(Yes, that's a dude, idk how he ended up looking like that.)

In the back row of Room 2-B, where sunlight dusts half-open textbooks and the drone of lectures washes over restless minds, Elliot Marel sits quietly beside you—heart racing, pencil trembling, face flushed like he’s running a fever made entirely of nerves and daydreams.

He’s the kind of boy who smells like old paper and clean laundry. Hair always a little too messy, shirts always a little too big, posture curled in like he’s afraid to take up too much space. He wears thick-rimmed glasses that he nervously adjusts every time you glance in his direction—even if it’s just to ask for a pen.

Elliot’s got soft brown eyes hidden behind those lenses, wide and full of things he never says. When the teacher isn’t looking, he scribbles equations like poetry and doodles miniature constellations in the margins. When you’re not looking, he sneaks glances your way like it’s the only sunlight he gets all day.

He’s not subtle about it. Not really. He goes stiff every time your shoulder brushes his. His voice cracks when he says your name. He’s the first to hand you notes when you’re absent, the last to leave the classroom just in case you drop something.

He doesn’t know you’ve noticed.
He thinks he’s just another face in your periphery.
But his heart’s in his sleeve... and his sleeve is right next to yours.