The Notepad

By Jamie Bell

A secret connection formed through anonymous letters threatens to unravel when one discovers the other's identity, forcing them to confront unspoken feelings amidst a storm of rumors.

“What’s… stupid?” Ellis mumbled, his voice tight, barely audible over the clatter of trays and the low roar of a hundred teenage conversations. His eyes were fixed on the chipped edge of the plastic cafeteria table, specifically on a faded sticker of a grinning sun. Caleb had just said, casually, that this whole thing—whatever *this thing* was—was stupid. Ellis felt the blood rush to his ears, a hot, uncomfortable flush creeping up his neck. It wasn’t a blush, not really. More like a pressure building, a signal flare of pure, unadulterated panic.

Caleb shrugged, a fluid, easy motion that Ellis found both infuriating and completely captivating. Infuriating because Caleb looked so unbothered, so solid, like a granite statue that didn’t feel the tremors in the earth. Captivating because even in this moment of acute stress, Ellis’s eyes tracked the way Caleb’s shoulders moved under his worn, grey hoodie, the way a stray lock of dark hair fell across his forehead. It was stupid, he thought, how much he noticed. How much he *felt*.

“The whole… secret thing,” Caleb said, his voice a low rumble that cut through the noise for Ellis alone. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, invading Ellis’s self-imposed bubble of personal space. A faint scent of old spice and something subtly sweet, like summer grass after rain, hit Ellis. His breath hitched. He hated that. Hated how his body just… reacted, without permission.

Ellis picked at a loose thread on his jeans. “I don’t know. It felt… safe.” The words came out thin, fragile. He still couldn't look Caleb in the eye. Couldn’t. Not yet. Not when the image of the notebook, half-hidden under a pile of Caleb’s biology textbooks in the library, was burned into his retinas. The worn, leather-bound cover. The specific, slightly smudged doodle of a tiny, disgruntled raven perched on a branch that Ellis had drawn for his anonymous pen pal, a private joke only *they* knew. And then, there it was, etched into Caleb’s own notebook, right on the inside flap. The same raven. No mistake. The air had been sucked out of the room, leaving Ellis lightheaded, a buzzing in his ears like trapped cicadas.

It had been two weeks since that day. Two weeks of living a double life. Ellis, the quiet, art kid, avoiding Caleb, the popular, star soccer player, in the hallways. And then Ellis, the anonymous 'Ink_Blot,' pouring his soul out to 'Shadow_Writer' every night, never once guessing that Shadow_Writer was Caleb. It was cruel, almost, how perfectly it had aligned. How utterly doomed it felt.

The online group, 'Summer Pages,' was supposed to be a low-stakes thing. A creative writing assignment the English teacher, Ms. Albright, had set up for extra credit over the summer break. No real names. No pictures. Just usernames and prompts. Write about your biggest fear. Write about a moment you felt truly free. Write about a secret wish.

Ellis, usually hesitant to share anything beyond the surface, had found a surprising freedom in the anonymity. He wrote about the ache of feeling invisible, about his grandmother’s crooked smile, about the weird, hopeful thrum he felt when he sketched cityscapes from memory. And Shadow_Writer… Shadow_Writer had *seen* him. Really seen him. Shadow_Writer wrote with a raw honesty that had stunned Ellis from the first reply. About the crushing weight of expectation, about the secret thrill of late-night drives to nowhere, about a strange, fierce loyalty he felt towards things he loved. They'd traded stories, poems, fragments of thought. It was a lifeline. A hidden chamber of understanding in a world that often felt loud and confusing.

He remembered one particular exchange. Ellis had written about how he sometimes felt like a ghost, drifting through his own life. Shadow_Writer had replied, not with pity, but with a fierce, almost possessive protectiveness. *"Ghosts don't leave charcoal smudges on paper, Ink_Blot. You're real. More real than most."* Ellis had sat staring at his screen, a strange warmth spreading through his chest, a feeling like being seen for the very first time. He’d drawn the raven, a symbol of their shared secret, and sent it to Shadow_Writer. The raven, wings slightly ruffled, beak slightly agape, looking a little bit lost but defiantly present. It was their secret handshake, their quiet pact.

