Chapter Three: His Name in My Head

Tuesday morning hit like a whisper and a scream. The whisper was my alarm, soft and persistent. The scream was my brain, still replaying the way Blue had said my name.

Elias.

No one said my name like that. Not even my mom. There was something in his voice—like he was testing the sound of it, holding it up to the light to see what it revealed.

I barely tasted breakfast. I barely remembered brushing my teeth. All I knew was that I wanted to see him again, and I hated how badly I wanted it.

---

I spotted him at his locker between second and third period. Same hoodie, same silence. But today, something was different.

He was drawing.

A black pen moved across a crumpled piece of notebook paper, quick, deliberate strokes. I couldn’t see what he was sketching, but his focus was unshakable. People passed him without a glance, and I wondered how he managed to disappear and stand out at the same time.

I stood there for longer than I should have. Maybe five seconds. Maybe ten.

And then he looked up.

Busted.

He didn’t speak at first. Just stared. Not coldly. Not kindly. Just like he was waiting for me to decide what kind of person I wanted to be in that moment—someone who walks away, or someone who says something.

I chose the latter.

“You draw?” I asked, stepping closer.

He didn’t smile, but there was a twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Everyone draws.”

“Not everyone draws well.”

He shrugged. “Guess that’s true.”

“Can I see?”

Blue hesitated, then turned the notebook slightly in my direction. It was a portrait of someone—rough lines, but sharp. Striking. A boy, mid-expression, as if about to laugh or cry or scream. It was messy and beautiful. Alive.

“Is that someone you know?” I asked.

He didn’t answer right away. “Used to.”

I didn’t press.

“What about you?” he asked instead. “What do you draw?”

I blinked. “How do you know I draw?”

Blue met my gaze, steady and unreadable. “You were sketching yesterday in the art room. I don’t forget things I see.”

My throat tightened. “Right.”

He closed the notebook, slipped it into his bag. “You’re not like the others.”

I wasn’t sure how to respond. “You’ve only been here two days.”

“That’s long enough.”

Before I could figure out if that was a compliment or a warning, the bell rang.

Blue adjusted his bag and started to walk away, but then paused. “You gonna be in the art room again today?”

“Probably.”

“Cool.” He didn’t wait for a reply. Just disappeared into the crowd like he was never there.

---

The art room was quieter than usual when I got there after school. Ms. Kent was gone, but the door was unlocked, so I let myself in. I sat at my usual spot, pulled out my sketchbook, and waited.

Not for long.

He came in ten minutes later, hoodie off this time, revealing black curls and a jagged scar at the top of his right eyebrow. It wasn’t huge, but it told a story I didn’t know how to ask about.

He sat across from me like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Neither of us spoke for the first few minutes. We just… drew. The silence between us wasn’t awkward—it was the kind that had weight. The kind that understood things didn’t always need to be said out loud.

After a while, I asked, “So is Blue your real name?”

He smirked. “No.”

“So what is it?”

He glanced up. “Does it matter?”

“I guess not,” I said. “But I’d like to know.”

There was a pause. Then he said, “Jamie.”

Jamie.

It didn’t sound right in my head. Or maybe it sounded too right.

“But people call me Blue,” he added. “Have for a while now.”

“Why?”

He leaned back in his chair, pen twirling between his fingers. “I used to dye my hair blue. Got in trouble for it in middle school. Teachers called me a distraction. Some kids started calling me ‘Blue Boy’ like it was an insult. I didn’t care. Owned it. Eventually, the hair faded, but the name stuck.”

“Do you like it?”

He shrugged. “I guess I like what it means now.”

“And what’s that?”

Blue looked at me, eyes colder and softer at once. “That I stopped giving a damn what people thought.”

I nodded slowly. “I wish I could say the same.”

He tilted his head. “You care what they think?”

I didn’t answer right away. Instead, I said, “I care what you think.”

That caught him off guard.

His expression changed—barely, but I saw it. The guarded look cracked for just a moment, revealing something raw underneath.

He picked up his pen again and went back to drawing. “I think you’re interesting.”

I smiled, even though he wasn’t looking. “You don’t even know me.”

“I’m getting there.”

---

We didn’t leave until the sun was low, pouring gold through the windows and making everything feel a little softer, a little more honest.

Outside, he walked beside me, not too close, not too far. The parking lot was mostly empty.

Right before we went our separate ways, he said, “You ever wish you could be someone else?”

“All the time,” I replied.

Blue looked at me, hands in his pockets. “Me too. But then I remember—I’ve already spent too long being what they wanted.”

He gave me a small nod, like we’d agreed on something without saying it, then walked off into the orange glow of the evening.

And I stood there in the stillness, whispering his name in my head.

Not Jamie.

Blue.

The boy in the rain. The boy who drew with his whole heart. The boy who looked at me like he saw more than I was ready to show.

I didn’t know what this was yet.

But I knew it had begun.