The note didn't leave Eli's mind. Not during first period. Not when the teacher asked a question and everyone turned toward him like he was invisible. Not even during lunch, where he stared at his tray without touching it — again.
Someone knew.
But who?
He tried to act normal, but his eyes kept flicking to the people around him. The hallway felt smaller today. The sounds sharper. Everyone seemed too loud, too fake, too interested in things that didn't matter.
And for the first time, he looked at his friends with something other than distance — he looked at them with suspicion.
Could it have been them?No.They never really paid attention. Right?
But then... there was Mia.
She was the only person who had ever gotten close enough to maybe see what he was hiding. She had asked questions before — soft ones, the kind that waited patiently for answers. She noticed when he zoned out. She sent him playlists at night, telling him which songs reminded her of him. She once said, "You always seem like you're holding something in, like your lungs aren't allowed to fully breathe."
That sentence had lived rent-free in his mind for weeks.
He didn't want to doubt her. But now, he couldn't help it.
When they met, it wasn't anything cinematic. No accidental shoulder bump or dramatic rescue. It was quiet — just like him.
Two semesters ago, they'd been paired for a literature project. She had this soft way of talking that made everything feel less awkward. She'd complimented his handwriting, even though he thought it looked like it belonged to someone who never meant to be seen.
After class, she'd walked beside him in the hallway and asked, "Do you always stay so quiet or just when you're forced to talk to people?"
He didn't answer.
But the next day, she offered him half of her cookie and said, "I'm not trying to fix you. I just think you're interesting."
And somehow, that was enough to keep him from walking away.
From there, things moved. Slowly. Comfortably. She never pried, and he never offered. Their conversations stayed on the surface — music, movies, observations about people they both pretended not to know. And that worked. Until now.
Now… there was a note. And someone knew too much.
After school, they met at their usual spot under the old bleachers behind the gym. Mia smiled when she saw him, leaned against the railing, and handed him a drink.
"You look like you haven't slept in a week," she said playfully.
Eli forced a small grin. "Didn't realize my face was giving that much away."
"Everything gives you away, Eli. You're like a puzzle with the pieces halfway falling out."
He stiffened a little.
There it was again — her way of saying too much without sounding like it.
He turned the drink in his hand and asked, too casually, "You ever go through my stuff?"
She blinked, caught off-guard. "Your stuff? Like… what kind of stuff?"
"I don't know. My bag. My notebook maybe."
She narrowed her eyes. "No? Why would I? What's going on?"
He shrugged and looked away. "Nothing. Just… forget it."
But she didn't.
She stared at him for a long moment. "Eli, if you're scared to talk to me, that's fine. But don't turn me into someone I'm not."
His chest tightened. Her words hit like guilt.
Still… someone wrote that note.
And the only person who'd ever gotten close enough to read between his lines was standing right in front of him, hurt flickering across her face.
That night, he opened his notebook again. No new entry. Just the note, folded at the back.
"You think no one sees you. But someone does. Keep writing."
He stared at those words for a long time before scribbling in the margin:
"Trust isn't hard because of betrayal. Trust is hard because silence doesn't leave evidence."