I shouldn’t have laughed.

I know that the second Eli walks past me without slowing down.

It wasn’t even about him—Marcus just said something dumb, and I laughed to keep it easy. To keep it normal. To keep it light.

But Eli doesn’t know that.

Or maybe he does—and that’s worse.

I don’t even remember what class I’m walking to until I’m already in the room. Second period. Mr. G’s class. Creative writing.

Of course.

I take my seat. The notebook’s still in my bag. I touch it like it’s going to explain how to fix this.

The bell rings. The door opens again.

It’s not Eli.

He must’ve taken the long way. Or maybe he’s skipping. I don’t know. I don’t know anything, suddenly.

I hate that one look can throw me off like this.

I hate that he looked at me like I was someone else.

I take out the notebook and flip to a clean page.

And I write:

He watched the boy walk past without looking.
He wanted to say, “Wait. That’s not what I meant.”
But the boy didn’t stop.
And the forest was quiet again.

I stare at it. I don’t cross it out.

When Eli finally walks in—five minutes late, head down, sketchbook hugged tight—I don’t know what to do.

So I slide the notebook toward the middle of the table.

Just far enough that he can take it, if he wants.