Eli slides into his seat like he’s trying to disappear into it. Doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t look at the notebook, either.

He opens his sketchbook and starts drawing—not the kind that fills a page, just the kind that lets his pencil move so he doesn’t have to speak.

Mr. G is talking about metaphors or something, but I’m not listening. I can feel Eli next to me like a static charge. Present but out of reach.

The notebook’s still there. Still open. Still waiting.

Finally, halfway through the period, he reaches for it.

No eye contact.

Just a hand. A turn of the page. His pencil pauses for a second when he sees what I wrote.

Then he writes something underneath it:

“He thought maybe the forest wasn’t quiet.
Maybe it was holding its breath.”

I read it once. Twice.

I look over.

He still doesn’t look at me, but the corner of his mouth twitches—barely. Almost nothing.

But I see it.

And it’s enough.

I write back:

“He wanted to say: ‘I didn’t mean it like that.’
But maybe this was better.”

Eli underlines the last part. Better.

Mr. G calls out a prompt. Something about writing from a memory. Half the class groans. I don’t. Eli doesn’t either.

He finally glances at me—just once—and for a second, we’re back in the library again. No crowd. No noise. Just the space we make between pages.

He passes the notebook back, and we both start to write.