Across the Hall

Chapter Three: Words Between Us

At first, working together was awkward. Mia was used to leading group projects. Liam was used to working alone. He rarely spoke unless spoken to, and when he did, his voice was soft—like he was still learning how to trust it. But as the days passed, something shifted. He listened. Really listened. He didn’t just nod along when she talked; he asked thoughtful questions. He didn’t laugh the loudest, but when he did, it felt real. And Mia noticed how his sketches seemed to capture things she didn’t think anyone else saw—the nervous twist of her hair around her finger, the slope of her shoulders when she thought no one was watching.

One afternoon, as they sat in the school library working on their project, she peeked at his sketchpad. And her breath caught. There, on the page, was a drawing of a girl walking through a hallway. Head tilted slightly, expression unreadable, hair catching imaginary sunlight. It was unmistakably her. She looked at him. “You drew me?” He didn’t deny it. He only said, “You looked like someone worth drawing.”

It was a Friday when it rained. They had stayed late after class, finishing up the last touches of their project. Everyone else had gone home. Mia hadn’t brought an umbrella, but Liam had. Without a word, he opened it and held it above her head. They walked slowly, side by side, their steps matching in rhythm. “I used to think love was distracting,” Mia murmured. “Something you didn’t have time for in high school.” Liam smiled faintly. “Me too.” They stopped at the corner where their paths split. The rain softened around them like a curtain of silver threads. “I think I’ve liked you since the first time you walked past my classroom,” Liam said, barely above a whisper. Mia’s heart leapt. It was sudden, and yet—strangely expected. “I think,” she replied, “I’ve been waiting for you to say that.”

Liam had never drawn anyone as much as he drew Mia. He didn’t mean to, not at first. But soon, his sketchpad became a quiet journal of their moments—Mia brushing her hair behind her ear during study period, laughing with her head thrown back under the sun, biting her lip as she solved a tricky equation. Every line he drew felt like a memory. And Mia? She noticed. “You draw like you’re afraid the moment will disappear,” she said one afternoon as they sat on the bleachers behind the gym, sharing cold sodas. “I think I am,” he admitted. She looked at him for a long moment, eyes searching. “You don’t have to be. I’m not going anywhere.”

It was after Liam’s first art exhibit at school. Mia had never seen him so nervous—shirt tucked, hair neatly combed, standing beside his sketches like they were pieces of himself laid bare for the world to judge. She didn’t understand much about shading or composition, but she understood the look in his eyes when he saw her walk in.

And when she reached for his hand—right there in front of his classmates, in front of all the stares—he looked at her like she’d just anchored him to the earth. Later, they sat outside on the pavement beneath the stars, hands still clasped. “You’re really talented, Liam.” He smiled, shy but glowing. “You’re the reason I started drawing again. After Cebu… I stopped for a while.” Mia rested her head on his shoulder. “Then I’m glad I walked past Room 204.”

It was near the end of the school year when the question began to loom: What happens next? Mia was aiming for a university in Manila. Liam, still unsure, had options in Laguna—and part of him wondered if he belonged anywhere at all. They never spoke about it directly, but the thought lingered like a shadow behind every smile, every kiss, every shared note passed in class.

They never said “I love you” in the usual way. Mia said it when she brought him snacks during finals week. Liam said it when he gave her a sketch of her reading under a tree, her favorite place. Mia said it when she saved him a seat at every assembly, even if he arrived late. Liam said it with every “Take care,” every “Text me when you get home,” every glance across the hallway. Their love wasn’t loud. But it was steady. Real. The kind that doesn’t fade with the bell. One night, Mia texted him: What if we don’t end up in the same place? His reply came a minute later. Then we draw new maps. Together. She stared at the screen, heart aching with something too big for words. Graduation came faster than either of them expected. Caps thrown, pictures taken, tears shed. In the chaos of goodbyes, Mia found Liam standing by the old hallway where they first met. He was holding his last sketchpad from senior year. “This one’s for you,” he said, handing it to her. Inside: a collection of every moment they'd shared. The first group project. The rain-soaked umbrella walk. Her laughing. Them dancing under string lights at prom. And on the final page—a sketch of two figures standing across a hallway, the space between them filled with soft light. She looked up at him, blinking through tears. “I don’t want this to be our last page.” He smiled. “Then let’s keep drawing.”