The city feels different the next morning. Lighter, somehow, like the sun got tired of hiding behind the clouds and decided to show off for once. Even the pigeons look smug.
I can't stop thinking about last night—about standing barefoot in the street, heart hammering, while a boy with cigarette-stained fingers barely noticed I was alive. I should be humiliated, but every time I replay it, I catch myself grinning like an idiot.
Janelle notices at breakfast.
"You look weirdly happy. Did you actually get laid at that bar?"
I snort. "You wish."
She arches a brow, unconvinced, but lets it go. I barely hear Tara rambling about her crush from physics. All I can think about is the way the music curled around us in the dark, the way he asked my name, the way his stutter vanished every time he sang.
I walk to class alone, headphones in, letting the city's noise become a soundtrack.
A trumpet solo drifts from a passing car. A busker in the subway tries to play "Blue Moon" but gives up halfway through.
My phone buzzes—a new text from Mom:
"Remember: focus. No more late nights."
I tuck the phone away.
My mind is still at the corner of Bleecker and Sullivan, at the edge of a song I can't let go.
I cut my poetry class. I sit in the park instead, sketchbook balanced on my knees, doodling hands and guitars and the curve of a mouth that never quite smiled.
Suddenly, the wind shifts—a faint thread of music, real this time. I look up.
There he is.
On the opposite bench, same old battered guitar, hood pulled up, cigarette dangling.
He's playing softer now, like the world is a little too bright for him.
I make myself cross the lawn, nerves singing, heart in my throat.
He notices me but doesn't stop playing. His voice is low, a little ragged, every word like a confession he doesn't want to make:
"My funny valentine
Sweet comic valentine
You make me smile with my heart..."
The world drops away. It's just me and him and the song.
The lyric hits me like a dare.
Smile with my heart.
It echoes in my head, clear as a neon sign, bold as a promise.
I don't know if he means it for me—but God, I want it to be true.
He glances up mid-song, catches me watching, and—just for a second—there's the hint of a real smile on his lips.
I press my hand to my chest, not sure if I'm keeping my heart in or trying to set it free.
He finishes the verse, his stutter gone:
"Your looks are laughable
Unphotographable
Yet you're my favorite work of art..."
The last word hangs in the air, impossibly tender, and I swear he's looking right at me when he sings it.
I can't help it.
I'm smiling—with my heart, with my everything.
And this time, I want him to see.
The song fades, the last note hanging on the wind. Eli blinks down at his hands, as if surprised to find the guitar still there.
He lets out a long breath, then starts packing up—guitar in its battered case, crumpled cigarette pack shoved back in his pocket, lighter snapped shut with a practiced flick.
I hesitate, then blurt, "Wait! Um—where are you going?"
He glances over, his gaze hooded, unreadable. He shrugs, voice quiet, half-mumbled:
"C-c-couldn't care less about the weather—n-n-never cared much for the rain."
It hits me a second later.
A lyric. Another song.
He just says it and keeps moving.
I hurry after him, shoes in one hand, sketchbook in the other, heart pounding like I'm about to step off a ledge.
"Can I—" My voice cracks. "Can I walk with you?"
He looks at me for a beat, sizing me up.
His lips twitch like he might say no, but then he shrugs, shoulders slumping a little.
"S-s-sure. Suit y-yourself."
We walk in silence down the edge of the park, gravel crunching underfoot, city noise a distant ocean. I keep glancing sideways, hoping for a sign I'm not just annoying him.
He stops at the curb, waits for a bus to screech past. I watch him, tracing the profile I know by heart now—the sharp jaw, the tired eyes, the way his mouth pulls down at the corners.
Out of nowhere, he mutters,
"Y-y-you know, I g-g-get along without you v-v-very well...of course I do."
He's not even looking at me when he says it. He lights another cigarette, eyes on the ground, and I realize he probably doesn't even know he's quoting again.
I want to ask why. I want to say something that will make him stay, make him care, make him see me.
