Dear Elijah, Was it more important to me than it was to you?

I fall asleep drafting letters in my head that I know I’ll never write.

On Friday morning, Elijah’s bedroom door is wide open, and I don’t see him in the kitchen.

“Where’s Elijah?” I ask Birdie.

“He left a note that said he was grabbing some extra time in the weight room. He didn’t tell you?” she asks.

“No. I guess he just forgot,” I say, checking my backpack for my homework and supplies.

I spend the rest of the day looking for him, but I don’t see him until sixth-period history.

He slides into the room just as the bell rings and chooses a desk a few feet from mine. The back of the classroom is empty except for the two of us.

“Hey,” I call to him as Mrs. Nguyen straightens papers on her desk and waits for the class to settle.

“Hey,” he says, not lifting his head from the crook of his arm while he writes in his notebook.

“You okay? I haven’t seen you all day,” I whisper across to him.

“Doing fine,” he answers, flashing me the quickest and fakest smile I’ve ever seen.

I decide to ignore it. “Camille wants us to help her out tonight at the ’80s dance. She’s handling the ticket table from six to seven. You up for it?” I ask him.

He lowers his eyes back to his notebook. “I kind of forgot about the dance, to tell you the truth.”

“The whole football team has to go,” I remind him. “Coach Marcus’s rules.”

“I know,” he tells me. “It’s just… I’m not feeling so hot.…”

Mrs. Nguyen taps her dry-erase marker on her desk, cutting our conversation short. I try not to think too much about Elijah and focus on my schoolwork, but it’s pretty useless. I keep stealing glances in his direction all through class. He doesn’t look sick. Just sad.

He doesn’t wait for me after class, and nongame Fridays are always spent in the weight room instead of on the field. He spends the entire two hours at the pull-up bar and ignoring everyone around him. I watch him while I’m lifting with Darien and Nate, but I don’t talk to him. It’s clear he needs space.

I don’t want to admit it, but my gut somehow misses him. I’m so mixed up. One minute I hate him for abandoning me, and the next, when he’s looking at me or putting ground-up parsley on my skin or even just smiling, I can’t deny that there’s still something there. At least on my end, that is.

It’s not until I’m getting myself ready for the ’80s dance that there’s a soft knock on my door.

“Julian?”