- - -
The door clicked shut behind him, but the echo of his presence lingered.
Lena leaned against it for a moment longer, as if that would settle the flutter in her chest. She hated this feeling—the uncertainty, the pull toward something she couldn't explain. She wasn't supposed to *feel* anything for someone like Jace Rivera. They weren't friends. They were project partners, reluctant ones at best. That was the arrangement. The box. The rules.
But lately, those lines had blurred like pencil under a careless thumb.
She walked back into the living room, where the book he'd pulled off the shelf still sat half-open. *Milk and Honey*. She picked it up, fingers grazing the spine, and read the page he'd last touched.
> "what is it with you and sunflowers he asks.
> i point to the field of yellow outside
> sunflowers worship the sun i tell him
> only when it arrives do they rise
> when the sun leaves
> they bow their heads in sadness
> that is what the sun does to those of us
> who worship it."
Lena shut the book.
And for the first time, she wasn't so sure what side of the metaphor she was on.
---
The next few days passed slowly.
Not because nothing happened. But because *too much* did—most of it invisible.
At school, their paths crossed more than usual. And when they did, Lena noticed things she never had before.
The way Jace sometimes drummed his fingers on his desk when he was bored—always in a rhythm, like there was music in his head no one else could hear. The way he looked out the window during fourth period, jaw slack, eyes far away. The way he greeted everyone with that same half-smile, like he was only ever halfway present.
But what caught her off guard was how often she caught *him* watching *her*.
Not in an obvious, creepy way.
Just… noticing.
Their eyes would meet across the hall, and he'd raise an eyebrow like he was asking a silent question. She never answered. But she never looked away, either.
That was new.
---
By Thursday, things felt saturated with something Lena couldn't name.
They met in the library again—same table, same seats. But the air between them felt heavier. More charged.
They worked in near silence for the first twenty minutes, pencils scratching paper, occasional murmurs about sentence structure and theme analysis. But Lena's focus kept slipping.
He kept fidgeting—shifting in his chair, tapping his fingers.
"Okay," she said finally, putting her pencil down. "What's going on with you?"
Jace blinked, caught off guard. "What do you mean?"
"You're… twitchy."
He gave a crooked grin. "Twitchy?"
"Yes."
"I prefer the term *restlessly creative.*"
Lena arched an eyebrow.
Jace sighed, leaning back in his chair. "Okay, fine. I've got this audition next week. Guitar thing. For the fall showcase."
"You play?"
He tilted his head. "Why does everyone say it like that?"
"You just… don't seem the type."
Jace put a hand to his chest in mock betrayal. "I'm offended. I ooze musical energy."
"Sure," she said dryly. "That explains your affinity for broken pencils and sarcasm."
"I'll have you know I can play 'Blackbird' with my eyes closed."
Lena chuckled. It slipped out before she could stop it. Jace blinked at the sound, and for a moment, they both seemed surprised.
Then he said, quieter this time, "I started with piano, actually. When I was eight. Then switched to guitar after my brother left. Less... empty."
Lena paused. "Why'd he leave?"
Jace stared at the table for a moment. "He didn't want to become like our dad. So he ran before it could happen."
"And now your mom's afraid *you* will?"
"She's not wrong to be."
Lena frowned. "That's a terrible thing to say."
"It's true."
"No," she said firmly. "It's not. People don't become their parents by accident. They *choose* to. Or they don't."
Jace looked at her again, like he didn't expect her to care that much.
And maybe she didn't. Not really. But the idea of him believing he was doomed to be a version of someone else—it dug at her in a way she couldn't explain.
"You ever think about leaving?" he asked.
"What, school?"
"No. This place. The town. The history. The expectations."
Lena looked away.
"Every day."
Jace leaned forward, elbows on the table. "Where would you go?"
"I don't know. Somewhere quiet. Where no one knows me. Where I don't have to keep pretending I'm okay all the time."
He didn't say anything to that.
But she could tell—he understood.
And somehow, that mattered more than any answer he could've given.
---
The showcase came sooner than Lena expected.
She didn't plan on going.
Crowds weren't her thing. Loud voices, fake applause, forced smiles—it felt like everything she worked so hard to avoid.
But that Thursday afternoon, Jace met her outside the library and handed her a flyer. He didn't say anything. Just pressed it into her hand and walked away.
That night, she stared at it for twenty minutes before tossing it onto her desk.
The next morning, it was still there.
Mocking her.
---
On Friday night, Lena walked into the school auditorium five minutes late, heart pounding like she was sneaking into a secret.
She kept to the back, slipping into an empty seat near the aisle. The room was half-full—parents, classmates, teachers. Most of them were there for the drama kids or the show choir.
Jace wasn't on stage yet.
When he finally stepped out, guitar slung over his shoulder, something in Lena shifted.
He looked... different.
Not in a flashy way. But focused. Centered. Like this was the one place where everything made sense to him.
He sat on the stool, adjusted the mic, and strummed a single chord.
No intro.
No joke.
Just a song—raw and simple.
The kind that builds slowly, wrapping around the room like a warm blanket, until everyone forgets to breathe.
His voice was lower than she expected. Softer. Like a confession wrapped in melody.
She didn't know the lyrics. They weren't from any band she recognized. And later, she'd learn that he'd written it himself.
But at the time, all she knew was that every note hit like a whisper she wasn't supposed to hear.
When it ended, the applause was loud. Enthusiastic.
But Lena just sat there.
Still.
Quiet.
Like something had cracked open inside her.
---
After the show, she didn't wait for him in the lobby.
Didn't text.
Didn't say anything at all.
But the next morning, tucked into her locker vent, was a folded scrap of paper.
No name.
Just a lyric.
> "the only thing louder than silence
> is wanting something you're not supposed to."
She didn't know whether to laugh or cry.
So she did neither.
Instead, she opened her notebook and started writing.
---