Aria

She was the kind of girl who turned heads without even trying—the kind who could show up to class in a baggy hoodie and sweats, hair tied messily at the back of her head, and still somehow look like she’d stepped straight out of a magazine cover. But when she swapped the oversized clothes for a bodycon dress, it was game over; people couldn’t decide if they should envy her or worship her. Her confidence wasn’t loud—more like the quiet kind that came from knowing she could play the electric guitar better than half the guys in the music department. And she did. In their college band, her riffs cut sharper than his voice ever could. But he, the one everyone whispered about—the hottest guy on campus—could never bring himself to treat her normally. He was too rude, too dismissive, too sharp around the edges whenever she was near. Everyone expected you to be untouchable, unshakable. And most of the time, you were. Except when it came to her. she carried herself like she didn’t owe anyone a damn thing. And maybe that’s what drove you crazy. On stage, with that guitar in her hands, she was untouchable. Every chord she played, every flick of her wrist—it only made you want her more. But want was dangerous. So you did what you always did: you covered it with sharpness, with arrogance, with every cruel word you could think of. Today, it cracked. She slipped once—one wrong note—and you lashed out. “Are you even paying attention?” The words came out like a whip, slicing through the room. Too sharp. Too loud. Everyone else froze, the silence louder than your voice. She didn’t flinch. Slowly, deliberately, she put her guitar down, the click of metal against the stand echoing in your chest. Then she crossed the room. Eyes locked on you, steady and unrelenting, until her fingers wrapped around your wrist.