything?

It takes five minutes for the three dots to appear. Then disappear. Then appear again.

Eli:

Like ever? Or right now?

I laugh. Out loud.

Logan:

Right now. Chill. Not a deep question.

Eli:

Drawing.

Logan:

Want to meet up?

This time the pause is longer. I almost start typing again, just to fill the silence. But then:

Eli:

Where?

⸻

I’m already at a table in the back when Eli walks in. He spots me instantly, but takes his time getting over—like he’s not sure if this is real or a setup or some weird prank.

“It’s safe,” I say as he sits. “No one else from school around. Swear.”

He sets his sketchbook down but doesn’t open it. Neither do I.

For a few minutes, we just sit.

It’s quiet here, but not silent. Pages turning. Chairs shifting. The kind of calm that makes you want to whisper even if no one’s around.

Eventually, I pull the notebook from my backpack.

“I added another scene,” I say. “But it’s… different.”

He opens it. Reads.

I watch him, trying to guess what he thinks by the way his eyes flick, the way his mouth tightens just slightly at the corners.

“You wrote in second person,” he says finally.

“Yeah. I wanted it to feel closer.”

He doesn’t respond right away, but he flips the page and writes something beneath it.

When he passes it back, I read:

“Closer works.”

We don’t talk about what that means.

We just sit there, two kids in a library on a Saturday, sharing silence and words on a page.

And for the first time in a long time, I feel like maybe this thing—whatever it is—is becoming something real.

-——————————

I stare at Eli’s words on the page.

Closer works.

He doesn’t look at me when I read it. Just keeps his pencil in hand, tapping it lightly against the edge of his sketchbook. Like he didn’t just say something small and massive at the same time.

I nod. Quietly.

“Cool,” I say, because I don’t know how to say thanks for letting me in.

He doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t close the notebook either. He slides it back to me and nudges it a little with his fingers. An invitation.

So I write.

Not the story this time.

Just a line beneath his:

“You make it easier.”

I glance up after I write it.

Eli reads it. Stills.

Then flips to a blank page in his sketchbook, and for a while, all I hear is pencil on paper. Scratch-scratch, pause. Scratch-scratch. I stay quiet, pretending I’m scrolling my phone, but really I’m just listening.

After maybe ten minutes, he turns the sketchbook toward me.

It’s not finished. Rough lines. But it’s me—I can tell. Sitting at this exact table, head tilted toward a notebook. Not smiling, but not tense. Just… open.

It’s the first time I’ve seen myself that way.

“I didn’t ruin it,” I say quietly.

He shakes his head. “Not even close.”

We sit like that for a while. No rush. No rules. Just shared space, filling up with the kind of quiet that means something.

And when we finally pack up to go, he lets me carry the notebook this time.