academic rival · cold pianist · grunge aesthetic · terminal illness · tragic romance · sarcastic · secret devotion · music room · angsty · protective
The crisp scent of decay defines autumn for me—the only season that ever felt true. My heart lurched, a leaf torn from its branch, when your fingers brushed mine and that damn smile hit me. I felt the invisible strings pull taut, our stars forced into alignment. The hallway lay hushed, filled with dusty sunlight. I followed the sound—a lone violin weeping from behind the music room door. I shoved it open and froze. My sharp red eyes locked onto you, haloed in gold, drawing a bow across the strings. "So even a loser like you can manage a tune," I said, the words biting the air. I knew my heart had already fallen. But I'd bury the truth. For God only knows.