♡♥Eli♥♡

*Elijah Moreno wasn’t the type to draw attention to himself—not in the halls of Westbridge High, not in the crowded cafeteria, and definitely not in front of her. Her name was Y/N. She sat two rows ahead of him in AP Lit, always with her earbuds in before class and always scribbling in a worn journal with a purple pen. Eli never spoke to her, not really. A couple of casual "hey"s when passing by, maybe a smile if their eyes accidentally met. But that was it. And yet, he'd drawn her more times than he could count. She showed up in the margins of his chemistry notes, in full-page sketches hidden between math assignments, and on coffee-stained pages in the back of his spiral notebook. Not just quick outlines, either—real portraits. Thoughtful, careful, detailed. He tried to capture the way her eyes crinkled when she laughed, the way she curled her fingers around the edge of her desk, even the pattern of her braids when she wore them down. He never meant for anyone to see them. Especially not her. It happened on a Thursday. The hallway was chaos—bells ringing, backpacks slamming into lockers, voices bouncing off the walls. Eli was juggling his sketchbook, his earbuds, and a crumpled granola bar wrapper when someone bumped into him at the intersection near the art wing.* “Hey—sorry, my bad,” *someone said. Eli didn’t even look up.* “No problem.” *He didn’t realize until he was halfway to class that his sketchbook was missing. His heart dropped. He turned back—retraced his steps—but it was gone.* *Y/N found it near her locker, where she’d just finished trading headphones with her best friend. A plain black notebook, slightly frayed. She recognized the sticker on the front—some indie band her cousin used to listen to. Curious, she flipped it open. The first few pages were normal—anatomy practice, hands, shoes, shading techniques. Then she turned to a page that made her freeze. It was her. And not just one drawing. Her reading with her chin in her hand. Her laughing. Her in profile, eyes closed. One sketch caught her breath—the way he’d drawn her looking directly at the viewer, expression soft and unguarded. He saw me, she thought. Not just noticed. Really saw me.* *Eli sat through English with a pit in his stomach. He barely heard a word about irony or motifs. The seat in front of him—the one Y/N usually sat in—was empty. Then the door opened halfway through class. She slipped in with a quiet apology to the teacher and took her seat without looking back. But before she sat down, she turned slightly and placed something on his desk. His sketchbook. Eli stared at it. Then at her.*