Not officially. I’d swiped it off a janitor’s keyring, when he left it dangling from the cart for too long. I will give it back eventually…maybe.There’s guilt, sure. But mostly, there’s relief — because up here, the sky doesn’t cage me in. It stretches wide, and it lets me forget.
I brought Eli with me.
He hovered at the stairwell door, his backpack hugged tight to his chest like it was the only thing keeping him upright.
“Won’t we get in trouble?” he asked, voice barely above the hum of the building.
"Probably,” I said. “But it’s worth it.”
He followed. His steps were small, careful, like each one asked permission. We climbed the narrow metal stairs, boots clanging against the hollow quiet of the school’s spine. I pushed the rooftop door open with a groan, and the light swallowed us whole.
The sky looked like freedom — clouds streaked like careless brushstrokes, sun bleeding gold across the edges. The kind of sky you wanted to sink into and not come back from.
Eli blinked like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to be up here. “It’s… beautiful.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Closest thing to peace.”
We sat near the edge, feet swinging over the rooftop. I offered him a stick of gum. He shook his head without looking at me.
His sketchbook was out in seconds, pencil already dancing across the page. Drawing came to him like breathing — quiet, automatic. Like it saved him.
I glanced over. He didn’t flinch. That alone felt like something.
He was drawing the rooftop. The sky. Us. The lines were soft, careful. Two figures with their legs over the edge, shoulders touching just barely.
“You made me prettier than I am,” I said, watching the sketch form under his fingers.
He didn’t look up. “No, I didn’t.”
Something about the way he said it made my chest tighten. Like it wasn’t even a compliment — just fact. Just truth. Do I look like this in his eyes? This soft looking boy…is me?
I let my arm brush his. Soft. Intentional.
He didn’t pull away. Or maybe didn't notice.
Yesterday, I’d noticed the bruises — faint, but real — peeking out from the edge of his sleeve on bleachers. Was he ignoring me yesterday?maybe. But atleast he didn't tell me to fuck off when I followed him and sat beside him. There were small cuts on his knuckles, too. He didn’t talk about them. But I saw. I always see more than people think I do.
So, this morning, I stuffed a few band-aids in my pocket before heading to school. Nothing big. Just in case.
Now, with the wind in our hair and the whole world stretching out in front of us, I pulled them out — crinkled but clean — and held one out to him.
“Here,” I said softly. “Thought you might want this.”
Eli froze.
His hand stopped mid-sketch. His eyes dropped to the band-aid like it was something dangerous. Like it might ask questions he wasn’t ready to answer.
“I’m fine,” he said quickly. Too quickly.
“I know,” I said, not moving my hand. “You don’t have to take it.”
His fingers hovered in the space between us, hesitating. His throat bobbed with a swallow. I could feel the storm inside him — the tension, the shame, the panic of being seen.
He took it eventually, gentle and slow, like it might shatter.
"Thanks,” he whispered, staring at it in his palm.
I didn’t say anything. Didn’t ask. Didn’t look at him like a victim. Just went back to chewing my gum and watching the clouds drift like they had nowhere to be.
After a while, he spoke. Quiet, careful.
“You ever think about what you’d be if you weren’t stuck here?”
That's the first time he is asking me a question. I tilted my head, watching a bird cut through the sky. “Yeah. All the time.”
He nodded like that made him feel less alone. “I think… I’d be someone who breathes easier.”
“You already do. When you’re with me, you breathe different.”
Eli turned his head slowly. The wind pushed hair across his forehead, and he didn’t blink it away. He just looked at me — eyes soft, scared, curious.
“I do?” he asked.
“You stop shaking. You don’t hunch your shoulders. You don’t try to disappear.”
He looked down, cheeks tinged with pink. His fingers twisted around the edge of his sketchbook like he didn’t know what to do with himself.
“I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s not bad,” I said gently. “I just… notice stuff about you.”
He was so flustered. So vulnerable. I could tell he wasn’t used to being noticed in ways that didn’t hurt.
“Do I make you nervous?” I asked, leaning a little closer.
His breath caught. He nodded, then hesitated, then nodded again. “A little.”
“Good,” I said, a slow smile tugging at my mouth. “Means I’m real.”
He laughed softly, surprised by it. The sound was light — unsure, but real. He bit down on it like he wasn’t used to joy slipping out.
I reached over, fingers brushing his pinky first. Just a graze. Then I let mine curl around his.
He looked down at our hands, almost like he couldn’t believe it. Like he was afraid he’d ruin it by existing.
“I’ve never… done this before,” he said, his voice a little shaky.
“I know,” I said.
He looked at me then — really looked. Eyes wide and overwhelmed, like he didn’t understand how I could sit so close and not ask for more than he could give.
“You don’t have to do anything,” I added. “Just… be here.”
And he was. Hesitant. Quiet. But here.
He doesn't judge me for who I am . He doesn't judge me from my rumours.
We were two boys under an open sky, finally breathing.
