#simdraftslore

March, Week 2 — Saturday —

Evan’s hands were already warm when he pulled up in front of Salma’s house.

Not from the drive — from nerves.

He shut the engine off and sat there for half a second longer than necessary, breathing in through his nose like he was bracing himself for something big. When the front door opened and Salma stepped out, jacket zipped halfway, hair loose, smiling like this was something she’d been looking forward to all morning, the nerves didn’t go away.

They just softened.

“Hey,” she said as she climbed into the passenger seat.

“Hey,” he replied, voice steadier than he felt.

She buckled in and glanced around the cab, then looked back at him. “So… where are we going?”

Evan pulled away from the curb, eyes on the road. “Somewhere beautiful.”

Salma watched him for a second, then smiled and leaned back in her seat. “Okay,” she said. “I like that.”

The drive unfolded easily. Music low. Windows cracked. The scenery thinning as the road opened up. Evan drove like he wanted the moment to arrive intact. Salma didn’t ask again where they were going. She didn’t need to.

When he finally pulled over, the place looked like it had been waiting for them — open grass, a line of trees just starting to hint at spring, sunlight spreading across the ground like it had nowhere better to be.

Salma let out a quiet, amazed sound. “Evan…”

“Hold on,” he said, already hopping out and grabbing a folded blanket from the back.

He led her a short way off the path. When they crested the small rise, everything was already set up.

The blanket laid out neatly. A basket to one side. Paints and brushes arranged carefully, like someone had practiced placing them — and then practiced again.

Salma stopped.

“You did all this?” she asked.

Evan shrugged, suddenly shy. “Yeah. I, uh… I asked one of your home ec people what would be good to make. Picnic-wise. I didn’t want to mess it up.”

Her smile widened, eyes bright with something like awe. “You asked for help?”

He laughed under his breath. “I asked for a lot of help.”

She laughed too, stepping closer, taking it all in. “This is really beautiful.”

Something in his chest loosened at that. “I’m glad.”

They sat together, legs stretched out, shoulders close but not pressed. The food was simple but thoughtful — familiar flavors, warm and comforting instead of showy. Salma took a bite of something and looked up at him.

“This is really good.”

“Yeah?” His ears warmed.

“Yeah,” she said. “You did great.”

Conversation came easily after that. Slower than school, softer than routine. They talked about things they hadn’t circled before — small stories, half-formed thoughts, things that felt safer out here. Time moved differently, like it had agreed not to rush them.

Eventually, Evan reached for the paint.

“I thought,” he said, hesitating, “I could show you. If you want.”

Salma eyed the brushes. “I’m bad at that.”

“That’s okay,” he said quickly. “You don’t have to be.”

She smiled. “Okay. Show me.”

He scooted closer, guiding her hand gently, explaining without correcting. Salma laughed when the colors blended into something messy and unexpected, when paint smudged onto her fingers.

“This is terrible,” she said, grinning.

“It’s not,” Evan said. “It’s just… yours.”

They kept painting, teasing each other lightly. Evan insisted a paint streak on her sleeve was “intentional.” Salma told him he was lying and tried to wipe it off, only making it worse.

“Stop,” she laughed, nudging his shoulder. “You’re objectively wrong.”

“I’m an artist,” he said. “I don’t do objective.”

She laughed again, leaning forward to grab a napkin at the same time Evan reached for it from the other side.

They bumped foreheads.

“Sorry—”

“Sorry—”

They laughed, still a little breathless, still close.

Evan pulled back just enough to look at her. He hadn’t planned on leaning in — it happened like a question he didn’t realize he was asking. He hesitated, just a beat.

Salma didn’t.

She closed the distance and kissed him, quick and soft and slightly crooked, like it surprised her too.

When they pulled apart, neither of them said anything.

They just smiled.

Evan shook his head once, still grinning like he couldn’t quite believe his luck. Salma laughed quietly and bumped her knee against his.

They stayed like that for another moment, the afternoon settling back around them like nothing had been disrupted — only improved.

When they finally packed up, Salma folded her painting carefully.

“I’m keeping this,” she said.

He smiled. “Good.”

As they walked back toward the truck, Salma reached for his hand without looking. Evan’s fingers laced with hers easily, like it had already been decided.

The drive home felt quieter — not awkward, just full.

—

Salma Suleman

March, Week 2 — Saturday —

Salma decided early not to ask too many questions.

