Chapter 2: The Guy With the Sketchpad
765 Words
Eliana wasn’t used to feeling watched—not in the way the letters made her feel.
Not uncomfortable. Not afraid. Just… seen.
It was weird. She kept replaying the words in her head all weekend. She’d fold and unfold the second letter like it held some secret she hadn’t figured out yet. There was no signature, no initials, just words full of gentle honesty. She even caught herself memorizing the handwriting. She didn’t want to admit it, but a part of her hoped another note would come.
On Tuesday, it didn’t.
And that disappointed her more than it should have.
She sat through her literature lecture distracted, barely taking notes. When class ended, she didn’t head to the library right away like usual. She grabbed coffee from the student center, then lingered near the courtyard, watching students pass. She wasn’t sure what she was waiting for—maybe a sign, or maybe courage.
Eventually, she made her way up the familiar stairs to the second floor of the library. Same window seat. Same afternoon sun slanting through the glass.
No note this time.
But he was there.
The guy with the sketchpad. Curly dark hair, black hoodie, jeans slightly frayed at the hem. He sat three tables away, back slightly hunched, pencil gliding across the page like it had a mind of its own.
Eliana kept glancing over her book, trying to look casual.
She didn’t know his name. He’d been in her creative writing elective last semester, always sitting in the back. He barely spoke in class, but once he’d read a short piece during a peer review session—a quiet story about a boy who built birdhouses and didn’t know how to ask for help. She remembered thinking it was oddly beautiful.
And now she wondered—could it be him?
She caught herself staring too long. He didn’t look up. Just kept drawing.
After an hour of pretending to read and sneakily watching, she finally packed up her bag. As she stood, her heart did something strange. It pushed her.
So instead of walking straight out, she circled behind his table.
She paused when she reached him. “Hey.”
He looked up, startled.
His eyes were soft brown, like pages of a worn book.
“Oh. Hi,” he said, blinking quickly.
She hesitated. “Sorry to bother you. I just… I’ve seen you around a lot.”
He gave a small nod. “Yeah, same.”
“Do you… do you leave notes?” she asked.
His brow furrowed. “Notes?”
Her stomach dropped.
“I mean,” she scrambled, “it’s probably nothing. Just—never mind.”
He looked at her a moment longer, then smiled, kind but confused. “No notes. Just sketches.”
She nodded, heart sinking. “Okay. Sorry. Wrong person.”
“No worries,” he said gently. “Hope you find whoever it is.”
Eliana left, cheeks burning. She felt ridiculous.
That night, she told Maria what happened.
“So it’s not sketchpad guy,” Maria said, flopping onto the bed. “That narrows it down… kind of.”
“Unless he’s lying.”
“Maybe. Or maybe it’s someone you wouldn’t expect.”
“That helps,” Eliana said, rolling her eyes.
Maria grinned. “Look, it could be romantic. Or weird. But either way, someone out there thinks you’re worth noticing. That’s… kind of rare.”
Eliana didn’t respond right away.
It was rare. And that was the part that scared her.
Because what if the letters stopped? What if it really was just two random notes and now it was over?
What if no one noticed her at all?
The next morning, she arrived at the library early.
Her usual spot was empty.
And there, sitting on the chair, taped under the edge of the table, was a small folded note.
Her breath caught.
She slid into the seat and opened it quickly, hands trembling.
I saw you look around yesterday. I thought maybe you’d stopped caring. But then you came back, and you were searching. I didn’t leave a note because I panicked. I’m not used to being brave. But thank you for still showing up.
And no—it’s not the guy with the sketchpad.
I sit somewhere else. But I watch quietly.
You’re not invisible.
— Still Just Someone Who Notices.
Eliana stared at the page, heart thudding, a slow smile forming.
He was still out there.
And now, she knew for sure—this wasn’t just a coincidence.
It was becoming something real.
- Writer
