Elara's Pov:
The lecture hall smells of dry-erase markers and too-strong coffee. I claim my usual seat—back row, by the window, where I can fade into the background. My oversized sweater swallows me, sleeves brushing my knuckles, headphones looped around my neck like a lifeline. The professor drones about neural pathways, but my mind is elsewhere, caught in a subway car, in blue eyes that saw me. Aiden.
My pen hovers over my notebook, then moves, sketching—not notes, but him. Sharp cheekbones, a curl of dark hair, eyes like winter light on water. 'Why didn't I ask for his number?'
'Stupid Elara. What would you even do? You don't even speak.' My chest tightens, a mix of hope and regret. He said my name like it mattered.
"I hope so, Elara." I shade his eyes, making them deeper, more real. 'What if i never see him again?' The thought stings, sharper than it should. I don't know him, but he feels like a crack in my silence, letting light in.
A girl nearby giggles, her voice sharp, slicing through my thoughts. I flinch, my pen skidding across the page, leaving a jagged scar over Aiden's face. One, two, three breaths. The habit grounds me, pushing back shadows I don't name. I glance at the clock—11:50 a.m. Almost done. The professor scribbles on the board, his voice a distant hum. Outside, autumn leaves dance in the wind, red and gold against the gray campus. 'Is aiden out there somewhere.'
The thought feels reckless, a spark I shouldn't let grow. He's just a stranger. But he didn't feel like one.
Class ends, and I linger, letting the crowd spill out, their laughter loud and careless. I tuck my notebook into my backpack, the sketch hidden but heavy. 'Invisible's safer.', I tell myself, but today, it feels like drowning. I slip my headphones on, a soft indie song—low guitar, quiet lyrics—wrapping around me like a shield. The campus air is crisp, smelling of wet leaves and faint rain. I weave through the quad, head down, sneakers scuffing the path. Students rush past, their lives full of noise I can't join. 'Do they ever feel like they're fading?'
The college café is a warm haven, all polished wood and the scent of fresh espresso. I claim a corner table by a window, my lunch—a chicken wrap, iced tea, and a slightly bruised apple—spread out like a ritual. I take a bite, the bread soft but tasteless, my headphones humming faintly. The quad outside is alive, students laughing under trees. Their world feels so far from mine. I open my sketchbook, and Aiden's face stares back, half-finished. I add the curve of his lips, small and kind, my pen moving like it knows him. 'Why do you feel like a piece I've lost.'
"Elara, you stealing the best spot again?" Mia's voice bursts through, bright and bold. She flops into the chair across from me, curls bouncing, grin wide enough to light the café. Mia's been my friend since freshman week, when I was a ghost trying to disappear, silent and walled off. I pushed her away, but she stayed, learning sign language even though I'm not deaf. She says 'it's to keep her skills sharp.' , I think, warmth flickering in my chest. But it's just Mia, too stubborn to let me fade.
"Brooding artist vibes, huh?" Mia says, snatching a fry from my plate. Her eyes catch my sketchbook, and I try to close it, but she's too fast, grabbing it. "Whoa, Elara, who's this hottie?" My cheeks burn, and I scribble in my notebook:"Just a sketch, nobody."
"Liar," she teases, holding the book up. "This is obsessed level art. Spill!" I hesitate, then write: "Aiden, met at the subway, helped me."
Mia's jaw drops. "Aiden?Wait... my cousin Aiden?!" She laughs, shaking her head. "Girl, you picked the moody one. He's working at our café, Brew & Bloom, just for a bit."
My heart leaps. Her cousin? I write: "Why's he here?" Mia shrugs, popping another fry. "Dunno the full story. Some ex broke his heart, left him a wreck. He won't spill, just showed up to 'clear his head.' Typical Aiden." Her tone's light, but her eyes are protective, like she's guarding his pain. Not a crush, just family, I think, relief settling in.
"You sign too much." I write, smiling. "I'm not deaf." Mia snorts, her laugh loud and warm. "Gotta keep my hands ready, Elara. You're my excuse." She winks, leaning back, and I shake my head, a smile breaking through. Mia's chaos makes my silence feel less like a cage.
Then I see it—a folded note under my tray, my name scrawled in jagged ink. ELARA.
My heartbeat surges, a frantic drum pounding in my chest, loud enough to drown out Mia's chatter. The paper smells faintly of cigarette smoke, sharp and wrong, tugging at a memory I can't grasp. 'Who left this?'
The café's warmth fades, my fingers trembling as I touch the note. Mia's still talking, oblivious, but my mind screams. 'Not again. Not now.'
I unfold it, and a single word stares back: Found.