When Evan said somewhere beautiful, she let the words settle and trusted them. She watched the road instead — the way his hands stayed steady on the wheel, the way he glanced over like he was checking that she was still there.

She was.

Seeing everything set up made her chest ache in a good way. Not because it was impressive — but because it was thoughtful. Because he’d tried. Because he’d wanted this to be right.

Sitting with him felt different from school. From habits and routines and half-stolen moments. This was chosen.

Painting beside him was freeing in a way she hadn’t expected. Not because she was good at it — she wasn’t — but because she didn’t have to be. When she messed up, Evan smiled like that was part of the point.

The kiss happened without announcement. Without planning. One second laughter, the next closeness, and then suddenly —

Oh.

She smiled afterward more than she spoke.

Walking back to the truck with her hand in his felt easy. Natural. Like the day had gently nudged them somewhere new and neither of them had resisted.

This wasn’t just a date.

March, Week 2 — Thursday —

Evan had rehearsed this. Not in full sentences — just fragments. Openers. Breaths. The idea of it.

None of them survived the moment.

Salma stood in front of him near the edge of the courtyard, bag slung over one shoulder, sunlight catching in her hair. She was mid-sentence about something Breana had said that morning, hands moving as she talked, completely at ease. Evan nodded along, smiled in the right places, barely registered the words.

His friends stood a few feet behind her. Not close enough to be obvious. Not far enough to be helpful.

One of them gave a thumbs-up. Another mouthed now.

Evan swallowed.

“Hey, um—” he started, then stopped. He rubbed his thumb against the strap of his bag, eyes dropping to the ground like it might offer guidance. His face felt warm. Too warm.

Salma tilted her head. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” he said quickly. Too quickly. “Yeah. I just—”

He glanced past her without meaning to.

Salma noticed. She turned, following his line of sight.

Behind her, his friends froze.

One pretended to check his phone. Another bent down like he’d dropped something. A third waved awkwardly, then immediately stopped waving.

They all suddenly found the sky very interesting.

Salma blinked, confused, then turned back to Evan, eyebrows raised in amused curiosity. “What was that?”

Evan closed his eyes for half a second.

Just say it.

He took a breath. A real one. Then another.

“I was just wondering,” he said, voice quieter now, steadier because he wasn’t trying to be smooth anymore. He still couldn’t quite look at her — his gaze hovered somewhere near her shoulder, her hands, the space between them. “If you maybe wanted to—”

He stopped. Winced. Restarted.

“Sorry. I’m bad at this.”

Salma smiled, already softer, already leaning in without realizing it. “Evan—”

“Would you want to go on a date with me?” he blurted, words tumbling over each other at the end like they were afraid of being taken back. “Like. An actual date. With me.”

Silence.

Not long. Just long enough.

Salma stared at him.

Her brain went completely, wonderfully blank.

Oh.

Oh.

She opened her mouth. Nothing came out.

Evan’s heart dropped straight through his chest.

“Oh—” he said quickly, heat flooding his face. “I mean, it’s totally fine if you don’t—I didn’t mean to make it weird, I just thought— I mean, we already— not that it’s assumed or anything—”

“Evan.”

Her voice cut through the spiral gently.

He looked up then, finally, eyes wide and apologetic and a little terrified.

“Yes?”

Salma was smiling so hard it almost hurt.

“Yes,” she said immediately. “I would love to.”

The words rushed out of her now, bright and unfiltered. “Yes. I want to. Very much.”

Evan blinked.

Then smiled.

A real one. Wide and unguarded and unmistakably relieved, like the world had just shifted back into alignment.

“Okay,” he said, laughing under his breath, cheeks still pink. “Okay. Good.”

Salma laughed too, warmth blooming in her chest as she watched him — watched the tension leave his shoulders, watched his smile mirror hers like it had been waiting to.

Behind her, one of his friends silently celebrated.

Salma didn’t turn around this time.

They lingered longer than usual after school.

The parking lot was thinning out, the sky dimming into that soft, end-of-day gray that made everything feel momentary. Evan shifted his bag on his shoulder, fingers brushing the folded page inside like it might disappear if he didn’t acknowledge it.

“Hey,” he said. “Before you go.”

Salma turned back, unhurried. “Yeah?”

He pulled the paper from his bag, holding it out carefully, already half-shrugging. “I—um. I made this. It’s not finished or anything. Just… something.”

She took it slowly.

When she opened it, everything about her stilled.