And then the rumors started. Or rather, Ellis *thought* they started. His paranoia was a live wire, sparking at every glance, every hushed conversation. He’d caught glimpses: Sarah Miller whispering to Amelia Chen, then both of them glancing his way, stifling giggles. Mark Jensen, Caleb’s best friend, giving Ellis a peculiar, almost knowing nod in the hallway. Ellis felt like he was walking around with a giant neon sign blinking above his head: *HE’S THE PEN PAL. HE’S THE ONE.*

He’d stopped going to the library, the one place where he and Caleb often ended up, coincidentally, studying or sketching. He’d started taking the long way around campus to avoid the quad where Caleb often hung out with his soccer team. He’d even, once, ducked into a broom closet when he saw Caleb walking towards him, heart pounding like a drum against his ribs. It was ridiculous, he knew. Pathetic, even. But the thought of Caleb knowing, of Caleb *and* everyone else knowing the fragile, honest things Ellis had written… it was a cold, sickening plunge.

“Ellis?” Caleb’s voice was closer now. His knee, accidentally, brushed Ellis’s under the table. Ellis flinched, a sharp, involuntary jerk. The heat of Caleb’s leg through his jeans felt like an electric current, sending a jolt straight up his spine. His cheeks burned. He clenched his jaw, willing himself to breathe normally. Don’t react. Don’t be weird. Don’t give it away. But it was too late. He *was* reacting. He *was* weird. He always had been.

“Yeah,” Ellis managed, finally forcing himself to lift his gaze. His eyes met Caleb’s. And just like that, the cafeteria noise faded, the sunlight streaming through the high windows seemed to dim, the world narrowed to just Caleb’s face. His eyes, a deep, unsettling grey, held a mixture of concern and something else. Something intense. Something that made Ellis’s stomach clench.

Caleb’s brow was furrowed, a small, almost imperceptible frown. “You’ve been… off. Avoiding me, even.” It wasn’t a question. It was an observation, delivered with an edge of quiet certainty. Like he already knew the answer. Ellis swallowed hard. His throat felt like sandpaper.

“No, I haven’t,” Ellis lied, the words tasting like ash. He immediately looked away, picking up a stray french fry and absently turning it over. It was cold, soggy. Disgusting. He put it back down.

“Yeah, you have,” Caleb countered, his voice softer now, almost coaxing. Ellis felt a strange pull, an urge to confess, to just blurt it all out. *I know. I know it’s you. I found your notebook. I read your words. And now I’m terrified.* But the words caught in his throat, a barbed wire fence preventing their escape. What would Caleb say? Would he be angry? Embarrassed? Worse, would he laugh? The thought of Caleb laughing at his vulnerability, at the raw emotion he’d poured into those letters, was a physical blow.

“Just busy,” Ellis tried, forcing a lightness he didn’t feel. “Summer homework. Art stuff.” It sounded hollow, even to his own ears. He could feel Caleb’s gaze on him, a warm weight. It was suffocating and yet, in some strange, twisted way, comforting.

“Right.” Caleb’s tone was skeptical, but he didn’t push. Not yet. Ellis felt a small, fleeting wave of relief, quickly followed by a fresh surge of dread. The silence that fell between them was thick, charged. It hummed with unspoken words, with the heavy weight of their shared secret. Ellis could almost feel the static electricity in the air, the way the tiny hairs on his arms stood on end. Every breath felt like a monumental effort.

He started to gather his things, the half-eaten sandwich, the crumpled napkin. Anything to break the tension, to create a sense of motion, a way out. His hands fumbled, fingers clumsy, almost knocking his water bottle over. Caleb’s hand, quick and sure, reached out and steadied it before it could tip.

