Page 45 of Fangirl

Except… maybe youcanbecause this? What we have? The connection we share? It’s more real to me than anyphysical touch.

Speaking of physical touch—my thoughts crash back to reality as someone shoves me aside, muttering something about me blocking the exit.

“’Scuse you,” I grumble, stepping onto the platform.

Me: I’m getting off. I’ll call you in a bit.

Eli: No, I’ll do it.

Me: You know it’s free both ways, right?

Eli: I know, but my settings are a mess.

I frown, not really understanding, but tech isn’t my thing, so I just type a quick okay before tucking my phone away.

Then I step outside, just in time for a light drizzle to turn into full-on rain.

Damn it. Two rookie mistakes in one day.

One, I forgot my umbrella.

Two, I trusted the stupid BBC weather report.

Looks like Eli is finally going to meet frizzy-haired Amy tonight.

When I get home, Pea is perched on his usual spot—the little island counter that separates my minuscule kitchenette from the living room.

“How are you, my boy?” I ask, rushing around even though I know it’s a terrible idea for my sore body. But I can’t help it. I’m dying to see Eli’s stupidly cute face.

We don’t video chat as often as I’d like. Most evenings, we just talk on the phone, and while I love those conversations, I cherish the moments I get to see him.

Pea flicks his tail, regarding me with the kind of judgment only a one-eyed cat can pull off.

I roll my eyes. “You’re totally mocking me, aren’t you?” I laugh, shaking my head. “Like you should.”

God, I feel ridiculous, like a teenage girl with her first crush.

My gaze lands on the half-knitted Halloween sweater draped over the back of my sofa, and I let out a relieved breath, thanking every deity willing to listen that Pea didn’t decide to sink his claws into it.

I blush, suddenly self-conscious. This is so foolish that I haven’t even told Maya what I’m doing.

I’m knitting a sweater for Eli.

It’s absurd. I know it is. He lives in LA, so he probably doesn’t even need sweaters. But his family is from Montana, and he’s mentioned more than once, at great length, how much helovesHalloween. Almost to an obsessive degree, actually.

And honestly? I love that about him.

It makes me feel a little less silly about my own obsession with the world ofPersefia.

So here I am, spending my evenings knitting a thick and cozy Halloween sweater. Midnight black, the kind of rich, deep shade that reminds me of October skies just before the first real chill sets in. Twisting through the fabric, like creeping vines, are warm orange pumpkins—some plump and playful, others with tiny grinning faces stitched in, scattered across the chest like a pumpkin patch.

Down one sleeve, a ghost floats, simple but expressive, its little arms raised in silent greeting. On the other, a tiny skeleton with a slightly lopsided grin—like it’s mid-laugh.

And on the back?The pièce de résistance.

A howling wolf under a full moon, stitched in silvery gray, standing on what could be a rock but—if you look closely—is actually a tiny embroidered gravestone.

It’s ridiculous and a little over the top. I can already hear him groaning about the ghost, pretending to be unimpressed.