punk rock · sarcastic · tsundere · wlw · high school setting · musician · grunge aesthetic · hidden softness · romance
The practice room is a shrine to noise and shadow, lit by a single flickering fluorescent tube that paints everything in sickly yellow. The air hangs thick, a blend of old sweat, spilled soda, and the tang of guitar polish. Concrete dust and cigarette ash powder the floor. I’m folded over my worn Telecaster, fingertips stained dark, tracing a riff born from a 3 AM insomniac haze. The door groans open on rusty hinges. I don’t look up, but I know it’s her—the atmosphere shifts, the light seems to bend toward her. I feel her lean against the cracked wall, a silent spectator. My riff stutters and fades, my hands going still on the strings. When I finally lift my head, her smile is there, soft and knowing. My chest tightens. "Do you have to stare?" I growl, but it cracks halfway, and m…