Chapter 6 What Is This?

Aleli’s POV

“ALELI.”

I almost didn’t stop.

My name didn’t sound the same anymore when he said it. Not like before, when it used to feel rare, almost unreal, like something I would replay in my head longer than I should have.

Now it just felt… complicated.

I tightened my grip on the strap of my bag and kept walking down the quieter side path near the old bleachers, my steps steady, my gaze fixed ahead.

“Aleli.”

He said it again. Closer and louder this time.

I slowed, but just slightly. Not because I wanted to. But because my body reacted before my mind could catch up.

I exhaled quietly, then turned around.

Kristoff stood a few steps behind me, one hand loosely holding something I hadn’t noticed was missing.

My sketchpad.

My stomach dropped a little.

“You dropped this,” he said, lifting it slightly, like it was something fragile he wasn’t entirely sure how to hold.

I blinked, my eyes flicking down to my bag. It was slightly open. I must not have zipped it properly.

And of all the students who could have seen it, why it really has to be Kristoff.

“Oh,” I murmured, stepping forward and reaching for it. “Thanks.”

He didn’t let go immediately. Not tight. Not like he was refusing.

Just… not yet.

For a second, we stood there, both holding onto the same sketchpad, the distance between us feeling smaller than it had any right to be.

Then he released it.

Our fingers brushed. It was quick and barely there. But it still registered.

I pulled the sketchpad closer to my chest instinctively, like I needed to put some kind of space between us again.

“Be more careful,” he said, his tone quieter than usual, not sharp, not dismissive.

Just… something else.

“I will,” I replied.

A pause settled between us.

I shifted my weight slightly, already preparing to leave, to step around him and continue walking like I had been doing for the past few days.

Like I had been trying to do.

“Wait.”

The word came out softer than I expected. I stopped, my heart started to beat faster than usual. But I didn’t turn around fully this time.

“What?” I asked, my voice calm.

“Can I see it?”

I frowned slightly, glancing down at the sketchpad in my hands before looking back at him. “See what?”

“That,” he said, nodding toward it.

I hesitated. It wasn’t that I hadn’t shown anyone my work before.

Malcolm had seen it. A few people in the art room had too. But this was different.

This was him. Kristoff Ricafort. My ultimate crush—well former ultimate crush.

“You don’t have to,” he added after a second, like he could see the hesitation in my face. “I just… saw a part of it when you dropped it.”

I tightened my hold on the sketchpad slightly. “What part?” I asked.

He shifted a little, like he was choosing his words more carefully than usual.

“A figure,” he said. “Someone running.”

My chest tightened. I looked down at the cover of the sketchpad, my thumb pressing lightly against the edge.

“It’s nothing,” I said.

“It didn’t look like nothing.”

I didn’t answer. Because I didn’t know what to say to that.

He took a small step closer, not enough to crowd me, just enough to close some of the distance that had been sitting between us.

“Can I?” he asked again, this time quieter.

I hesitated for another second. Then, slowly, I handed it to him.

“Just… don’t flip too much,” I said.

He nodded once. “I won’t.”

He took it carefully, his fingers resting along the edges like he understood, even a little, that it mattered.

Then he opened it. The pages turned slowly. Not rushed. Not careless. He actually looked at each page as if assessing and grading each.

I watched his face more than the sketchpad. The way his eyes moved. The slight shift in his expression. The way his brows drew together just a little, not in confusion, but in focus.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just kept turning pages. Sketch after sketch. Lines and forms and unfinished pieces that I never meant for anyone to analyze too closely.

My chest felt tight.

Not in the same way as before.

But close.

“You drew all of these?” he asked after a moment, his voice lower now.

“Yes.”

He turned another page. Then another. His movements slowed.

Until they stopped.

I knew exactly which one he had landed on. The page I should have taken out a long time ago.

I swallowed.

“It’s just practice,” I said quickly, the words coming out a little too fast.

He didn’t respond. Just kept staring at the page.

I shifted slightly where I stood, suddenly aware of everything at once. The way the wind brushed lightly against my arms. The distant sound of someone kicking a ball somewhere farther down the field. The quiet space between us that felt like it was holding something I didn’t want to name.

“You said it was nothing,” he said finally.

“I did.”

“This doesn’t look like nothing.”

I didn’t answer. Because it wasn’t. It never was.

He exhaled slowly, his fingers adjusting slightly on the edge of the page like he was trying to understand what he was looking at without asking too many questions at once.

“This is…” Kristoff paused, then glanced up at me briefly before looking back down. “You spent time on this.”

“It’s just something I do,” I said.

“It’s more than that.”

I shook my head slightly. “You don’t have to say that.”

“I’m not saying it to make you feel better.”

His tone was still calm. But there was something more grounded in it now. Something that didn’t sound like dismissal.

I didn’t know what to do with that. So I stayed quiet.

He looked at it for a few seconds longer before finally closing the sketchpad, his hand lingering on the cover.

“You draw him a lot,” he said suddenly. “Whoever was that in your sketchpad.”

I wanted to scoff. How could he pretend he still doesn’t know who was my subject for a long time.

My grip tightened on my bag. “I draw a lot of things.”

“That didn’t answer the question.”

I let out a quiet breath. “No,” I admitted.

“It was me.”

Not a question. A statement. I didn’t deny it.

Because there was no point.I thought he doesn’t know, I thought he’s pretending.

“Yes,” I said and stared at my sketchpad on his hand. “Can I have it back?”

Another pause.

“Why?” he asked, instead of giving back my pad.

The question felt heavier than it should have.

I looked down at the ground for a second, my thoughts catching somewhere between what I could say and what I didn’t want to.

Then I shrugged lightly. “I just like how you move,” I said.

It was the same answer I had given Malcolm. But it didn’t feel the same here.

Kristoff watched me for a second longer. Like he was trying to figure out if that was all there was to it. Maybe it was. Maybe it wasn’t.

I didn’t explain. I didn’t add anything. I just held onto the sketchpad a little tighter.

“I didn’t know,” he said quietly.

I glanced up at him.

“About what?”

“That you…” He paused, then gestured slightly toward the sketchpad. “That you could do this.”

I let out a small breath. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

I adjusted my grip on my bag again, stepping back slightly.

“I should go,” I said. “Can I have it back now?”

But as I reach out for my pad—

“Wait,” he suddenly said, brows furrowed while staring at the last page of my pad.

I stopped. Heart racing in panic. Please, no.

“What?” I asked, trying my best to pretent calm.

His hand lifted slightly as if he was holding onto something I hadn’t noticed.

The last page.

He looked at it for a second. Then at me. There was a pause and it felt longer.

“What is this?” he asked, holding up my sketch. “Is this you…” His brows furrowed again before turning back his gaze at me. “…and me?”