The bell hadn't rung yet, but the music room was already buzzing with almost awake conversation—chairs rustling, someone playing the guitar incoherently, the heater groaning in the corner as if he were still asleep.
Elias Verdan continued to enter the door unnoticed, as usual.
Hood up. Eyes down. Light footsteps enough that even the dust didn't stir for him.
He crossed the room to his seat—the chair in the far corner, partially obscured by an old cabinet full of forgotten sheet music. Out of sight, the way he liked it. From here, he could see everything without being seen.
He was expecting the next woman.
Aurora Hale.
And just like that, the door opened again. Aurora entered with her two friends, laughing, breathing heavily from the cold. Sunlight hit her from behind, mixing her curly hair with dewy flecks. Elias felt his chest tighten in a way he pretended was just nervousness, not the pain of loving someone who had no idea he loved her.
He reached into his backpack for the lavender notebook—the one he never let out of his sight.
His hand covered nothing. His stomach sank.
He opened every pocket. Nothing. Nothing. Not in the pouch in the front. Not on the side. Not wedged between textbooks.
Oh my God.
That notebook contained everything—tunes and lyrics that would kill him if anyone read them. Pages dedicated to her. Songs with hints so clear that sometimes he would wake up startled as if he already knew.
His heart pounded in his ears.
Elias stood up from his seat so quickly that the chair creaked on the floor.
That's when the door opened again.
Aurora rushed in alone this time, her cheeks flushed from the cold, her hair blowing in the wind, and her breathing rapid.
And in her hand— his notebook.
"Hey," Aurora said, walking towards Elias. "Someone left this on the steps outside the auditorium last night. I don't know who it belongs to, but when I opened it—"
"You opened it?"
It was so sharp. His eyes widened. Heat rose to his neck.
"I'm sorry," she blurted out. "I just saw the initials on the inside cover. 'E.V.' I thought you were."
Elias took the notebook from Aurora. His fingers brushed his—warm. Soft. Delicate.
Elias hands trembled as he let go of it.
Has she seen the page with her name on it?
The tune titled A.H. with notes that reflected her uneven smile?
Had she read the poem about the woman who lives in color while the man who loves her lives in gray?
Aurora studied his face as if searching for a lie.
"I didn't read much," Aurora said softly. "Just one page. The music... is really beautiful."
Elias shook his head too quickly. "Nothing." Aurora eyebrows rose. "Nothing?"
"You seem like a person who feels deeply when you write," Aurora said softly.
His throat tightened. He didn't trust her voice.
Aurora hesitated—then took a step closer. They were so close now that Elias could smell Aurora's shampoo, like honey and like autumn.
"Elias... can I ask you something?" Aurora forced a nod.
"That song you wrote—the one titled The Woman in the Hallway..." She swallowed, her voice suddenly weak. "Is it about a specific person?"
Elias whole body stopped.
Elias could tell him the truth. Now. Three years of swallowing her feelings could end in a single breath.
Yes.
It was about you.
It had always been you.
He opened his mouth.
But the words ignored him. He shrugged. "It's just a song."
Aurora eyes—soft, observant—didn't believe him, but they didn't believe him. But she didn't force it.
The bell rang, sharp and deafening. The chairs scattered as people hurried to their seats. Elias stepped back. Aurora started to walk to the front.
Then she stopped. Turn around.
Stepping close enough for Elias to feel the warmth seeping through her sweater, close enough to smell the vanilla on her skin.
Aurora's voice was almost a whisper.
"Sometimes," Aurora said, "the songs that pretend to be about no one... are the most important."
Aurora walked away before she could lose his nerve.
Elias froze, his notebook clutched to his chest as if it had a pulse. And from his seat in back, Elias realized this:
He had loved her silently for three years.
But silence—like all fragile things—can only last until it is shattered.