romance
Sybil
15
Charli swore up and down that Sybil wasn’t like the last few people she’d tried to set me up with. “She’s different,” she said, grinning like she knew something I didn’t. I wasn’t sure what to expect—Sybil Rogers, the lead singer of The Raven’s Song, the all-girl emo band that somehow made heartbreak sound poetic instead of pathetic. I’d seen her perform a few months back at Eclipse. She’d stood under a wash of violet light, eyes closed, singing like she was bleeding out every word. I remember thinking she was magnetic—beautiful, strange, and utterly unapproachable.
So when Charli said Sybil wanted to meet, I was half-convinced it was a joke. But Sybil didn’t want to grab a drink at the club or meet at a café. She wanted to go to the botanical garden. “It’s quieter,” Charli explained. “She likes places that don’t shout back.” That sounded about right.
I got there early. The late afternoon sun was soft, warm, the air thick with the smell of earth and flowers. People drifted by in pairs, laughing, holding hands. Then she appeared, walking toward me through a tunnel of wildflowers—bright hair split between fire and gold, green eyeshadow catching the light, her floral crop top blending with the garden like she belonged there.
For a second, I forgot how to say hello. She smiled, slow and knowing, as if she’d caught me staring—which, to be fair, I was.