It was her — not posed, not performing. Caught mid-thought, eyes soft, mouth just on the edge of a smile. It wasn’t how she looked in mirrors or photos. It was how she felt when she wasn’t trying.

She looked up at him, a little stunned. “Evan…”

He glanced away, embarrassed. “You don’t have to keep it if you don’t want—”

“This is how you see me?” she asked.

He nodded once. “Yeah.”

She folded the paper carefully, like it mattered. “I love it,” she said simply.

Then she reached into her tote and pulled out a small container, wrapped neatly in foil.

“I made you something,” she said, suddenly shy. “From that restaurant you told me about. The one that closed.”

Evan blinked. “You remembered that?”

“You talked about it like it mattered,” she said. “You can heat it up later. I wasn’t sure when you’d get home.”

Something in his chest shifted.

“Thank you,” he said, quietly.

They stood there for a second longer than necessary before splitting off, the goodbye gentle instead of heavy — more see you than leaving.

—

Evan Hayes Later That Night —

Evan set the container on the counter as soon as he got home.

The house was calm, his parents moving through it with their usual quiet efficiency. He peeled back the foil just enough to look, then slid the dish into the oven, setting the timer carefully.

When the smell started to bloom, it stopped him in his tracks.

His mom passed through the kitchen and paused. “That smells familiar.”

He glanced up. “Yeah?”

She frowned slightly, thinking. “Did that place on Chestnut reopen? The one you liked when you were younger?”

“No,” Evan said. After a beat, he added, “Someone made it for me.”

She looked at him for a moment, then smiled — small, genuine. “That was thoughtful.”

“Yeah,” he said. “It was.”

She moved on, the moment left hanging but warm.

When the timer went off, Evan plated the food and sat at the table alone. The first bite pulled something loose — memory, comfort, a sense of being known that surprised him with its intensity.

He ate slowly.

When he finished, he washed the container carefully and set it aside instead of throwing it away.

Upstairs, he pulled his sketchbook from his bag and stared at the blank space where her drawing had been.

For the first time, giving something of himself hadn’t felt like loss.

It felt mutual.

—

Salma Suleman February, Week 2 — Friday —

Salma didn’t open the sketch again until she was alone.

She sat on her bed and unfolded it carefully, tracing the lines with her eyes like she was memorizing them. He hadn’t drawn her trying. He’d drawn her being.

She smiled, heart steady, and tucked the sketch into a book she kept close — somewhere safe.

Valentine’s Day hadn’t been loud.

It hadn’t needed to be.

Lunch had already started when Evan got there.

He slid into his usual seat and dropped his bag beside him, glancing up more out of habit than expectation. He knew Salma would show. She always did. Still, the chair next to him stayed empty longer than he was used to.

A friend across the table smirked. “Running solo today?”

Evan shrugged. “She’ll be here.”

Someone else leaned back. “Confident.”

He smiled, easy. “Yeah.”

The conversation drifted, but Evan’s attention stayed loosely tethered to the entrance. When Salma finally appeared, tray balanced in one hand, hair a little undone, his chest eased without him realizing it had tightened at all.

She spotted him immediately.

“Sorry,” she said as she sat down beside him. “Got stuck after class.”

“No worries,” Evan replied, shifting so their shoulders brushed. “I figured.”

She reached over and stole a fry from his tray without asking.

“Rude,” he said.

“You love it.”

Someone at the table laughed. “You two are ridiculous.”

Evan didn’t argue.

—

DECA ran long.

It wasn’t unusual — reminders, planning, someone asking one more question on the way out. By the time Evan checked the clock, the hallway outside was already thinning.

He grabbed his bag and headed toward Salma’s lockers anyway, slowing as he approached.

She wasn’t there.

It didn’t spike into worry. Just awareness. A small disruption in the shape of the day.

He pulled out his phone.

Where you at?

The reply came quickly.

Already headed out 😭 thought you’d be busy

He didn’t think about it long.

Wait. I’m coming.

He jogged the rest of the way, breath slightly uneven by the time he spotted her halfway down the hall. She turned at the sound of her name, surprise breaking into a smile.

“Hey,” she said.

“Hey,” he replied, falling into step beside her like nothing had been interrupted at all.

—

Salma Suleman February, Week 1 — Wednesday —

Salma hated being late to lunch.

Not because she missed anything important — just because Evan was always already there, and she didn’t like making him wait. She hurried through the hallway, already scanning the table before she reached it.

He was there.

