Chapter 2: The Notebook
Ethan spent the rest of the day replaying the encounter in his mind. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he had missed something important. The way she looked at him—intense, guarded, and yet slightly curious—left him unsettled.
The next morning, Ethan was already scanning the halls, hoping to spot her again. He caught a glimpse of her near her locker, her scarf slightly loose, revealing a simple necklace with a small, circular pendant. As usual, she was alone, her head tilted downward, her hands clutching that same worn notebook.
It wasn’t until lunch that Ethan saw an opportunity to approach her again. She was sitting in the same corner of the cafeteria, her head bent over the notebook as always. Her pen moved methodically, as if the words—or drawings—flowed straight from her mind onto the paper.
Ethan glanced at Mia and Liam, who were bickering about something trivial, then back at the girl. Before he could second-guess himself, he stood up, grabbed his tray, and walked over to her table.
“Hey,” he said, sliding into the seat across from her.
Her hand froze mid-stroke, her dark eyes lifting to meet his.
“I don’t mean to bother you,” Ethan said quickly, holding up a hand as if to prove his intentions were harmless. “It’s just... you always sit alone, and I thought maybe you’d like some company.”
She stared at him, her expression unreadable. For a moment, Ethan thought she might ignore him altogether, but then she reached into her bag, pulled out a pen, and scribbled something on the corner of her notebook. She turned it around for him to read.
“I don’t talk.”
Ethan blinked at the note, surprised by the bluntness of it. “You mean you... can’t? Or you just don’t want to?”
She hesitated, then wrote again: “Can’t.”
“Oh,” Ethan said, leaning back slightly. “I didn’t realize. Sorry.”
She shook her head, as if to say it was fine, then started to pull the notebook back, but Ethan stopped her with a question.
“What are you always writing in there?”
Her brow furrowed slightly, as if she wasn’t sure how to answer. After a pause, she turned to a fresh page and began to write. Her pen moved quickly, her handwriting neat and precise. When she finished, she slid the notebook toward him.
Ethan read the words carefully: “It’s my way of speaking. My thoughts, my feelings, things I want to say but can’t.”
“That’s... cool,” Ethan said, his tone genuine. “So it’s like a journal?”
She nodded but didn’t seem entirely satisfied with his description.
“What’s your name?” he asked, realizing he still didn’t know.
This time, she simply flipped to the first page of the notebook. Written in bold, swirling letters was a single word:
Sophie.
“Sophie,” Ethan repeated aloud, smiling slightly. “Nice to officially meet you.”
For the first time, a faint smile tugged at the corners of her lips.
---
As the days passed, Ethan found himself drawn to Sophie in ways he couldn’t explain. He started sitting with her during lunch, their conversations carried out through her notebook. He learned that she loved drawing, that she hated math, and that her favorite season was autumn because of the way the leaves changed color.
In return, he told her about his own life—the dullness of it, his dreams of leaving their small town someday, and his uncertainty about what he wanted to do with his future. Sophie listened—or rather, read—patiently, occasionally jotting down questions or comments.
But the more Ethan got to know her, the more he realized there were parts of Sophie’s life she wasn’t sharing. She never wrote about her family, never mentioned where she’d moved from or why she had transferred schools. And while she seemed to enjoy their time together, there was a sadness in her eyes that never quite went away.
One day, as they sat together beneath the old oak tree in the school courtyard, Ethan decided to ask.
“Why don’t you talk?” he said softly, watching her reaction carefully.
Sophie stiffened, her fingers tightening around the pen. For a moment, Ethan thought she wasn’t going to answer. But then she opened her notebook and began to write, her hand moving slower than usual.
When she turned the page toward him, the words hit him like a punch to the gut:
“Because no one listened when I did.”
Ethan stared at the words, his chest tightening. He wanted to ask more, to understand what she meant, but the look on her face stopped him. Her walls were back up, stronger than before.
“Okay,” he said quietly, offering her a small smile. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. But I’ll listen. Always.”
Sophie’s eyes softened, and for the first time, Ethan saw something else in her expression—hope.
