The 18th Shade Of Summer (Fractured Script Series #1)

CHAPTER 07

It became a routine. Not something we talked about or planned but just something that settled in. Like brushing your teeth without thinking or flipping your pillow to the cold side. Except this time, it was sticky notes.

Mine were simple. Plain yellow or blue, leftovers from old notebooks and exam seasons. Nothing cute, nothing fancy. I didn't see the point in using the pretty ones for something that never lasted more than a day.

His, though...

Whoever he was, he had a collection. Stars, cassette tapes, even teacup-shaped ones that looked like something you'd buy on a dare. They were ridiculous and yet, somehow, they made his messages feel... lighter. Like he didn't take himself too seriously. Like this whole thing — this paper conversation — was his way of making space in the world.

But every morning, before school or work, there'd be something on my door and every night, before bed, I'd leave one on his.

We didn't say anything big but just... things.

"Why does your playlist go from Bach to death metal?? I'm scared."
— "Because moods are complicated."

"My rice turned into porridge."
— "Use less water next time or embrace the soup."

"There's a dog downstairs that looks like he pays rent."
— "Hansel, I gave him that name after I gave him a biscuit. He sniffed and walked away."

Some were funny, some were strange, and some didn't even make sense but I kept them all. Folded, stacked quietly in the top drawer of my desk, like keeping proof that this wasn't all in my head.

But then there were days when the notes didn't try to be funny. When they just said things I hadn't realized I needed to hear.

"The wall's thin, but I hear your silence too."
—"Some nights, I stop playing because I think you're trying to sleep."

Those ones stayed in my mind. Not because they were romantic or dramatic but because they weren't. They just felt... real.

It was close to 1 AM when I found myself on the floor again, leaning against the wall between our units. No music tonight. No noise, just the dull hum of the fridge in the background and the pencil in my hand.

I'd been sketching for a while.

The page in front of me was filled with incomplete attempts. Fragments of a face that didn't really exist. A jawline, nose, hair that could belong to anyone. I kept changing it. Erasing. Redrawing. Trying again.

But it was all made up.

I didn't know what he looked like. Not even a glimpse. Not even once.

Just a name I didn't have, songs through the wall and notes taped to doors.

I set the pencil down and rubbed my eyes.

'What was I even doing?'

Trying to give shape to someone I'd never seen... someone I talked to without ever speaking. It felt childish, or lonely, or both.

But I didn't stop. I just sat there, staring at the sketch with the hollow space where the eyes should be. I couldn't fill them in. I didn't know what they'd say.

I pressed my fingers lightly against the page then I whispered "Who are you?"

It sounded stupid out loud like talking to a dream.

I reached over and grabbed a sticky note. Just a plain yellow square. I sat with it for a while, the pen resting in my hand, my heart suddenly feeling louder than the silence.