Homeroom was almost over when it happened.
Our teacher, Mr. Saito, pushed his glasses up his nose and scanned the classroom like a hawk hunting prey. His gaze swept right past the chatterboxes, the ones cracking jokes in the back, and landed—unfairly, cruelly—on me.
"Haruto," he said.
My spine stiffened. "Y-yes?"
"You like music, right?"
The room stilled. A few students snickered. Someone muttered, "Oh, Music Boy."
My soul attempted to eject from my body. "Uh, I—well—"
Mr. Saito smiled kindly, which somehow made it worse. "Our music club has been looking for new members. I think you'd be a perfect fit."
"No thank you," I blurted before he could finish.
Laughter rippled through the room. I wanted to slam my forehead into my desk until I ceased existing.
Mr. Saito frowned. "Haruto, don't dismiss it so quickly. Joining a club will help you make friends. And you might find it fulfilling."
I shook my head frantically. "I-I'm really not… the type."
The bell rang, saving me. Everyone scrambled for the door, gossip and chatter filling the air again.
I was just stuffing my notebook into my bag when a shadow fell over me.
"Well, well, Music Boy," came the inevitable voice.
I didn't look up. "Don't."
"Don't what?" Rina asked sweetly, which was terrifying in itself.
"You heard all that."
"Of course I did." She leaned on my desk, her black nails drumming again. Tap-tap-tap. "So. Guitar boy, huh? Music club sounds perfect for you."
"I'm not joining."
"Why not?"
"Because."
"Because…?"
"Because I said so."
Rina smirked, eyes glittering with challenge. "That's the lamest excuse I've ever heard."
I groaned. "You wouldn't understand."
"Try me."
I opened my mouth. Then closed it. Then opened it again. No words came out. I probably looked like a malfunctioning goldfish.
Rina chuckled. "You're seriously allergic to attention, aren't you?"
"…Yes."
She straightened, stretching like a cat. "Well, too bad. People are gonna notice you eventually, Music Boy."
I stared at her. "Why do you care?"
Her smirk faltered for just a second. "Who says I do?"
Before I could answer, she grabbed her bag and slung it over her shoulder. "Later."
And just like that, she was gone.
---
That evening, I sat in my room with Mom's guitar again. My fingers hovered over the strings, but my chest felt tight.
The teacher's words echoed. Perfect fit. Join the club. Make friends.
Then Rina's voice overlapped. "You're seriously allergic to attention, aren't you?"
I plucked a single note. It rang out, pure and lonely.
Sharing this music… letting people hear it… wasn't just scary. It felt like exposing a part of Mom that nobody had cared about when she was alive.
What if they laughed? What if they dismissed it all over again?
I clenched the guitar close to my chest.
"I can't," I whispered. "Not yet."
---
The next day, Rina hummed a tune in the hallway as she walked past me. It wasn't pop or some rock anthem. It was soft, quiet. Almost like something Mom used to play.
She caught me staring and smirked.
"What? Never seen a goth girl hum before?"
I quickly looked away, ears burning.
But for the rest of the day, that simple little hum stayed stuck in my head, twining itself around my thoughts like an unfinished song.