Rosa Linwood
Monday, 4:36 pm, September 10, 2025
Oakridge always felt like a town frozen in time. The streets never changed, and the people rarely did. But for me, everything was changing.
It started with a look. One stolen glance from Elijah Ward.
He had this quiet kind of presence—like a page in a book you keep rereading because something about it just feels right. I knew I shouldn't have fallen for him. Not when we were all just friends. But my heart had other plans.
I started writing poems about him. Nothing fancy. Just small verses scribbled into the margins of my school notes:
"He walks like dusk, Eyes like winter rain, And when he smiles, I forget my name."
I never told anyone. Not even my sister.
Speaking of which—Jessica Linwood, age 19, queen of bad decisions and late-night snacks. She was home from college for a break, and I was trying hard to forget that she had started secretly dating someone totally off-limits: Mr. Beckett, the new 27-year-old science teacher.
She'd sneak out after dinner and come back with his cologne clinging to her hoodie. She thought I didn't notice. But I did. I noticed everything.
we were all in the courtyard after school. The six of us: Elijah, Simon, Cat, Maddie, Nathaniel, and me. Maddie was tossing a tennis ball between her hands. Cat was dramatically retelling a story that probably never happened. Simon was sketching something in his journal, as always. Nathaniel had this serious face texting someone on his phone. Probably his girlfriend.
And Elijah—he sat beside me.
He offered me half his granola bar. I took it.
"Thanks," I said, trying to sound casual. "You always eat these."
He shrugged. "They're the only thing that tastes the same every time. No surprises."
I nodded, pretending not to read too much into that. But later, I scribbled another poem:
"You gave me something steady, In a world that always shifts. But I fear I'm just a shadow, And you'll never see the rift."
That night, Jessica came into my room.
"I think I love him," she said, flopping onto my bed.
"Mr. Beckett?"
She blinked. "How do you know?"
"Please. You're not subtle."
She groaned. "He gets me, Rosa. He listens. And yeah, I know it's messed up, but he's only eighteen years older."
"It's still illegal."
She sighed. "He's waiting until I turn twenty."
"He's your teacher."
"Not anymore."
I didn't want to fight. So I changed the subject.
"Do you think someone like Elijah would ever go for a girl like me?"
Jessica sat up. "You mean emotionally tortured, book-obsessed, introvert with a secret poetry addiction?"
I rolled my eyes. "Forget it."
She smiled. "Yes, Rosa. Absolutely."
The next morning, I left early to get to school. Elijah and I shared English Lit. He sat behind me. I always knew when he was about to speak because he'd tap his pen twice. Just a little rhythm. Our secret code.
That day, he leaned forward and whispered, "Want to hang out after school Wednesday? Just the group. You in?"
My heart skipped. "Yeah. Of course."
He smiled. "Cool."
It was Monday.
That smile stayed with me all day. I replayed it over and over—during history, through lunch, and even in math, which usually demanded every ounce of my brainpower. It wasn't just that he invited me. It was the way he said it, the way he smiled after. Like I mattered.
I caught glimpses of the others in the hall between classes. Cat laughing too loudly by her locker, probably embellishing another story. Maddie in her team jacket, earbuds in, eyes set like she was already on the court. Nathaniel, of course, holding court by the vending machines—people always gravitated to him, like gravity worked harder in his direction.
Simon was the only one who seemed to float through the school unnoticed, except by me. He walked with a sketchbook tucked under his arm and always looked like he was a step out of sync with the world. We weren't close, but we shared something unspoken—an understanding that silence could be its own language.
By the time the final bell rang, I already knew my answer to Elijah's question had meant more than I could admit. Not just to me, but maybe to all of us. The group hadn't really hung out together since the start of the semester. We were drifting, and none of us wanted to admit it.
That night, I sat on my bedroom floor, notebooks open around me like fallen leaves. I tried to write about the feeling—the hope, the ache, the flicker of something almost real.
"A glance becomes a question,
A smile becomes a thread.
But strings can snap like secrets do,
And some words are best unread."
Jessica barged in without knocking, per usual. She was wearing one of Mr. Beckett's sweatshirts again. I could tell because it practically swallowed her whole, and it still smelled faintly of his aftershave.
"You've been daydreaming again," she teased, flopping onto my bed like a queen claiming her throne.
I closed my notebook fast. "You don't know that."
"I do. You get this distant, dreamy look. It's kind of cute. But also kind of tragic." She reached for one of my pens and twirled it. "So? Elijah?"
I didn't answer, but I didn't have to.
"Oh my god, he asked you out!"
"Not out. Just—everyone's hanging out Wednesday. That's all."
"Uh-huh. Sure. Just a casual hangout with the boy you write literal poetry about."
"Jess—"
"Okay, okay," she grinned. "I'm not judging. Honestly, I'm rooting for you. You deserve something good. Not all of us get that."
She said it with a strange twist in her voice. Like she already knew her thing with Mr. Beckett wasn't going to end well.
"What are you gonna wear?" she asked, stretching out on the bed.
I shrugged. "Does it matter?"
"It always matters."
I rolled my eyes but smiled anyway. Jessica could be overbearing, dramatic, and reckless, but she always knew how to make me feel a little less invisible.
"Just wear something that feels like you," she added, her voice softer now. "Not the quiet version you think everyone prefers. The real you. You're more powerful than you realize, Rosa."
I didn't know how to respond to that, so I just nodded.