But all I can do is walk beside him, hoping that somehow, the right lyric will finally be about me.
We fall into step. Eli's stride is longer than mine—he always looks like he's either late for something or running from it. I have to half-jog to keep up, my curls bouncing, shoes swinging from my fingers. He doesn't seem to notice. Or maybe he just doesn't care.
"Do you always quote Chet Baker?" I ask, half-teasing, hoping to break the ice.
He barely glances at me. "H-h-heard th-th-that before. D-d-don't mean t-t-t'do it. J-j-jazz stuck in m-m-my head, I guess."
I can't help grinning. "You could have worse things stuck in there."
He shrugs. "C-c-could have nothin'. Lotta people do."
A pigeon startles up from the curb, and I trip over a loose bit of sidewalk. My sketchbook nearly flies into the gutter. Eli snorts—almost a laugh, or maybe just an exhale.
"Y-y-you all right?"
"Just my dignity," I mutter, cheeks burning.
He takes a drag from his cigarette, not offering a hand, just watching me dust myself off with a kind of lazy curiosity.
"You d-d-draw all the time?"
I nod, feeling braver. "Yeah. Comics, mostly. Cartoons, some portraits. People don't really get it."
He shrugs again, eyes on the skyline. "P-p-people don't gotta g-g-get it. S-s-some things just n-n-need to be."
It's strangely comforting. I hug my sketchbook to my chest, watching as we pass a florist, the smell of wet petals mixing with cigarette smoke.
"Do you ever draw?" I blurt, instantly regretting it.
He shakes his head, lighting another cigarette off the old one, hands steady for once.
"J-j-just music. S-s-smoke and s-s-song. That's all."
The silence settles between us, thick and not entirely uncomfortable. It's the city kind of silence—full of things that want to be said but don't quite make it out.
He flicks his cigarette, then glances sideways at me.
"Y-y-you always t-t-talk this much?"
I laugh, startled. "Only when I'm nervous. Or bored. Or...whatever this is."
He lets the hint of a smile slip, lips twitching before he pulls them back tight.
"You d-d-don't s-s-seem b-b-boring."
I grin, heart fluttering. "You don't seem boring either. Just—"
He finishes for me, deadpan: "W-w-weird as f-f-fuck?"
I choke on a laugh. "Yeah. That."
He stops at the edge of a crosswalk, lets the traffic roll by. I notice the little things—the fraying at his sleeve, the way he pushes his hair out of his eyes with a flick that's almost delicate. His face is sharp, haunted, but up close, there's something sweet in the way he blinks, like he's always a little surprised to find himself here.
"Why do you play out here?" I ask softly. "Doesn't anyone ever...listen?"
He shrugs, eyes distant.
"J-j-jazz ain't for l-l-l-listenin'. S-s-some people are j-j-j-just noise in the crowd."
He's quoting again, I realize, and this time he doesn't even bother to hide it.
The light changes. He starts to cross, and I hurry to keep up, every step buzzing with questions I don't know how to ask.
At the other side, he stops, stares at the traffic, then finally says,
"You g-g-gonna keep f-f-followin' me, or you g-g-got somewhere t-t-t'be?"
I freeze, smile crooked, fighting the urge to bolt. "Honestly? I don't know."
He snorts, finally looking me in the eye.
"W-w-welcome to the c-c-club, Cookie."
We walk on, the city bright and ugly and beautiful all at once, two weirdos lost in a jazz song no one else can hear.
We walk side by side, the city flickering around us—traffic, laughter, a dog barking on a balcony overhead.
I try to swallow my nerves, glancing sideways at him, searching for any opening.
He pulls out his phone, frowns at the cracked screen, then jams it back in his pocket.
I clear my throat.
"So..." My voice comes out too high, so I cough and try again. "Do you...want to get coffee?"
He doesn't even slow down. "N-n-no t-t-thanks."
