Between Pages and Hallway Glances

Chapter 2: The Sketch in the Textbook

Monday morning came faster than I wanted it to. I walked into Literature class with my mind still stuck on Friday afternoon—on the way Kael’s eyes looked like warm honey, on the way his voice sounded when he said my name. I shook my head, trying to focus on the lesson, as I dropped my bag onto my usual desk in the front row.

I pulled out my worn copy of Wuthering Heights, the one with folded corners and notes scribbled in the margins. But as I flipped it open to the chapter we were supposed to discuss, something soft and dark slipped out and landed on my notebook.

It was a piece of thick drawing paper. My heart skipped when I saw what was on it.

It was me.

Drawn in fine, precise charcoal lines: sitting by the library window, my pen hovering just above the page, my lip caught gently between my teeth exactly the way Kael had noticed before. The sunlight fell across my shoulders in soft strokes, making it look like I was glowing. On the back, written in his neat, slanted handwriting:

You make the light look brighter. – K.

I felt heat rush up my neck and burn my cheeks. I looked around the room until I found him, sitting near the back by the door. He wasn’t looking at me, pretending to flip through his own book, but the corner of his mouth was twitching, like he was fighting a smile.

When the bell rang and class started, I could barely pay attention. I kept staring at the sketch tucked between my pages, touching the lines gently like they might fade. When the bell finally rang for the break, I rushed over to his desk before he could slip away.

“Kael,” I said, holding the book against my chest like I was guarding something precious. “You… you drew this?”

He stood up, slinging his bag over one shoulder, and finally looked right at me. His expression was softer than usual, a little less guarded. “I told you I draw what catches my eye.”

“But why… give it to me?” I asked quietly.

“Because no one ever looks at you the way I do,” he said simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “And you deserve to see what I see.”

We walked out into the hallway together, the noise of hundreds of students rushing past us fading into a hum. It felt like there was a little bubble around just the two of us.

“Meet me at the library again after school?” he asked, stopping by the stairs. “I want to show you something else. If you’re not busy.”

“I’m never busy,” I said, and meant it completely.

He gave me that real, bright smile this time—the one that reached his eyes—and nodded. “Then I’ll save our table. Don’t be late, poet.”

As he walked away, I clutched my textbook tighter, feeling my heart race. For the first time, I wasn’t just writing about feelings in my notebook. I was starting to live them.