Episode 7 : The Email That Shouldn’t Exist

“You’re here early,” Monroe said, walking in with his coffee and a brown paper bag. He tossed it clumsily onto the table, the files sliding off. “Donut?” he offered.

I smiled gently. “So, some stereotypes seem to be true,” I said, reaching for the bag.

“Well, nobody ever says no to honey glazed,” he smiled back. It was a brief moment of lightness, a fleeting distraction before the havoc this pudgy old man was about to wreck on my life.

He slumped into the chair and took a sip of his coffee. “I interviewed some people at Ridgeway,” he said.

“Do they know what happened?” I asked hesitantly, my voice shaky.

Monroe leaned back slightly, his eyes narrowing. “There’s a story, the same one told from different perspectives, but it seems almost…. artificial,” he said, enunciating the last word as though he were choosing it carefully.

“Artificial?” I said, my confusion evident.
“No one actually saw any of it happen,” he continued, his voice steady. “And yet, the way they all recall it… it’s as if they’re reading the story from a book.” He paused, letting the words hang in the air. “Tell me what you heard.”

I took a deep breath. So much had been said about Elijah, and I wasn’t sure if any of it was true.
“They said he threw a chair at someone... and that he spent time in a facility after.” I hesitated. “But I... I doubt it. I mean, Elijah wasn’t like that.”

“Oh?” Monroe raised an eyebrow. “I thought you weren’t friends,” he said.
“No, we weren’t friends,” I said, “but we—” I didn't know how to finish that sentence.

“Elijah attacked a teacher at Ridgeway,” Monroe said, cutting me off.

“What?” I gasped. “No, that’s not possible. He would never... a teacher?”

“Well, that’s the story,” Monroe said. “Like clockwork, every person I’ve interviewed says the same thing. That he attacked a teacher in the cafeteria, after school. But no one saw it, no one heard it. There’s no footage of it. It’s like they were made to believe it.”

My head felt heavy.“ Did anyone know what was going on with him

at Ridgeway– he must have had someone– a friend or an acquaintance

perhaps ?”. I knew the answer to that. Elijah wasn’t one to seek out

company. He navigated life alone, content with his own company.

Monroe smirked. “They had all seen him—but not really,” he said,

almost in a melancholic tone. He reached out and opened a crisp brown

paper file, pulling out a printout of a photo. It was black and white,

and it appeared to be part of an email.

The subject line read: “ROCHESTER DEVELOPMENT PROJECT.” I glanced at it slowly, but it made no sense to me. It seemed to be about funding for a youth center in Rochester, New York. “I have no idea what this is,” I said.

“This is the only picture on Elijah's laptop that exists from his time at Ridgeway,” Monroe said, pointing to the timestamp.

“The only picture?” I asked. “How can that be possible?”

“The only picture” Monroe confirmed. “Everything else was erased from his hard drive, his phone, his laptop. And we found it as an attachment,” he said slowly, “on an email.”

“What email?” I said, leaning forward.

“An email that Elijah sent.”

“To whom?” I asked.

Monroe looked at me, his eyes almost glittering. There was a hint of sympathy in them—or maybe I was just trying to find something to soothe myself. He leaned forward, placing his hands under his chin, and said, “To you.”

Flashback : Galileo Galilei

The first time I spoke to Elijah was in the library on a Wednesday afternoon. It was particularly sunny, so I remember going to the library to cool off after soccer practice.

I liked it there. It was quiet, and it seemed to be the only place I could be myself without performing to please the people around me—where I didn’t have to be “cool” to avoid being walked all over. I would toss my bag on the shelf and peruse the science fiction aisle, but sometimes, if I was feeling frisky, I’d pick up a Neil deGrasse Tyson book. That man could transport me far, far away from this shit hole.

I put my Arthur C. Clarke book back on the shelf and walked over to the non-fiction aisle. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him there, nestled in a corner, buried deep in his book. His usual crisp white shirt was untucked, and a strand of loose hair fell over his forehead. He looked determined, a small crease forming across his brow, almost perfectly centered. My heart sped up a little as I fumbled through the astronomy section.

I yanked a book on black holes from the top shelf and sat across from him. He didn’t look up. Galileo’s daughter was apparently far too interesting to notice me.

“You know,” I said, clearing my throat, “It was Copernicus who first suggested the heliocentric model, contrary to popular belief.”
He looked up slowly. I noticed how green his eyes were. Like emeralds.
He didn’t respond immediately, but I saw a hint of a smile.
He looked back down at his book and continued reading.

We sat in silence for about half an hour. Then, he gently closed his book, looked towards me, and said, “In the world of science, a suggestion is nothing without evidence.”
I looked up to see him watching me, his eyes earnest, with a light smile—almost teasing. I found myself searching for a response, something witty enough to match his, but before I could, he was gone.

That night when I lay in bed. I thought about him, a lot more than I had about anybody in a while.

Between the Pages

For the next few months, our interactions in the library became a ritual. After school, just as the cool evening breeze would set in, Elijah and I would discuss astronomy, science, the stars, and everything in between. These conversations weren’t long-winded and often spanned just a few sentences. But nothing Elijah said was ever futile—every word carried meaning, and often, those words would send me into thought spirals for hours on end.

We never spoke outside of the library. Sometimes, he would leave a

book on the table for me, with a small note—something he thought

I would like, or something meant to challenge me, to push me to

think deeper. But outside of the library, we didn’t exist to each other.

It was an unspoken rule, one we both knew and acknowledged. The

library was our secret haven, a space free from judgment, untouched

by external variables.

Elijah never tried to reach out outside of the library. It was like he knew who I had to be outside in order to survive. That I had to be one of them. And even though he had the courage to be himself, he understood that it took a toll. I saw it in his eyes every time our gazes met—whether in the cafeteria, in the classroom, or in passing. He saw me for who I was.

The truth was, I was a coward. Too afraid to accept my feelings. Too afraid to be myself. And Elijah wasn’t.

The first time I spoke to Elijah outside the library was after the locker room incident. I was changing out after a soccer game when I saw him. The pain in his eyes was impossible to miss, and I could see how they treated him. The way they treated him made my blood boil. But I never said anything. I couldn’t. There’s no faster way to become a target than standing up to a bully.

I followed Elijah as he walked out of the locker room. He was walking faster than usual. I waited until we were at a safe distance from Darren and his posse of imbeciles.

“Elijah, wait,” I called.

He stopped but didn’t turn back to look at me. I stepped in front of him.

“You have to say something. You have to tell someone,” I urged. “Please.”

“Who will that help?” Elijah replied, sighing as he looked up at me. I wanted to hold him, tell him everything was going to be okay.

“It’ll pass… They’ll get bored and find someone else,” he continued. “I just have to hold on long enough.”

I felt my heart break into a million pieces. “I’m sorry,” I whispered.

He looked away, pausing for a moment before walking toward the door. As he was about to leave, he turned slightly and said, “I found a new book for you ”.