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. Footsteps light 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. He entered with his two friends, laughing, breathing heavily from the cold. Sunlight hit him from behind, mixing his 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 him.
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 him. Songs with hints so clear that sometimes he would wake up startled as if he already knew.
His heart pounded in his ears.
She stood up from her 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— her notebook.
"Hey," she said, walking towards him. "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. Her eyes widened. Heat rose to her neck.
"I'm sorry," she blurted out. "I just saw the initials on the inside cover. 'E.V.' I thought you were." She took the notebook from him. Her fingers brushed his—warm. Soft. Delicate.
Her hands trembled as she 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," she said softly. "Just one page. The music... is really beautiful."
Elias shook his head too quickly. "Nothing."
Her eyebrows rose. "Nothing?"
"You seem like a person who feels deeply when you write," she said softly.
Her throat tightened. She didn't trust her voice.
Aurora hesitated—then took a step closer. They were so close now that she could smell his shampoo, like honey and like autumn.
"Elias... can I ask you something?" She 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?"
Her whole body stopped.
She 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.
She opened her mouth.
But the words ignored her.
She shrugged. "It's just a song."
Her eyes—soft, observant—didn't believe her, but they didn't believe her. But she didn't force it.
The bell rang, sharp and deafening. The chairs scattered as people hurried to their seats. Aurora stepped back. Elias started to walk to the front.
Then she stopped. Turn around.
Stepping close enough for her to feel the warmth seeping through his sweater, close enough to smell the vanilla on his skin.
His voice was almost a whisper.
"Sometimes," he said, "the songs that pretend to be about no one... are the most important." He walked away before he could lose his nerve.
Aurora froze, her notebook clutched to her chest as if it had a pulse.
And from his seat in front, Elias realized this:
He had loved her silently for three years.
But silence—like all fragile things—can only last until it is shattered.