Relief settled warmly in her chest as she dropped into the seat beside him.

“Sorry,” she said again, quieter this time.

He smiled. “You’re fine.”

Someone across the table raised an eyebrow. “You apologizing now?”

Salma laughed. “Only when it matters.”

Evan bumped her shoulder lightly with his own, and she leaned into it without thinking.

Later, when school let out, Salma slowed automatically near her lockers.

Evan wasn’t there.

She checked her phone once, then started walking. He was probably busy. It didn’t bother her — it just registered as different.

Her phone buzzed.

Wait. I’m coming.

She stopped without thinking.

When Evan caught up to her, slightly out of breath, she smiled. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I wanted to,” he said, like it was obvious.

They walked the rest of the way together, steps falling into sync again. Someone passing by called out, “Do you two ever separate?”

Salma laughed, bumping Evan gently with her arm. “Sometimes.”

“Briefly,” Evan added.

The joke followed them down the hall, light and affectionate.

The interruption had been small. Almost nothing.

But the way it corrected itself — automatically, without discussion — made something clear as they parted ways.

Being together wasn’t something they planned anymore.

It didn’t happen all at once.

The first time, Evan arrived at the table early and dropped his bag into the chair beside him without thinking about it. When his friend started to sit there anyway, Evan caught his eye and tilted his head—just slightly.

The look was enough.

His friend sighed, exaggerated, and slid down a seat. “You’re annoying,” he muttered.

Evan didn’t respond. He just waited.

Salma showed up a minute later, tray balanced in one hand. She paused when she saw the open seat, then looked at Evan. Something passed between them—recognition, maybe. She sat down without asking.

They talked like usual. Laughed. Ate. Nothing about it felt like a decision.

By midweek, Evan started lingering by the lockers near her class. Not obviously waiting. Just… there. Adjusting his bag. Checking his phone. When Salma came out and spotted him, her smile came easy, like it belonged to the sight of him standing there.

They walked together more often than not after that. Sometimes all the way to her classroom. Sometimes only halfway. Their shoulders brushed. Their steps matched without effort.

One night, his phone buzzed while he was doing homework.

You here yet?

He stared at the screen for half a second before replying.

Outside.

K.

It wasn’t a plan. It didn’t need to be.

By Friday, they had an inside joke no one else seemed to understand. Someone would say something ordinary, and Evan would glance at Salma, and she’d already be smiling. Their laughter came late, just a beat behind everyone else’s, like an echo only they shared.

By the end of January, people stopped asking why they were always together.

It was just assumed.

When February arrived, cold settling deeper into the mornings, Evan realized he hadn’t thought about before in a while. There was just this—walking with her, sitting beside her, hearing his name in her voice and expecting it.

When they split off at the end of the day, it didn’t feel like an ending.

Just a pause.

—

Salma Suleman January, Week 3 → February, Week 1 —

At first, Salma noticed the little things.

The way Evan always seemed to get there first. The way there was always space beside him. The way he looked up when she approached, like he’d already decided where she belonged.

She let it happen.

She didn’t question it, didn’t tease him about it. She just sat, just walked, just stayed. The ease of it surprised her more than the closeness did.

By the middle of the week, she started looking for him without meaning to. Not anxiously. Just instinctively. When she spotted him by her lockers, waiting without looking like he was waiting, she smiled and fell into step beside him.

No explanation required.

Their messages started sounding different too. Shorter. Assumed. Less do you want and more where are you.

She liked that.

By Friday, someone at the table frowned when they laughed at something no one else caught. “What’s funny?”

Salma shook her head, still smiling. “You had to be there.”

And she meant it.

January faded quietly. February came in with cold hands and gray mornings, but Salma felt warm more often than not. When she walked with Evan now, it felt settled—like something she didn’t have to think about to enjoy.

When they parted ways at the end of the day, she didn’t feel the absence immediately.

She knew she’d see him again.

School felt sharper after winter break.

The halls were louder, colder somehow, like everyone had come back carrying the weight of January with them. Evan adjusted his grip on his bag as he moved through the crowd, already scanning without meaning to.

He spotted Salma near the lockers.

She turned when she saw him, and the smile that crossed her face wasn’t surprised — it was immediate. Familiar. Like it had been waiting for him to arrive.

Something in his chest shifted.

“Hey,” he said, stepping closer.

“Hey,” she replied, eyes bright.