And I could feel it — Eli breathing just a little easier beside me.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
(The next day) Eli's pov:
Mornings feel like drowning.
I always wake up with this tightness in my chest, like something heavy pressed down overnight and never lifted. It’s not fear exactly—not the sharp kind—but the dull, constant ache of knowing where I am. Who I am. What I have to survive.
My ribs ached when I sat up. I moved slowly, careful not to stretch the bruises that were still blooming from two nights ago. I didn’t need to look. I knew what colors they’d be by now. Dark purples, sick yellows. My body made its own palette.
The ceiling above my bed had a crack that split it in half. I watched it for a while. Pretended it was the sky. Pretended I wasn’t still here.
The house was quiet, which should’ve been good, but it never is. Quiet just means you don’t know where the danger is yet. My dad didn’t come home last night—or maybe he did and passed out somewhere. Either way, I stayed quiet. I always do.
Mom was probably in her room. Or not. She fades in and out like background noise. Sometimes she hums. Sometimes she doesn’t look at me at all.
She never asked about the bruises. I stopped hoping she would years ago.
I pulled on the same hoodie I’d slept in. I was too tired. Slipped my sketchbook into my bag. Touched the handle of the umbrella Rafe gave me, still tucked under my bed like a secret. It was stupid, but it made me feel… not safe, exactly. Just like someone had seen me and didn’t look away.
That didn’t happen often.
I kept thinking about yesterday. How he dragged me on rooftop with him god knows how he got the key. Maybe he saw my bruises but he didn’t ask what happened. He just handed me band-aids.
Like it was normal. Like I was normal.
We didn’t talk much after that. We just sat. And he didn’t fidget. Didn’t get bored. He didn’t try to fill the silence or pick me apart. He just stayed.
That did something to me I can’t explain. Like I’d been underwater for too long, and someone handed me a straw.
It scared me, a little.
But I liked it more than I wanted to admit.
(He headed to school)
—---------------------------------
At lunch, I went straight to the library.
It was safer here. Quiet. Predictable. I didn’t have to pretend I had anyone to sit with or anything to say.
Back corner. Behind the nonfiction shelves that smelled like dust and wood glue. I sat down cross-legged, pulled my sketchbook onto my knees. Headphones in. No music playing. Just an excuse. Just a signal to keep the world out.
I started drawing again. I didn’t think. I just let my hand move.
The rooftop again.
I’d drawn it so many times now, it felt like muscle memory. The slope of the ledge. The way the sky looked when it was turning to dusk. I added the two of us again—me and Rafe. Sitting closer this time. My eyes closed in the drawing. My head tilted ever so slightly toward his. Safe.
I don’t know why I kept drawing that moment.
Maybe because it didn’t feel real when it was happening. But it had been. He’d been there. And I hadn’t felt like a freak for once.
I didn’t hear him approach.
When someone sat beside me, I tensed up on reflex. My spine locked. My fingers stilled.
But then I caught the scent—faint smoke and soap. Familiar now. Rafe.
He didn’t say anything at first. Just sat. Not close enough to touch, but close enough that I could feel the warmth of him. My shoulders dropped a little.
“You hiding or just avoiding cafeteria food?” he asked, voice low and kind of amused.
I pulled out one earbud. “Both,” I murmured.
I didn’t mean to sound so quiet. I just didn’t trust my voice to hold steady.
He slid something across the table. I blinked.
A granola bar. Again. The one I tried to make last longer, like savoring it would make it mean more.
I froze.
“You didn’t have to—”
“I know,” he said. “Still did.”
So simple. Like it didn’t cost him anything. Like I was allowed to be remembered.
My throat felt tight.
I unwrapped it slowly. My fingers shook just a little. Not because I was scared. Just because I didn’t know how to accept something without wondering what it would cost me later.
But Rafe didn’t watch me like I was broken. He didn’t press. He didn’t fill the silence.
He just stayed.
So I ate in peace. Or something close to it.
When I finished, I don’t know what possessed me, but I nudged my sketchbook toward him.
I never show people my drawings. They’re mine. They’re the only way I can say what’s in my head without choking on it. But I wanted him to see this one. I wanted him to know what he looked like through my eyes.
He looked.
And he didn’t laugh.
“I like this version,” he said.
My face went hot. I snatched the sketchbook back before he could say anything else.
I didn’t know how to handle praise that didn’t feel like a trap.
But I think I smiled. A little.
And he didn’t move. Didn’t leave. Just sat there beside me like it was easy.
it kind of was.
When the bell rang and we stood up to go, my chest didn’t feel as tight as it usually did. I still had to go home. Still had to survive whatever version of my father waited behind that door. But there was something lighter in my chest. Some tiny, stupid hope that hadn’t been there before.
That night,
I sat on my bed and touched the umbrella again. Then I pressed my hand flat over the drawing in my sketchbook—the one with the pink sky, the quiet closeness, the version of me that looked… okay.
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