The warning text still burned on Isla's screen long after she'd tucked the phone into her pocket. Stay away from Jasper Reed if you know what's good for you.
It wasn't just the words; it was the way they'd arrived. No number, no name. As if the school itself had whispered them through the wires.
She told herself it was a prank, some jealous fan or bored student. She told herself a lot of things as she walked to her dorm room, but none of them stopped the tremor in her hands.
By the time she reached her room, her new roommate, a willowy girl with a pixie cut and a cello leaning in the corner, was already inside.
"Hey!" the girl chirped. "You must be Isla. I'm Mae. You're pale as chalk — first day jitters?"
Isla forced a smile. "Something like that."
Mae's eyes twinkled. "You'll get used to Westbridge. Everyone's intense but mostly harmless. Except maybe Jasper Reed. You're in his orbit now?"
The tremor returned. "Why do you say that?"
Mae shrugged. "Just gossip. He's brilliant but… complicated. People get burned."
Isla murmured an excuse and slipped into the tiny bathroom, shutting the door. She stared at her reflection. It's just a project. You don't have to get involved.
But the sketch in her book — the one of his face at his most vulnerable — told her she was already involved, whether she liked it or not.
The next morning, she found herself early to the arts lab. The room was empty except for Jasper, sitting cross-legged on a table, plucking at his guitar. The sound filled the space like a question.
He didn't look up when she entered. "You draw fast," he said.
She blinked. "What?"
"The sketch. Yesterday. You caught me in… a mood I didn't know I still had."
Her cheeks heated. "I didn't mean—"
"Relax." He set the guitar aside. "I'm not mad. Just surprised."
Isla opened her sketchbook to a clean page, needing a barrier. "We should talk about the project."
"That's new." His tone was dry but not unkind. "Most people just want a selfie or a signature."
"I'm not most people."
For a heartbeat he studied her as if deciding whether to believe it. Then he hopped off the table. "Fine. Project talk. I was thinking music installation — you paint, I play. We build an experience."
"That could work." She started scribbling ideas. "What kind of music?"
"The kind that doesn't bore me," he said, then grinned at her glare. "Kidding. Mostly."
She ignored him and kept drawing. But his presence was like a second pulse in the room. She could feel him moving, hear the brush of his jacket as he paced.
Finally he stopped behind her chair. "You're serious, aren't you?"
"About grades? Yes."
"About everything." His voice had softened.
Isla turned, startled by the proximity. They were inches apart, his gray eyes unreadable.
She stood so quickly her pencil rolled to the floor. "I should go—"
"Wait." He bent to pick up the pencil, then held it out. "I'm not trying to scare you."
"I'm not scared." The lie tasted thin.
He smirked faintly. "You're a terrible liar."
Before she could answer, the door burst open and two girls swept in, arms full of sheet music. They froze when they saw Isla and Jasper.
One of them hissed something under her breath. The other whispered loud enough for Isla to hear: "Another one."
Jasper's jaw tightened. "Ignore them."
But as Isla gathered her things, she saw one of the girls glance at her phone and smirk. A chill ran through her. Was it her? The text?
Jasper reached for his guitar. "Meet me here after classes. We'll start building ideas."
"I have work—"
"Make time." He strummed a chord sharp enough to cut off objections. "Unless you want to fail."
Her pride bristled, but she nodded. "Fine."
As she left, she could feel the girls' eyes on her back like pins.
That evening the lab was dark except for the golden glow of desk lamps. Jasper was already there, guitar in his lap, humming a melody that sounded like a confession.
She hesitated at the doorway, but he didn't look up. "Close the door. The acoustics are better."
When she did, the sound wrapped around her — low, aching notes that made her chest tighten.
"What is that?" she asked.
"Something I wrote after…" He trailed off, fingers stilling on the strings. "Doesn't matter."
"It's beautiful."
He gave a humorless laugh. "Beauty's cheap. Honesty's harder."
She set her sketchbook on the table. "Then be honest."
For a long moment he stared at the guitar, then at her. "You first. Why did you transfer here?"
Her throat closed. Because someone stole my mural. Because everyone thought I lied. But she only said, "Fresh start."
His gaze flicked to her hands, clenched on the edge of the table. "Fresh starts are overrated."
"Maybe," she said quietly, "but sometimes they're all you have."
Something shifted in his expression — a flicker of recognition. Then he reached for a loose sheet of paper. "Here. Chords for the piece I'm working on. See if you can picture something while you listen."
He started to play. The melody rose like rain against glass, fractured and searching. Without thinking, Isla began to draw — not him, but the sound. Waves, echoes, a silhouette reaching toward light.
When she stopped, Jasper was watching her again, that same unreadable look. "You really see it, don't you?"
"See what?"
"The cracks."
A tremor went through her. "Everyone has cracks."
He leaned closer, voice low. "Most people pretend they don't."
Before she could respond, a sharp knock rattled the door. Mae's voice floated in. "Isla? You in there? You've got to see this."
Jasper's eyes narrowed. "See what?"
Mae pushed the door open, phone in hand. On the screen was a picture posted to the school's anonymous forum: Isla and Jasper in the lab, heads bent close, his guitar between them. The caption read: Another girl chasing the broken boy. Place your bets.
Heat flooded Isla's face. "Who—"
"Doesn't matter," Jasper said, but his jaw was tight. "It's starting again."
"What is?"
He met her eyes. "The game."
Thunder rolled outside, as if echoing his words.