About a week later | Adam’s POV
It’s not like I suddenly stopped hating school.
I didn’t wake up one day with a mysterious thirst for knowledge or whatever.
But I started showing up.
Every day.
I didn’t mean to make a habit out of it… but somewhere between second period and lunch, I got real good at running into her “by accident.”
Like, suspiciously good.
Like, if it were anyone else, I’d call it stalking. But for me? Nah. Just advanced hallway timing.
She had this way of…
I don’t know.
Making things feel normal.
And that was enough to get me through the doors.
Even on Fridays.
***
Friday, Hallway, first floor.
“Hey, Bass Boy,” she called out, spotting me from across the hall. “You actually showed up on a Friday. Should I alert the press?”
I smirked. “Hilarious, Drummer Girl. Should I alert the press when you manage not to snap a pair of drumsticks in half?”
She raised an eyebrow. “Bold words from the guy who nearly had a meltdown when band practice started five minutes late last week.”
I pressed a hand to my chest, mock-wounded. “Five minutes is a betrayal. Time is sacred in the studio.”
She shook her head. “One day, I’m locking you out of the studio just to test your breaking point.”
“I’ll just conduct a bass solo in the parking lot. Pigeons will form a mosh pit. It’ll be legendary.”
Nickie crossed her arms. “Yeah, right. The pigeons will leave after your first note.”
“Pigeons recognize greatness when they hear it. They like it filthy.”
She wheezed. Actually wheezed. God, that laugh stuck with me for the rest of the day.
***
Monday, Outside the Math Room
I was leaning against the lockers, earbuds in, staring at the wall like maybe I could disintegrate it with my will.
Nickie walked up, head tilted.
“Trying to melt it with your mind?”
I blinked at her.
“I’m attempting to astral project out of this building. So far, only mild eye strain.”
“You’d think someone with that many piercings could pick up better reception.”
“Harsh.”
“Truth.”
She walked off smirking. I kept staring at the wall, but it didn’t seem as heavy anymore.
***
Tuesday, Stairwell Between Periods
I had the whole stairwell to myself.
Halfway up, legs stretched out, notebook on my lap.
Scribbling lyrics that probably wouldn’t survive the hour.
She nearly tripped over me.
“Blocking emergency exits now? Is this part of your villain arc?”
I looked up, not remotely sorry.
“I only obstruct paths when the lighting’s right.”
“What are you writing?”
“My resignation from society.”
“Spellcheck it this time, poet boy.”
This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
I flipped her off without looking up. She laughed. I grinned.
***
Wednesday, Courtyard, Break Time
She was on the bench, reading. Alone.
I didn’t think.
Just walked up and dropped a granola bar next to her like it was a peace offering.
Or a gift. Or both.
“For your rage,” I said.
She glanced up. “Is this the same one you tried to give the hallway last week?”
“Different bar. Similar emotional value.”
“You’re gonna make someone cry with that level of romance.”
“I aim for vulnerability.”
She snorted and kept the bar.
***
Friday, After School, Front Gate
She was adjusting the strap on her bag when I passed, hands buried in my pockets.
“Hey,” she called. “Skipping the weekend nap rotation?”
I shrugged. “Thought I’d check if you were still on school property. Or if they finally installed a statue in your honor.”
She rolled her eyes. “Funny. You’ll miss me when I’m famous.”
I turned and walked backward a few steps, smirking.
“I’m already emotionally scarred. Thanks for that.”
She blinked at me like she didn’t expect that.
And I slipped into the crowd before she could say anything else.
***
That night
I ended up in bed with the acoustic.
Which sounds way more romantic than it was.
Really, it was just me and this half-dead guitar with a buzz on the G string and a layer of dust I didn’t want to acknowledge.
I wasn’t trying to write anything. Not seriously.
Just... couldn’t sleep.
Not because of nightmares this time.
Not the usual panic or noise or static hum in my spine.
It was something else.
Something quieter. But louder in a weird way.
So I played. Just plucked a few strings, let them ring out.
Didn’t overthink it.
Which for me is kind of a miracle.
Somewhere in the mess of half-chords and dumb finger stumbles, a rhythm started.
Soft. A little crooked.
It reminded me of her laugh.
The ugly one, the one that sounds like she’s been caught off guard by joy.
I don’t know what the hell that whole week was.
It’s not like we’re friends or anything. Not in a capital-F way.
But there she was. Every day.
Showing up in the hallway like it was some kind of cosmic prank.
Calling me Bass Boy and insulting my fashion sense.
And the worst part?
I liked it.
God, I liked it.
It didn’t fix anything.
Didn’t erase anything.
But when she was around, everything felt...
Lighter.
Like maybe I wasn’t dragging my past behind me like a damn corpse.
I played a D chord. I think. Close enough.
It rang out a little sour, but it felt real.
Kind of like her.
Sharp around the edges, but never fake.
Like she’d knock your teeth out and then offer you a granola bar.
The melody kept shifting, wouldn’t settle.
Every time I tried to shape it into something neat, it fell apart.
Like she refused to be put in a box.
Which... yeah. Checks out.
It started sounding like her… not her voice, exactly. Not her laugh.
But the space between us.
The ridiculous banter.
The way she looked at me sometimes, like I was a puzzle she wasn’t sure was worth solving… but she’d try anyway.
That blink after I said emotionally scarred.
Like I’d knocked the wind out of her, just a little.
I sat there for a while, letting the notes loop, half-playing, half-thinking.
I wasn’t gonna show it to her.
No way. Not yet.
It’s not even finished.
But maybe that’s fine.
Maybe she’s the kind of song you don’t finish.
You just keep playing it.
messy, half-tuned, a little too loud in the wrong places…
And it still makes you feel something.
Maybe a little less haunted.
Maybe a little more alive.
