Ghosts I Can't Face

The hallway is nearly empty by the time I step out of class. My shoulders ache from hunching over my sketchpad for hours, and my eyes are sore from staring too long at too much white canvas. But the moment I see him—Elliot, standing near the window with sunlight draped across his figure like a second skin—I forget all that. He's leaning casually against the wall, DSLR camera strapped around his neck, flipping through something on his phone.

He looks different. In a good way. More handsome, if I may say. Elliot dyed his hair into light brown—almost like ginger but not really, I didn't have a chance to ask. I even surprised when the first time we met again at supermarket.

Elliot looks up when I approach, and his face breaks into something soft. Not quite a smile.

"Hey," he says, slipping the phone into his pocket.

"Hey." I pause. "You really brought the camera?"