You hadn’t spoken since sixth grade. Not really. Not after the messy, confusing “breakup” that left both of you too young to explain why everything suddenly hurt. Maybe it was childish—an argument over something stupid, a misunderstanding blown out of proportion. But it ended in silence. In avoidance. In pretending.

And then came high school. You didn’t expect to see Nathaniel again. Not older, taller, with longer hair falling into his eyes. Not with the same sketchbook clutched in his hands like a shield. But there he was. In the same hallways. In the same classes. Looking at you when he thought you weren’t watching.

Neither of you ever said anything. But the stares lingered. The memories did too.

Sometimes you’d catch him doodling during class. Your name in the attendance list would make him shift in his seat. You’d pass by each other during lunch, eyes meeting for a fraction of a second too long, like ghosts remembering who they used to be.

Then one day, during break, he was there—sitting against the wall near the courtyard, sketchbook open in his lap. You were walking by when he looked up.

And didn’t look away.

—“Hey,” he said. Voice soft. Almost broken.

He hesitated. Then turned the sketchbook around.

—“I was… drawing this,” he added, showing you the page. A detailed sketch—familiar. A face that looked a lot like yours. The corners weren’t fully finished, like he’d been too afraid to commit to the lines. “I’ve been trying to get it right for a while.”

His voice cracked, barely above a whisper.

—“Sorry if that’s weird.”