The First Note
It started small.
In English class, Jayden was doodling in the margins of his worksheet when he felt something slip under his elbow. A folded scrap of notebook paper.
He glanced around — Marcus and the other kids were too busy joking in the back. He unfolded it quietly.
Inside, in quick handwriting:
"Still mad at you. But less than before. – T"
A corner of his mouth twitched. Not a smile exactly, but close.
He tore a piece from his own notebook, scribbled:
"Fair. I deserve that. – J"
When the teacher turned to the board, he slid it across the desk to Tasha. She read it, bit her lip to hide a grin, then tucked it into her book.
For the rest of class, the weight in his chest felt a little lighter.
---
Passing Words
The notes continued. Not every day, but often enough to matter.
"Math test sucks. Bet you'll just draw through it."
"At least I don't fall asleep in history."
Some were jokes, some were short confessions.
"I hate weekends. Too quiet at home."
"I hate mornings. Too loud here."
The scraps piled up in his pocket until he had a small stack hidden under his mattress at the group home. Words on lined paper, fragile proof that someone was reaching for him in a world that mostly pushed him away.
---
The Sketch
One afternoon, during art class, Tasha slid him a folded sheet.
When he opened it, his breath caught.
She'd drawn him — sitting at his desk, hood up, pencil in hand. The lines were loose but clear. And across the top, she'd written: "You look more alive when you're drawing."
He didn't know what to do with the warmth that spread through him. Nobody had ever noticed him that way before.
He grabbed his own sketchbook, tore a page, and sketched her profile — head tilted down, focused, strands of hair falling in front of her face. Beneath it, he wrote: "You look more free when you're not pretending."
When she read it, she didn't laugh or tease. She just looked at him for a long moment, something unreadable in her eyes, before tucking it gently into her notebook.
---
The Group Home Interruption
That night, back at the home, Terrence noticed Jayden slipping papers into his pocket.
"What you hiding, Scrap?" he asked, trying to grab at him.
Jayden shoved past him, heart pounding. He didn't want Terrence's hands on those notes. They weren't just scraps of paper — they were his lifeline.
Later, when the dorm went quiet, Jayden pulled the stack from under his mattress and read through them again by the light of the lamp. The words steadied him. Reminded him that he wasn't just a file in a cabinet. Someone was listening. Someone saw him.
For the first time in weeks, he fell asleep without the ache of loneliness clawing at his chest.
---
Between the Lines
In the days that followed, he started noticing more.
The way Tasha tapped her pen when she was nervous. The way her laugh came out quick but disappeared just as fast, like she was afraid to take up too much space.
And maybe she noticed things about him, too.
That he always chewed the inside of his cheek when he was holding back anger. That his sketches weren't just random — they were pieces of his story he couldn't say out loud.
The notes weren't just jokes anymore. They were a language.
Between the lines, they were saying: I see you. I get you. You're not alone.
---
That night, Jayden wrote one more line in his sketchbook before bed:
Words on paper don't lie the way people do.