Chapter 3: The Page in the Stack

Jake slipped the stack of sign-up forms into his backpack as he walked away from Ethan, the papers crinkling against his textbooks. He didn’t think much of it at first — just another school thing to handle, fill out the form, sign it, drop it off to Coach by Tuesday. Ethan had been cool about it, like always. No big deal.

He headed to first period, history, sliding into his seat near the back. The teacher started droning on about some war or another, but Jake’s mind wandered. He unzipped his bag to pull out his notebook, and that’s when he saw it — a loose, folded sheet sticking out from between the sign-up forms. It wasn’t one of Coach’s papers; the edges were jagged, like it had been torn from a spiral notebook. Curious, he pulled it out discreetly under his desk.

The front side was a pencil sketch. Of him. His face, captured in careful lines — the way his hair fell, the freckles on his nose, his eyes looking calm and distant. It was good. Really good. But who the hell drew this? And how did it end up in his hands?

He flipped it over. The back was filled with handwriting — neat, slanted cursive. Three lines, like notes or a poem:

“I love the way he talks — soft, never rushed, like every word matters. He doesn’t shout to be heard; he just says what needs saying and everyone listens anyway.”

“The way he cares… it’s quiet. He notices when someone’s hurting before they even say it. He’ll hand you a water bottle without making a fuss, or stay late to help pick up gear. No one else sees it the way I do.”

“His face when he smiles — small, real, not for show — it stops me every time. The freckles across his nose catch the sun after practice. His hazel eyes soften when he thinks no one’s watching. I could look at him forever and still find something new.”

Jake’s breath caught. This wasn’t random. This was about him. The description matched — his voice, his habits on the field, even the way he smiled. But who wrote this? And why did it feel so… personal? Like someone had been watching him closely, noticing things even he didn’t pay attention to.

Then it hit him. The page had been mixed in with the sign-up forms. Forms Ethan had just handed him. Ethan, who’d been acting a little off this morning — nervous laugh, quick handover. Ethan, who’d been around him more than usual this year, in their shared English class. Was this… from Ethan?

No way. That didn’t make sense. But the thought stuck, and Jake’s mind spiraled. He shoved the page back into his bag, face heating up as the teacher called on someone else. Inner arguments exploded in his head.

It’s not Ethan. He’s just a classmate. But why else would it be with his papers?

He thought back to their first meeting. Freshman year, PE class — a required gym period everyone had to take back then. They’d been paired for relays. Jake had tripped on a loose shoelace, sprawling on the gym floor. Ethan had been the first to help him up — not laughing like some kids, just offering a hand with a quiet “You good?” Jake had brushed it off, but Ethan had stuck around after, tying the lace for him like it was no big deal. Was that when it started? Did Ethan see something then?

Or the locker room incident later that same freshman year. Jake had been fumbling with his shirt collar after changing, the fabric twisted awkwardly. Ethan, passing by, had reached over without a word and straightened it, fingers brushing Jake’s neck for a second. “There. Looks better.” Jake had mumbled thanks, but now it felt different. Was that a sign? Did I miss it?

Then there was the time last year Jake had noticed Ethan exhausted after a long day — slouched in the hall, looking drained. Jake had handed over his water bottle without thinking. “Here, you look like you need this more than me.” Ethan had smiled, grateful, and they’d talked for a minute about nothing. But maybe it was something to him. Maybe I didn’t notice, but he did.

And more recent stuff — English class this year. Group projects. Naya and Jake had been assigned together first, chatting about the book. Ethan had volunteered to join them, swapping with someone else. “Mind if I hop in?” he’d said casually. At the time, Jake thought it was just to avoid a bad group. But now? Was he trying to be closer? Watching me the way this page describes?

The bell for first period rang, jolting Jake out of it. He packed up, but the page burned in his mind through second period math, third period science. It can’t be Ethan. He’s straight-up normal. But the words… “no one else sees it the way I do.” That sounds like him — always noticing small stuff, like when I’m off my game at practice.

And then the bigger thought crept in, the one he couldn’t shake: If this is from Ethan… it’s a boy.

Jake had received confessions before — three times, all from girls. Freshman year, a girl from his PE class had slipped a note into his locker after he helped her carry equipment. Sophomore year, two more: one during lunch, stammering and blushing; another after a game, waiting outside the locker room. Each time, Jake had been kind but clear. “I’m flattered, really. But I don’t… feel that way. Sorry.” It wasn’t that he disliked them; he just didn’t feel romantic about anyone. Never had. Romance was something he saw in movies, in his teammates’ stories, but not in himself. He didn’t have that side. He liked people as friends, teammates, classmates — but attraction? That part was missing. Completely. And he was fine with it. Or at least he had been.

Now this page, these words… if they were from Ethan, it felt weird. Uncomfortable. Not because it was a guy — Jake didn’t care about that part — but because it was so specific, so intense, so personal. Someone had been paying that much attention to him, writing about him like this. And if it was Ethan, then what? Do I pretend I didn’t see it? Do I give it back and say “this fell out”? Or do I just… ignore it and hope it goes away?

The idea of confronting Ethan made his stomach twist. What would I even say? “Hey, is this yours? Because it’s super detailed and kinda creepy”? No. That would make everything awkward forever. But keeping it felt wrong too. Like he was hiding something he didn’t ask for.

Lunch came and went; Jake barely tasted his food, staring at the table while his friends joked around. If it is Ethan, how do I act normal in English class? Do I look at him differently now? Or just act like nothing happened?

Fourth period dragged. By the end, Jake’s head was a mess. The arguments wouldn’t stop — past moments replaying, twisting into something new. I didn’t notice, but maybe he did. All this time. And now I have this thing in my bag that I don’t know what to do with.

The bell rang for the end of fourth. Last class: English. Where Ethan and Naya would be. Jake grabbed his bag, the torn page still inside, hidden but heavy.

He headed to the room, heart pounding.

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