The bell rang, signaling the end of another mind-numbing school day. I was halfway out the door, planning my escape route back home, when a hand clamped down on my shoulder.
I stiffened.
"Don't even think about running, Music Boy."
I turned, slowly, like someone facing their executioner.
Rina grinned at me, her lipstick a deep crimson today. Her nails tapped my shoulder rhythmically. Tap-tap-tap.
"…What do you want?" I asked warily.
"Snacks."
"…Snacks?"
"Yeah. You're coming with me."
Before I could protest, she had already hooked her arm through mine and was dragging me toward the gate. I stumbled along, utterly powerless.
"Wait—hold on—why me?!"
"Because," she said casually, "I can't eat snacks alone. It's tragic. So, congratulations—you're my snack buddy now."
"That's… not how consent works."
"Relax. I'll even let you buy your own."
"Generous," I muttered.
---
The convenience store near school was bustling, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. Students in uniforms, office workers, an old man picking through onigiri.
Rina made a beeline for the refrigerated section, crouched, and began scanning rows of canned coffee like she was selecting fine wine.
"Black. Bitter. Perfect." She grabbed one and tossed it lightly in the air before catching it. "What about you?"
I hesitated, then picked a sweet latte.
She eyed it and smirked. "Figures."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"You look like a sugar guy. Too soft for bitter."
"I… that's not—"
"Don't worry." She cracked open her can with a hiss. "It's cute."
My face heated. "…Stop saying things like that."
"Why? Embarrassing you is my cardio." She winked and sauntered to the counter.
---
We ended up sitting outside on the store's little plastic bench, sipping our coffees as cars whooshed by on the street.
For a while, it was quiet. Not awkward—just quiet.
Then Rina said, "So. When did you start playing guitar?"
The question hit me like a thrown brick.
"…A while ago."
She raised an eyebrow. "That's not an answer."
I fiddled with the can in my hands. The metal was cool against my palms. "…My mom taught me."
Her smirk softened. "She plays too?"
"…Played." My throat tightened around the word.
Rina's gaze flickered, and for once, she didn't immediately joke. She just nodded, taking a sip of her coffee.
"I see," she said quietly.
We sat in silence again, the kind that pressed down a little heavier than before.
Then she kicked my shin lightly. "Hey. Don't look so gloomy. She must've been awesome if you're this good."
I blinked. "…You think I'm good?"
"Obviously." She rolled her eyes. "You're better than half the guys who think smashing three power chords makes them rock gods."
I snorted despite myself. "That's a low bar."
"Still. You've got… I dunno. Something real." She shrugged like the words didn't matter, but her tone lingered. "Don't waste it hiding in corners."
I stared at her. For a second, I wondered if she could see straight through me.
Then she stood, crushing her empty can in one hand. "Anyway. Next time you're buying."
"Wha—hey, I didn't agree to a next time!"
"You will." She tossed the can neatly into the recycling bin and smirked back at me. "See you tomorrow, Music Boy."
And just like that, she was gone, leaving me sitting on the bench with my half-finished latte and a chest that felt both heavier and lighter at the same time.
---
That night, I plucked at my guitar strings softly.
Her words echoed in my head. "You've got something real."
Maybe.
But real didn't mean ready.