They fell into step together without talking about it. Evan matched her pace easily, walking beside her like it was something they’d done a hundred times already. The conversation started soft — a comment about how unfair it was to be back, how winter break hadn’t been long enough — but it didn’t need much to keep going.

At one point, Salma bumped her shoulder into his.

Not hard. Not apologetic. Just there.

Evan laughed, surprised by the sound of it. He glanced at her, caught the corner of her smile, and realized how close they were walking — closer than before, closer than necessary.

He didn’t move away.

When they reached her classroom, Salma stopped, turning to face him. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The noise of the hallway blurred around them, lockers slamming, voices overlapping.

“I’ll see you later,” she said.

“Yeah,” Evan replied. “Later.”

She smiled again before heading inside.

Evan stood there a second longer than he meant to, watching the door close behind her. As he turned toward his own class, he became aware of something new — a quiet certainty settling in his chest.

Whatever had shifted over break hadn’t stayed there.

It had followed them back.

—

Salma Suleman January, Week 2 — Monday —

Coming back after winter break always felt strange, like slipping into a routine that no longer fit exactly the same way.

Salma closed her locker and turned — and there he was.

Evan smiled at her, easy and warm, and she felt it immediately. Not nerves. Not anticipation. Just comfort. The kind that settled into place without asking questions.

They walked together, talking about nothing and everything at once. She noticed the way he stayed beside her, how naturally his stride matched hers. When she bumped her shoulder into his, he laughed, and the sound made her grin wider.

It felt different now.

Not heavier. Just… clearer.

People passed them in the hallway, but Salma barely noticed. Her focus stayed on the space between them — the way it felt occupied now, claimed without discussion.

At her classroom door, she slowed.

“I’ll see you later,” she said, already knowing she would.

Evan nodded, eyes soft. “Later.”

As she slipped into her seat, Salma caught herself smiling at nothing in particular. The room around her filled with noise, with announcements and movement, but underneath it all was a steady awareness.

Something had changed.

The hotel room was too quiet for how far away it was.

Evan lay on his back, one arm tucked behind his head, phone balanced loosely in his other hand. The day had been full—scheduled, scenic, curated in the way his parents preferred—but now the lights were low and the noise of the city outside barely reached the window.

He scrolled without really thinking.

That was when he saw her.

Salma was tagged in a post from someone he vaguely recognized from school—something candid, taken mid-laugh. She looked warm, unposed, completely herself. Evan paused, thumb hovering, then tapped her name before he could overthink it.

Her page loaded.

It felt like stepping into a familiar room he hadn’t realized he’d been missing.

There were selfies—soft smiles, messy hair, light catching her just right. Pictures with her family, arms thrown around shoulders, closeness that felt effortless. Food photos, plated beautifully but casually, like she’d taken them without worrying if they were good enough.

He smiled without realizing it.

Scrolled. Lingered. Let himself look.

Then—

Oh shit.

His thumb slipped.

The follow button changed instantly, the blue gone, replaced by Following.

Evan stared at the screen, heart jumping into his throat.

He considered unfollowing immediately. Pretending it hadn’t happened. He didn’t.

Before he could decide what to do next, a notification slid down from the top of his screen.

Salma Suleman requested to follow you.

The tightness in his chest loosened, replaced by something warmer. Lighter.

He accepted.

A moment passed. Then another notification.

Salma: hey you 👀 how’s winter break treating you?

Evan smiled, rolling onto his side, the hotel room fading into the background as he typed back.

—

Salma Suleman December, Week 4 — Thursday —

Salma was half-watching a movie she’d already seen, phone resting against her knee, when the notification popped up.

Evan Hayes started following you.

She blinked once.

Then smiled.

She didn’t hesitate. Requested to follow him back, curiosity humming just under the surface. When he accepted, her heart gave a small, pleased flutter she didn’t try to talk herself out of.

His page was private.

That felt right.

She waited a few seconds—just long enough not to seem overeager—then opened the chat.

hey you 👀 how’s winter break treating you?

The reply came quicker than she expected.

They talked easily, messages stacking up between them—about where they were, how cold it was, how weird it felt not seeing anyone from school. Evan sent a picture of the view outside his window. Salma sent one of her sister stealing snacks off a tray.

Time slipped.

The conversation slowed but didn’t stop, stretching comfortably into the night. Salma found herself smiling at her screen more than once, warmth settling in her chest that had nothing to do with the movie still playing in the background.

When she finally put her phone down, it was later than she meant it to be.