They say high school is supposed to be the best years of your life.
Personally, I think whoever said that never had to stand in front of thirty classmates and introduce themselves.
"My name is Haruto," I muttered, gripping the strap of my bag so hard it felt like my fingers might snap.
A few heads tilted.
"I, uh… like music."
Silence.
Then snickers.
I sat down quickly, wishing the floor would open up and swallow me whole. Out of everything I could've said—favorite food, dream career, even "I enjoy breathing"—that was what my brain chose to offer.
Music.
Like I was some kind of cool, confident band guy.
If only they knew the truth: the only songs I knew were the ones my mom used to play on a battered acoustic guitar, her voice echoing against brick walls and traffic noise while strangers tossed coins into a tin can.
She'd passed away three months ago. The guitar was mine now.
Nobody cared. And maybe I preferred it that way.
I slouched in my chair, praying the teacher would move on. He did. One by one, more introductions followed—louder, funnier, more confident. The class laughed. They clapped. They actually listened.
When I dared to look up, my eyes met hers.
Back row, next to the window. Black lipstick. Heavy eyeliner. A choker that looked like it could double as a medieval weapon. She wore the school uniform, but somehow it looked rebellious just hanging on her frame.
The girl smirked. Not meanly—more like she'd just heard the start of a joke only she understood.
I quickly looked away, heat prickling my ears.
Great. Just what I needed. The goth girl thought I was hilarious.
---
By the time the last person introduced themselves, the bell rang. Everyone leapt into conversation, desks scraping as they clustered into groups.
I quietly unpacked my notebook, pretending to study the schedule. Maybe if I looked boring enough, nobody would bother me—
"Music boy."
I froze.
That voice was low, husky, and laced with amusement. I looked up slowly.
She was leaning on my desk, her black-painted nails tapping against the wood in a steady rhythm. Up close, the effect was even stronger: sharp eyes, pale skin, an aura like she didn't care what anyone thought.
"M-Music boy?" I echoed.
"Yeah." Her lips curled. "You said you like music. That makes you Music Boy now."
I wanted to melt into a puddle. "That's not… a name."
"It is now." She tilted her head. "So what do you play? Drums? Bass? Triangle?"
"…Nothing." The lie slipped out before I could stop it.
Her eyebrows rose. "Really? That was the weakest 'I like music' I've ever heard then."
I swallowed, desperately searching for an escape. She was enjoying this way too much.
"Anyway, later, Music Boy." She gave a lazy wave and sauntered off, leaving me with a pounding heart and absolutely no idea what had just happened.
---
The rest of the day passed in a blur. I kept my head down, avoided eye contact, and counted the minutes until the final bell.
When it finally rang, I was out the door before anyone else, practically speedwalking down the street toward home.
Home was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that made you notice how loud your thoughts really were.
I slipped off my shoes, padded down the hallway, and opened the sliding door to my room.
There it was.
Mom's guitar.
The case was scuffed, the wood worn smooth where her fingers had danced across the strings thousands of times. I sat cross-legged in front of it and lifted it carefully into my lap.
My fingers hovered over the strings. For a second, I could almost hear her voice again: warm, a little rough, always full of emotion. She never cared about the people who walked past her without stopping. She sang like the world was listening.
I strummed a chord. The sound was soft, trembling, imperfect. But it was hers.
"…I'll prove it," I whispered, surprising myself. "I'll prove your music was worth something, Mom."
The words hung in the air, fragile but real.
Somewhere outside, the hum of city life carried on—cars honking, neighbors chatting, a dog barking. The world didn't pause for me. But in that moment, it felt like the only thing that mattered was the promise I'd just made.
---
The next morning, I convinced myself the goth girl had already forgotten about me. People like her probably had better things to do than torment awkward boys who couldn't introduce themselves properly.
I was wrong.
"Morning, Music Boy."
I nearly dropped my bag. She was waiting at the classroom door, leaning against the frame like some villain in a movie.
"…Morning," I muttered, shuffling past.
"Not very enthusiastic," she said, trailing behind me. "So. What instrument do you actually play?"
I gripped my desk. "Why do you care?"
She shrugged. "Because you look like you're hiding something. And I'm bored."
I stared at her. She stared back, her smirk unwavering. Finally, I sighed. "…Guitar."
Her eyes lit up. "Knew it."
I blinked. "What do you mean, you knew it?"
"You've got the hands for it," she said matter-of-factly, before flopping into her chair.
My ears burned. Hands for it? What was that supposed to mean?
She caught me staring and grinned wider. "Don't worry, Music Boy. I won't tell anyone… yet."
And just like that, she pulled out a sketchbook and started doodling, leaving me completely flustered and completely certain of one thing:
This girl was going to be a problem.