Akira slipped past the noise with a quiet nod from Coach Damien."Take the period off," he had said, guilt tucked behind his usual stern tone. She didn't argue, hands buried in her sleeves, she wandered the hallways, eyes flicking between the school map on her phone and the plaques that lined the walls.
With her hoodie drawn low she approached the music wing at the far end of the building, secluded and silent or so she thought.
A soft clash of piano keys leaked from behind a sleek black door labeled "Private Practice Authorized Only". The letters were faint under a smear of dust and fading gold trim. She pushed the door open.
Inside, sunlight poured through the tall windows, bouncing off gold instruments and sheet stands. And there sitting at the grand piano with furrowed brows and clenched jaw was "him"
Elliot Arden.
The boy girls whispered about like a forbidden fantasy. His cheekbones were sharp enough to cut silence, and his dark, tousled hair looked like it had been styled by chaos and charm. A platinum ring on his thumb glinted as his fingers mashed the wrong chords again.
"Damn it," he muttered under his breath.
Akira stood frozen, watching his hands, the notes in her head correcting what his weren't.
"You're holding the chord wrong," she said before thinking.
His head snapped toward her like she'd slapped him.
"What the hell are you doing here?"
I....I...
Didn't see the part where it says "private", Hoodie Girl?"
Akira's throat tightened, but she stepped further inside. "The door wasn't locked. And your F minor is flat."
He stood now, full height towering, annoyed, stunning. You think just because you've memorized a few chords on Google, you can correct me?"
She shrugged. Maybe if Google taught you, you'd hit fewer sour notes.
He blinked, then smirked bitterly. You know what your problem is? You look like someone who doesn't belong anywhere. And now you're stinking up my space too.
She smiled. Not sweetly.
Funny, she said, turning toward the door. "With all that talent, charm, and face… it's still your ego playing out of tune."
He opened his mouth. Nothing came.
She was already gone, hoodie swinging with each step.
Behind her, Elliot's jaw clenched. His fist hit the piano's lid.
"She'll regret that."
The bell for movement and Dance rang.
Students spilled from the gym in pairs, flushed and panting. Akira lingered near a Barre pulling her hoodie's sleeves down to hide the chocolate stain that hadn't quite washed off.
She turned and froze.
Isla.
Blue-haired. Legwarmer-clad. Swagger carved into every step.
Isla leaned against the tiled wall, one foot popped against it like she owned the class itself. Her hair was tied in two sleek space buns, and her tank top screamed Dancer! Artist! Star!
Oh look, Isla drawled, arms crossing. Miss Chocolate Surprise decided to join the rest of the humans.
A few snickers flitted through the crowd forming around them like moths to gossip.
Akira kept walking.
Oh? Not even gonna defend yourself? Isla's voice rose ith frustration at being ignored. Guess when you don't have rhythm, you stay quiet.
Akira paused mid-step. Her eyes lifted, calm and unreadable beneath the shadow of her hood.
Isla spun suddenly a sharp pirouette and dropped into a sassy pose. Oops, she grinned. Didn't mean to make you jealous. I know not everyone's body's built for movement.
Akira's lips twitched.
Then she stepped forward slow and deliberate until she was toe-to-toe with Isla.
I'd clap, Akira said evenly, but I'm afraid even my applause would be more graceful than that spin.
Gasps rippled.
Isla blinked, then stiffened.
Akira tilted her head. You dance like you're trying to remind people you exist. Desperate looks cute on you though.
The hallway fell still. Even the lockers seemed to hold their breath.
Isla opened her mouth, but Akira was already walking away again.
Isla glared at Akira's back, cheeks flushed, pride bruised.
Angry that the snickers weren't in her favor.
A soft piano chord echoed from the dance studio. Miss Teylor, the movement and dance instructor, clapped her hands. Alright, dancers, warm-up time.
Miss Teylor stepped to the front, her tone crisp. Let's see posture, control, and focus.
Everyone moved to position except Isla.
She lingered beside Akira, stretching with exaggerated grace. Her blue hair shimmering under the lights as she arched her back like a swan, watching Akira from the corner of her eye.
Hope you don't pull something, Hoodie, she whispered, just loud enough for the others nearby to hear. This isn't a playground.
Akira adjusted her stance by the barre, silent.
Isla chuckled. Or maybe you're just warming up for your next fall. Do they teach grace in hiding?
Akira's grip tightened slightly on the barre, but her face stayed blank.
Bet you can't even touch your toes.
Miss Teylor clapped her hands. First position, everyone. Let's begin.
They moved into pliés. Isla made a point of over-performing, arms floating, toes extended like she was auditioning for a spotlight. As the class continued, she would subtly glance over, then mirror Akira's movements in mocking exaggeration.
Careful, she whispered during tendus. "That hoodie might block your view of your feet."
A few students snickered. Akira's gaze stayed on her reflection sharp, calm.
Then Miss Teylor's voice cut through. "Very good. Isla, you're quite expressive, but try channeling that energy through your core, not your commentary.
Snickers turned into awkward silence.
Isla flushed.
Akira raised an eyebrow. One small glance.
Don't think you're suddenly better Isla scoffed.
That'll be all for warm up Miss Teylor said
before Akira could respond, Isla, since you're so eager today, why not lead the class?
Isla's grin grew wider as she pirouetted into the room. With pleasure.
Music resumed. Isla launched into a series of fast turns, limbs slicing the air with flair dramatic, loud, attention-hungry. The other students clapped lightly. She ended in a deep split, shooting Akira a smug look from the floor.
Miss Teylor smiled politely. Very theatrical, Isla. But let's see someone new. You! Hoodie girl. Her finger pointed straight at Akira. Join us.
A low laugh rippled through the room. Akira's jaw tensed.
Stepping forward, she didn't say a word.
She just moved.
Fluid. Sharp. Controlled. Each step matched the rhythm with haunting ease. Her balance was flawless. She leapt into a clean grand jeté, landed light as breath, and ended with a stillness that said everything.
Silence.
Even the music stopped.
Miss Teylor raised her brows, impressed. Well then…
Isla's smirk had vanished. Her cheeks flush
ed not from dancing.
Akira looked at her, calm as ever. "Guess I can touch more than my toes." She said and walked out, leaving Isla gaping on the floor.