Eli tried to say the city's name three times before admitting something was wrong.
He stood in front of his bathroom mirror, toothbrush in hand, staring at his own reflection like it might answer for him.
"I live in…" he started.
Nothing came out.
Not silence—just a blank space in his mind, like a word caught behind glass. He knew the city had a name. Of course it did. Cities didn't exist without names.
Except this one might.
He shook his head, annoyed at himself, and tried again. "I live in—"
His chest tightened.
The harder he pushed, the further the name slipped away, like water through his fingers.
At breakfast, he tested it.
"Hey, Mom," Eli said carefully. "Do you know why our city's name isn't on any signs?"
She didn't even look up from her coffee. "Why would it need to be?"
Eli froze. "Because… it's a city."
She smiled patiently. "Eli, you're overthinking again."
At school, he listened harder than ever. Teachers said things like this city, around here, downtown. No one used a name. Not once.
During history class, Eli flipped through his textbook. Pages that should've mentioned local history jumped straight from state facts to national events.
No chapter. No headline. No name.
At lunch, he leaned toward Jonah. "What city do we live in?"
Jonah laughed—then stopped.
"Uh," Jonah said. "Hold on."
Five seconds passed.
Ten.
Jonah frowned. "That's weird."
The bell rang before he could finish the thought.
That afternoon, Eli pulled out his phone and typed what should've been obvious.
"Name of this city"
The search bar cleared itself.
No error message. No results.
Just erased.
As Eli lowered his phone, the announcement system crackled to life above him—static whispering through the halls.
For half a second, he thought he heard a voice say his name.
And then the speakers went silent.
The city didn't want to be named.
And Eli was starting to understand why.