Chapter 5: His True Nature
By morning, the art wall was gone.
Not painted over—gone. Like it had never existed.
The club posters were still there, flapping lightly in the courtyard breeze, but the sketches? The quiet notes, the bits of personality students dared to share for one fleeting afternoon? All stripped away.
Including mine.
Nina caught up to me just outside the gate, breathless as usual. "They took everything down. Principal said it was a distraction."
I didn't answer.
I already knew why.
"Your drawing," she added, lowering her voice. "People guessed it was yours. Someone took a photo. It's on Crestnet."
Crestnet. The school's private app. Gossip central in disguise.
I forced my voice to stay level. "What did they say?"
Nina hesitated, then fished out her phone and handed it to me.
There it was—my sketch, watermarked with someone's profile. Dozens of comments stacked underneath like thorns on a vine.
Pretty bold for someone who didn't even belong at Crestmore a month ago.
He protects strays now?
Mia's gonna eat her alive.
I gave her the phone back without reading more.
We kept walking.
By mid-morning, I felt it again—eyes tracking me as I passed, whispers turning louder, bolder. Someone bumped into me near the lockers and muttered, "Don't get comfortable."
I didn't react. That had become my strategy: silence. Let them burn out.
But inside, it felt different today.
Worse.
Because now it wasn't just about me. It was about him. About what people thought they saw. About what they wanted to believe.
In English, Jace didn't say anything. Just leaned back in his seat, arms crossed, headphones around his neck like always. But I caught him glancing my way when the teacher wasn't looking. Not staring. Just… aware.
And that was somehow worse.
Because he knew. He always knew.
Lunch was where it all tipped over.
I was headed toward the usual spot with Nina—back corner, low-profile—when I felt it shift. The cafeteria air changed. Conversations dropped an octave.
I turned.
And there he was.
Jace Anderson. Tray in hand. Walking through the rows like he did it every day.
Except he didn't.
Jace didn't eat in the cafeteria. Ever. He ate on the court, in the gym, sometimes not at all. The rumors said it was because he couldn't stand people. Or because the school wanted him untouchable. Or maybe because he wanted that.
But there he was. Walking toward me.
Nina noticed too. "Oh my god."
He didn't pause. Didn't look left or right. Just stopped right in front of our table.
"Is this seat taken?"
My mouth opened. Nothing came out.
Nina blinked. "No. I mean—yeah. I mean—no, it's not."
He sat down across from me like it was the most normal thing in the world.
And just like that, the cafeteria exploded.
Phones rose. Screens flashed. The noise swelled, not loud, but sharp—gasps, whispers, the kind of buzz that told me the moment had already been posted, captioned, dissected.
Jace didn't flinch.
He picked up his fork and started eating.
I stared at my tray. Appetite vanished.
"This is suicidal," Nina whispered.
"I didn't ask him to."
"I know. Doesn't mean they'll believe that."
I glanced up at Jace. He met my eyes. No smile. No warning.
Just steady, grounding silence.
"Why are you doing this?" I asked him, voice low.
"Because I can."
"That's not a reason."
He shrugged. "It's mine."
I wanted to scream. Or cry. Or run.
But I stayed.
Maybe because I didn't want to give them the satisfaction.
Maybe because a small, stupid part of me liked that he was there.
After lunch, I skipped my free period and wandered through the upper wing instead. I told myself I was looking for quiet. Truth was, I didn't want to face anyone. Not even Nina.
The upper hallway overlooked the outdoor basketball court. Through the windows, I saw the team running drills—jerseys flashing like fire under the sun. Coach was shouting. Players moved like clockwork.
And then—Jace.
Sprinting across the baseline, catching a pass mid-air, landing like a dancer before driving forward and sinking a perfect three-pointer.
The cheer that erupted was instinctive. Adoring.
He didn't even acknowledge it.
I leaned against the glass.
That version of him—sharp, untouchable—felt like a different person. Not the boy who handed me my sketches or defended me in front of Mia Langford. Not the boy who sat at my table.
It made my chest tighten.
I didn't understand him.
And worse—I was starting to want to.
After school, Nina and I parted ways early. She had math club. I said I needed air.
I meant it, too.
I wandered around the courtyard and found a spot beneath the willow tree near the south wall. The branches draped like curtains. The space felt hidden. Safe.
I pulled out my sketchpad and opened to a fresh page.
I didn't draw Jace this time. I drew a girl. Sitting alone, surrounded by noise she couldn't touch. The lines came slowly, but they came.
Then my phone buzzed.
A notification from Crestnet.
I shouldn't have opened it.
But I did.
There it was.
A photo—taken from behind—of me and Jace at lunch. The caption:
"When your charity case thinks she's the main character."
The comments were worse this time.
Cruel. Detailed. Some even tagged me.
My throat closed.
I closed the app.
Hands shaking, I shoved the sketchpad back in my bag and stood.
I didn't cry.
But I wanted to disappear.
I was halfway around the building when I saw him.
Jace.
Leaning against the stair rail by the gym exit, arms folded, bag slung low. Like he'd been waiting.
He straightened when he saw me.
"You saw it?" he asked.
I nodded.
He nodded too. "Come on."
"Where?"
"Just come."
I followed.
Again.
He led me up the old back stairwell that students weren't supposed to use. The one near the supply closet, paint peeling from the banister, windows fogged with years of dust.
At the top, a narrow metal door.
He pushed it open and stepped onto the rooftop.
It wasn't much—just a flat stretch of concrete with safety rails and a view of the trees. But the sky felt huge up there. The wind was real. And no one else was around.
He sat down near the edge, pulling his hoodie tighter.
I sat a few feet away.
We didn't speak for a while.
Finally, I asked, "Why do you keep pulling me into your mess?"
He looked at me. "I thought I was getting pulled into yours."
I exhaled, annoyed.
"Does this make you feel good?" I asked. "Playing the hero?"
"No," he said.
"Then why?"
He didn't answer right away. Just stared out at the sky.
"Because you're the only person who doesn't ask me to be someone I'm not."
That silenced me.
He glanced down, picking at the edge of his sneaker.
"I'm tired, Elena," he said. "Tired of being liked for what I do, not who I am. Tired of smiling when I'm not okay. Tired of acting like none of this matters."
"It does matter," I said softly.
"To them."
"To me."
That made him look up. And for the first time, I saw it—the weariness in his eyes. The cracks in the perfect armor.
"I didn't plan any of this," he said.
"Neither did I."
He smiled. Just a little.
"I don't want to ruin your life," he added.
"You're not."
"Feels like I am."
I thought about the post. The names. The way my locker still bore scars from someone else's anger.
And then I thought about his sketchbook. The messages. The notes. His voice saying, Come on, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
"You're not ruining anything," I said. "They're just scared."
"Of what?"
"That you might actually care about someone."
His gaze dropped to the rooftop beneath us. The wind pulled at his hoodie again.
He reached into his bag and handed me something.
A folded sheet of paper.
I opened it.
It was a drawing.
Of me.
Sitting beneath the willow tree. Head down. Hair falling across my face. The lines were soft, detailed, perfect.
I didn't speak.
"I drew it last week," he said. "Before you noticed me."
I looked at him.
He looked back.
And there was something in his eyes I couldn't name—but I felt it. In my chest. In my hands. In the air between us.
I held the drawing like it was something precious.
Because it was.