I stumble a little to keep pace. "Are you sure? There's a place two blocks from here. It's not fancy, but—"
He shakes his head, shoving his hands deep in his jacket.
"G-g-gotta get home. T-t-trains suck at night."
"Maybe just for a few minutes? My treat."
He looks at me like I've offered him a root canal.
"S-s-some other t-t-time, maybe."
I almost give up.
Then, as if the city is on my side for once, the subway speakers screech from down the block:
"Attention passengers, due to a mechanical issue, all downtown trains are delayed. Estimated wait time: fifty minutes."
Eli lets out a noise that's half a laugh, half a curse. He glances at the station, then at me, resigned.
I can't help smiling. "Guess the universe wants you to have coffee with me."
He groans. "F-f-fucking hate the universe."
But he stops walking, shuffles his feet, and finally shrugs, shoulders slouched in surrender.
"F-f-fine. One c-c-cup. Don't m-m-make it weird."
I nearly skip, but settle for a grin. "No promises."
We find the coffee shop—a tiny hole-in-the-wall, all steamed windows and chipped mugs, jazz on a tinny radio. The barista barely looks up as we slide into a cracked vinyl booth.
Eli sinks into his seat, pulling off his jacket. Up close, he looks even older than I thought—not just in years, but in the tired way he rubs at his eyes. I wonder how old he really is. Twenty-four? Twenty-six? There's something unplaceable about him—an old soul and a kid at the same time.
The waitress appears. "What'll it be?"
Eli orders black coffee, no sugar, staring at the table while he says it. I order the same, just to make it easier.
Silence stretches. I tuck my sketchbook beside me, fighting the urge to fill the air with words.
He taps his chipped mug when it arrives, then finally mutters,
"S-s-so, C-c-cookie. W-what's your deal?"
My laugh comes out surprised. "My deal? What do you mean?"
He lifts a brow, smirks just a little.
"G-g-girls don't usually f-f-follow me around. 'S a f-f-funny valentine thing."
He's quoting again. I catch it, and he notices me noticing. His ears go a little pink.
I tease him. "Maybe I'm just really into tragic jazz guys with a nicotine problem."
He snorts, finally meeting my eyes. "T-t-tragic, huh? You d-d-don't know me."
"Not yet," I say, bolder than I feel.
A beat passes, and for once, his stare softens—just a crack, but it's there.
He sips his coffee, grimaces. "T-t-tastes like burnt shit."
I grin. "It's New York. If you want fancy, you're in the wrong city."
He lets out a low laugh, shaking his head. "D-d-don't mind burnt. J-j-just mind c-c-company."
Ouch. But it's deadpan, not mean. I bite back a comeback, drumming my fingers on the table.
He catches me watching. "S-s-seriously. Why m-m-me?"
I go for the truth, messy and all.
"You play songs like you're telling secrets. I wanted to hear one up close."
He sits back, staring, lips parted just a bit—caught off guard for the first time.
And for a second, I swear he almost smiles with his heart.
The booth is so tight our knees almost bump. Eli stares into his mug, steam curling around his chin. The city outside is all yellow cabs and streaks of neon, but in here, the world feels soft and suspended.
I can't help myself. "You know you quote old jazz lyrics a lot, right?"
He doesn't look up. Just takes a sip, shrugs—barely more than a twitch. If he heard me, he isn't letting on.
I watch him, searching for a crack in his armor. "Do you, like...do that on purpose?"
Another sip, another shrug. He drums his fingers once on the Formica, then lets his hand fall still. Silence.
I try again, voice softer. "I just—I noticed, is all. I like it."
This time he glances at me, just a flicker, unreadable. Then he turns his gaze out the window, jaw tight, refusing to take the bait.
I sigh, pushing a napkin in nervous little folds. "You're kind of impossible, you know that?"
No answer. But the corner of his mouth pulls up, just a little.
He leans back, stretching his arms overhead, shirt pulling up to reveal a flash of sharp hipbone, a dark bruise. He doesn't care who sees.