The brush of their fingers. It was brief. Accidental. But it was enough. Ellis felt it like a jolt, a current running from Caleb’s warm skin to his own. His heart hammered, a frantic drum against his ribs. He yanked his hand back as if burned, eyes wide. His face, he knew, was probably scarlet now. He could feel the heat radiating from his cheeks, a beacon of his mortification.

Caleb said nothing. His hand lingered for a moment on the water bottle, then slowly retracted. His gaze, still fixed on Ellis, was unreadable. But Ellis felt it anyway. The intensity. The steady, unwavering focus. It was like being pinned under a magnifying glass, every flaw, every tremor, laid bare.

“I gotta go,” Ellis blurted out, standing abruptly, almost knocking his chair over. He didn’t wait for a reply, just slung his backpack over his shoulder and bolted. He could feel Caleb’s eyes on his back, burning a path as he weaved through the crowded tables, out of the cafeteria, and into the relative quiet of the hallway. He didn’t stop until he reached the boys' bathroom, splashing cold water on his face, trying to cool the furious blush, trying to slow his racing heart. His reflection stared back at him, wild-eyed, disheveled. He looked like he’d seen a ghost. His own, anonymous, written-down ghost.

The next day was worse. Much worse. The rumors had solidified. Ellis heard snippets: "…Caleb’s pen pal?" and "…super intense letters, I heard…" and "…Ellis? Really?" The whispers were like tiny daggers, each one pricking at his skin. He felt exposed, vulnerable, like an insect under a microscope. He skipped his last class, English, the one where Ms. Albright was probably going to talk about the 'Summer Pages' project. He couldn’t. He just couldn’t.

He ended up on the far side of the school field, behind the bleachers, where the summer weeds grew tall and the air smelled like dry dust and cut grass. He pulled out his phone, fingers hovering over the 'Summer Pages' app. He had to end it. Had to. He couldn’t bear the thought of Caleb, knowing it was him, reading those words, those raw, unedited emotions. The words he’d trusted to a faceless stranger, only for that stranger to turn out to be the boy whose gaze made his entire body short-circuit.

He started typing a message to Shadow_Writer. *Hey, this is getting… too much. I think I need to step back. This was fun, but… I can’t do this anymore. Sorry.* His thumb hovered over 'send,' a tremor running through his arm. He imagined Caleb, reading it. Would he be confused? Hurt? Or relieved? Relief was the worst option. Relief meant Ellis was just a temporary distraction, a passing amusement. The thought twisted in his gut.

A shadow fell over him. Ellis flinched, dropping his phone onto the dusty ground. He scrambled to pick it up, heart seizing. Caleb. Of course, it was Caleb. He stood there, tall and unmoving, a figure against the harsh summer sun, casting a long shadow over Ellis. He wasn’t smiling. His face was uncharacteristically serious, almost grim.

“You’re really going to bail?” Caleb’s voice was low, laced with something Ellis couldn’t quite decipher. Disappointment? Anger? Something else, a quiet hurt that pricked at Ellis’s own wounded pride.

Ellis hugged his knees to his chest. He couldn’t look up. Couldn’t. “It’s… it’s too much, okay? Everyone knows. Or thinks they know. And… it’s stupid.” He echoed Caleb’s own word, trying to use it as a shield, a justification.

“No, it’s not,” Caleb said, taking a step closer. The dry grass crunched under his sneakers. He sat down, a respectful distance away, but still close enough that Ellis could feel the warmth radiating off him. “It’s not stupid, Ellis.”

Ellis flinched at the use of his name. It felt too intimate, too exposed, especially now. “Yes, it is. All that… stuff I wrote. It’s personal. It’s embarrassing. And now everyone’s talking and… you know, don’t you? You found out.” His voice cracked on the last word, a raw, painful admission. He finally risked a glance up. Caleb’s eyes were on him, unwavering, holding that same intense gaze that made Ellis’s insides churn.

