All it takes is a few weeks for things to change. When I walk in class, I stand there for a second, looking for him. He's always in the back, scribbling something into a black, Moleskin notebook. I know it's not for class because of how engaged he is.

Atlas doesn't notice when I take the seat next to him. I can hear the sound of music blaring from his earphones, but it's only audible if you notice it. The class begins and finishes, and he's still writing something. I'm racking my brain wondering what he could be writing this whole time. When the teacher glances over him, he smiles thinking that Atlas is writing notes. Every once in a while, he looks up and meets the teacher's eyes, as if letting him know that he's listening.

I spend the next thirty minutes trying not to make it evident that I'm staring at him. It's fruitless. He has no idea I'm here. Maybe it's because he's not used to people staring at him. He's always been here, in the back. Despite his lack of focus during class, he still gets the highest grades. It seemed like he wasn't trying, but I can see a stack of books that he borrowed from the library. There's something for every subject. He's reading something about writing for English class and a book that overs American History.

I guess what's taught here just isn't sufficient enough for him.

I don't know what's gotten to me. When the class is dismissed, I spend too long packing my things, waiting for him to walk out first. I'm pretending to be texting someone as I follow him down the hall. He finds a nice corner and sits on the floor, increasing the volume of the music he's listening to and then continuing to write something down.

Why am I so nervous all of a sudden?

He doesn't seem like the shy type. Atlas gives you the impression that he doesn't need any company, that someone coming up to him is more of a burden. He's always immersed in something. Whenever he's doing something, he focuses all his senses there. He doesn't look up when he sees me approach and then slowly pass by him. He doesn't even blink.

I sigh and keep walking, knowing I have to meet my friends for lunch.

As I sit there, I'm half listening to them talking about a test and half thinking about Atlas, wondering what he's doing right now. He doesn't have to endure any of this, sitting and pretending to be interested in this girl whose name I can't remember goes on and on about a party. Olive and Wren are excited. I'm mentally writing down a list of excuses of why I can't come. However, the trick only works if I pretend to be excited now and bummed later when Eleonora 'tells' me that I can't go.

Olive taps my shoulder. "You're coming, right? It'll be fun."

My first thought is wondering if Atlas would be there. He doesn't seem like the party type. I don't know him enough to tell. Maybe I should ask.

Or not.

I smile for added effect. "Of course! Sounds great."

Olive starts planning what outfit she's gonna wear. A dress or a nice shirt. She can't decide if she's going for casual or a more formal look. Olive doesn't even like this kind of things, but she's always trying to be out there and do things. She'll probably drink a little and talk to the girls all night. They probably will have fun, but I'm not sure how I can do that right now.

"I need to go to the restroom," I tell Olive, grabbing my bag and walking out.

I feel pathetic as I circle around the school, stopping where I last saw Atlas. Of course he's not still sitting there. He probably went inside to eat or back to the library.

"Luna."

I turn around slowly.

Here he is, standing there with a smile on his face. He knows I've been looking for him. He probably noticed me earlier when I was standing here like an idiot and when I was watching him in class. Why didn't I think of that? There's no way he didn't see two eyeballs focused on him all day, stalking him.

!!!

"Um . . . I wasn't . . . ." I'm not sure where I'm going with this. I can tell him that I wasn't looking for him, but that would only make things worse. I don't wanna draw attention to the fact that I've been trying to get him to talk to me all day.

But he already knows this, because his cheeks are a little red.

"Come on," he says, leading me back to the quiet corner in the library.

It's only when we're sitting down on the hardwood floors that I actually get the courage to say something. "You're always writing," I say, motioning toward the black Moleskin notebook he's holding. It's small, easy enough to slip in a pocket if you're coat is big enough. "If you don't mind me asking, those don't look like class notes."

He shakes his head. "They're not."

I wait for him to elaborate, but I can see by the way he's fiddling with the corner of his notebook that he's nervous. I'm not sure whether it's me or the contents of his notebook. "Is it a story or a journal . . . ?"

"No, no! Nothing like that." He laughs. "Whenever I read a book, I like to write down my thoughts about it, dissecting the meanings behind everything. Some authors are inconsistent without realizing it and something they write something down just because it sounds clever, but it doesn't actually make sense." He's staring at his feet and then back at me, biting the bottom of his lip.

"That sounds cool. So, you're like, reviewing the book?"

He thinks about it for a second before nodding. "I guess so."

"Do you wanna be a journalist or something."

He shakes his head. "It's mostly about books for me. I haven't really figured out what I wanna do just yet, but it doesn't matter. We have a long time."

"I know what I wanna do," I say, smiling proudly.

He grins. "And what's that?"

"I'm gonna be a writer," I say. "That's what I've always wanted to do. I'm gonna major in fiction writing and just keep doing that until I make it. Hey, you might end up reviewing one of my books!"

He smiles, looking down at his notebook. It's bent at awkward places and the glue keeping the cover and the first page together is beginning to wear off as he keeps picking at it. "Maybe," he says. "I'm kind of harsh."

"I don't mind harsh. Sugarcoating never helps anybody. All you need is a good review that tells you what sucks so you can work on it."

And just like that, the tension between us begins to dissolve. We start to talking and Atlas asks me what kind of books I like to write. Middle Grade is my answer, a little bit of action but not too hardcore. Sometimes I implement some fantasy. However, they're not really for children. An adult can read the book and see it in a completely different perspective.

"Can I see your notebook?"

"Um . . . ." He's hesitant at first, holding onto it. But then he nods slowly and hands it to me. "Sure," he says.

I crack open the first page where his name is written in large, cursive letters.

The first few pages are dedicated to classics. The Catcher in the Rye is the first one he mentions. He writes the title at the top, starting with the first ten chapters and then the second ten. Atlas discuses everything about that book. It sounds like something an English teacher would write, over-analyzing every line and the meaning of everything. He has mixed feelings about it, I can tell. Sometimes it seems like he likes and other time he makes it out to be the worst book in the world. He dislikes the inconsistencies in Holden's character and how he comes off as a jerk, asking people uncomfortable questions but never answering personal questions about himself. Atlas loves the name Holden and how the novel perfectly portrays a teenager. Holden hasn't yet figured himself out. While other popular young adult novels where the main character seems to know where his or her life is headed, Holden is lost and trying to navigate through life. All he wants is someone he can talk to, and yet he can never find someone that listens.

I continue reading through pages and pages. It lasts for at least ten pages, front and back.

When I look up, I'm smiling. I didn't like that book either, but that's not way.

"That's pretty good," I say. "Though, if that's what you want to do for a living, then you'll have to sum it up."

He laughs, his cheeks turning red. "I don't know if that's what I wanna do. For now, it's fun. Making it into a career might take the fun out of doing it."

"I don't know if I agree with that," I say. "Shouldn't you do the thing that you love? Wouldn't it be fun regardless?"

"Yes, but you have the deadlines and people making you review certain books and write certain things. I'll be inclined to make a popular author sound good so that they can include my review in a blurb. Besides that, I don't think I'm good at working with other people. Especially since I have a hard time making my reviews short."

I nod, slowly, beginning to understand. Writing is everything to me, but I can't imagine losing the fun in it just because I'm trying hard to get published. I think I'd still do it regardless of the outcome.