I try not to stare, try not to blush.
"So...do you live around here?"
A long pause. Then he nods. "F-f-for now."
"You always this mysterious, or just with strangers?"
He smirks, finally meeting my eyes, and for a second his stutter vanishes.
"D-d-don't need to be understood. 'S just n-n-noise."
I blink. "That's...kinda sad."
He shrugs, returns to his coffee.
I swallow, pushing for something more, heart racing. "I'm not trying to make noise. I just—I like the way you play. I like the way you look at the world."
Eli sets his mug down, hard enough to make it rattle. He leans in, eyes dark and tired, searching my face for something.
For a moment, I almost think he'll say something real. Instead, he breathes out slow, sits back, and traces a circle on the table with his fingertip.
I bite my lip, let the silence settle. He's not uncomfortable. He's just...quiet, intense, in his own orbit.
Finally, he jerks his chin toward my sketchbook. "D-d-draw me?"
It feels like a challenge and an invitation. My heart leaps.
"Yeah," I breathe, "I want to."
He nods once, slow and sure.
Then he leans back, eyes half-closed, and waits for me to begin.
I pull out my sketchbook and click my favorite pen—black, inky, the kind that always stains my fingers.
Eli sits back, arms folded, chin up like he's on trial. The streetlamp outside flickers against his jaw, sharpening the hollows of his cheeks.
He doesn't pose; he just exists. Like he's letting the city draw him, not me.
I start with the strong lines—his nose, the bow of his mouth, the way his hair falls in half-wet tangles across his forehead.
I look up, then down, then up again, desperate to capture that particular shadow under his eyes, the tired defiance of his jaw.
Eli is quiet. He barely blinks.
Sometimes he glances at the window, sometimes at his chipped mug. Then, slowly, his gaze drifts down—to me.
More specifically: to my chest.
I freeze, pen hovering mid-stroke.
His eyes are absolutely unashamed, tracking the line of my dress, then meeting my gaze, deadpan as ever.
"Uh...enjoying the view?" I try, half-laughing, half-daring him to get embarrassed.
He doesn't. He just shrugs, the smallest flicker of a smirk ghosting over his mouth.
"S'there," he says simply, as if it's the weather.
My cheeks burn. I force myself to keep drawing, but my heart is beating like mad.
I try to get revenge by sketching his mouth a little too soft, exaggerating his frown lines.
He notices, lips twitching, but says nothing.
The air between us hums—awkward, hot, hilarious. Every few seconds, I feel his eyes wandering back to my chest, then up to my eyes, then out the window as if nothing happened.
"Could you, um...maybe sit up straighter?" I ask, just to break the tension.
He rolls his eyes, stretches, leans forward—and his shirt rides up again, showing another sliver of pale skin and the sharp line of his hip.
He catches me looking.
He doesn't smirk, doesn't tease—just gives a slow, pointed eyebrow raise, like: Yeah, you see something you like too?
We're both caught, neither of us willing to blink first.
Finally, I finish the sketch, flipping the pad so only he can see.
He leans in, studying it for a long, silent beat.
"D-d-do I r-r-really look that pissed off?"
I snort. "Only about eighty percent of the time."
He sniffs, lips twitching. "B-b-better than l-l-looking d-d-dumb."
"You don't look dumb," I say, too honest.
He looks at me, really looks—unflinching, searching, as if he wants to see what I'll do next.
A slow, silent moment.
Then Eli stands, shoves his hands in his pockets, and mutters,
"G-g-gotta go. Trains should be running."
I swallow, both relieved and disappointed.
"Will I see you again?" I blurt.
He pauses, turns, and—deadpan, soft—quotes one last line, stutter blending into lyric so smooth I almost miss it:
"Time after time."
And he's gone, leaving nothing behind but the aftertaste of burnt coffee, the curve of his mouth in my sketchbook, and a stupid, stubborn smile in my heart.