Caleb nodded slowly. “I know.” He paused, then sighed, a low, weary sound. “I figured it out a while ago. A few weeks. From your description of that old diner down by the tracks. You wrote about the chipped blue tile and the way the old man behind the counter always hummed the same tune. My grandmother used to take me there. You were the only one who ever mentioned it in the group. I recognized the detail. And the raven, of course.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out his own worn, leather-bound notebook. He opened it, revealing the familiar doodle of the disgruntled raven. It was theirs. It was real.

Ellis felt a fresh wave of panic, mixed with a strange, dizzying relief. He wasn't crazy. He hadn't imagined it. Caleb knew. And he’d known for *weeks*. He’d been playing along, reading Ellis’s anonymous words, knowing exactly who was writing them. The thought was both terrifying and… exhilarating. The fear was still there, a cold knot in his stomach, but something else was fighting its way through it. A spark. A tiny, desperate flicker of hope.

“So… you knew all this time?” Ellis whispered, his voice barely a breath. He felt foolish, exposed. All his frantic dodging, all his elaborate avoidance. It had been pointless. Caleb had already known.

Caleb nodded again. “Yeah. I did.” His gaze softened, losing some of its intensity, becoming something gentler, more open. “And I didn’t say anything because… I didn’t want you to stop writing. To me.” The words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning. They were a confession, a plea. And for Ellis, they were a balm, a surprising warmth spreading through his chest, chasing away some of the cold fear.

“The rumors…” Ellis started, still caught in the spiral of anxiety.

“Forget the rumors,” Caleb interrupted, his voice firm, leaving no room for argument. He shifted, turning his body fully towards Ellis, his knee once again brushing Ellis’s. This time, Ellis didn’t flinch. He registered the touch, the warmth, the quiet pressure, but didn't recoil. It was an anchoring point. “What you wrote, Ellis? It wasn’t stupid. It was… amazing. Honest. And brave.”

He reached out, slowly, his hand moving towards Ellis’s. Ellis watched it, mesmerized, a deer caught in headlights. His heart was still hammering, but it wasn't fear driving it now. It was something else. A frantic, hopeful flutter. Caleb’s fingers, rough and warm, closed around Ellis’s. It wasn’t a firm grip, more like a tentative connection, a silent question. Ellis didn’t pull away. Couldn’t. The touch was too grounding, too real.

“People are going to talk,” Ellis said, his voice still small, but a little stronger this time. He was looking at their joined hands now, at the subtle difference in their skin tones, the way their fingers laced together so easily. It felt… right.

“Let them talk,” Caleb said, his thumb gently stroking the back of Ellis’s hand. The subtle movement sent a shiver through Ellis, a delicious warmth spreading from his hand, up his arm, settling deep in his core. “It doesn’t change anything. What we wrote. What we… found. That’s ours.”

Ellis finally, truly looked at Caleb. Really looked. Saw the sincerity in his grey eyes, the slight, tentative smile forming on his lips. Saw the steady, unwavering strength in his gaze. And in that moment, under the harsh summer sun, with the whispers of rumors still echoing somewhere in the distance, Ellis felt a shift. A tremor in the ground, but this time, it felt like something was being built, not broken.

He still felt scared. The anxiety hadn’t magically evaporated. But with Caleb’s hand in his, with that quiet, firm declaration, it felt… manageable. For the first time, the idea of being seen, truly seen, by Caleb, by everyone, didn’t feel like a death sentence. It felt like… a beginning. The hot summer air, thick with the scent of dry grass and faint exhaust from the distant road, suddenly felt less suffocating. It felt like possibility.

“Okay,” Ellis whispered, the word a small, hopeful sound, barely audible. But Caleb heard it. And he squeezed Ellis’s hand, a silent promise hanging in the air between them.