"You know," Lily said, her smile brightening as though she'd just confirmed something she already suspected, "for a first-time flower buyer, you picked the right place. Anything I put together here can honestly be called a masterwork." She paused, then added with a playful tilt of her chin, "Yes, that was a tiny bit narcissistic. But—flowers do score extra points if you're confessing, you know."
Ginevra's expression tightened for a heartbeat, the faintest flush skimming her composure like a fingertip across still water.
"I'm not… confessing," she explained, carefully, as if saying it any louder might change the meaning.
Lily waved a hand, laughing. "I'm kidding, I'm kidding."
She turned and disappeared behind the counter, then returned with an exquisitely made white gift tote—clean lines, a subtle sheen, the kind of thing that made even a simple purchase feel ceremonial.
"I can already tell," Lily said, slipping the bouquet inside with practiced gentleness, "with your personality, there's no way you'd just walk around hugging flowers in your arms. Too conspicuous. Too bold. Put them in here. Just be careful not to crush them."
"Thank you," Ginevra murmured.
Maybe it was because it was the first sale of the day. Or maybe it was simply because the girl in front of her looked too pleasing—too composed and quietly lovely—to treat like an ordinary customer. Lily tapped a few buttons on her calculator, then angled the screen toward Ginevra.
"Just pay this."
Ginevra's gaze dropped to the total. Discounted.
Her brows knit, faintly puzzled.
"You've got a good vibe," Lily said, as though that settled it. "Twenty percent off. If you ever need flowers again, come back to me."
The words twenty percent off tugged something loose in Ginevra's chest. It was almost ridiculous, how quickly a small phrase could call up a person. Jayna always said things like that, too—half-joking, half-proud, as if her affection came with a playful price tag.
Ginevra pressed her lips together, and a small smile—brief and unguarded—slipped out anyway.
"Thank you," she said softly. "If I need them again… I'll come."
"Okay," Lily replied, sing-song and sincere. "God bless you."
Ginevra didn't know why that blessing warmed her so much, but it did. She carried the white tote as if it contained something fragile enough to bruise at a careless touch. Every few steps, she couldn't help lowering her eyes to check—making sure the little daisies inside were still safe, still whole.
That was when her phone rang.
"Giny—where are you?" Jayna's voice came through with a thin edge of panic, like a breath held too long.
"I'm on my way," Ginevra said, tightening her grip on the phone as her pace quickened. "I'll be at the auditorium soon."
Backstage, Jayna had snatched a moment while the stylist worked on her hair. She told herself she only needed to confirm Ginevra was coming. That was all.
But the truth—quiet, stubborn—was that she wanted to hear her.
And when that cool, even timbre reached her ear, something in her finally unclenched. She had less than an hour before she went on. In the distance, the official hosts were still doing their final run-throughs, voices echoing faintly through the curtains.
"You know…" Jayna said, lifting her face toward the mirror, staring at herself as if she might become brave by looking the part. "Just hearing you helps. I was so nervous last night, I couldn't sleep."
Ginevra listened, and the conclusion she'd suspected settled into place with quiet certainty.
So it really was anxiety.
"Before you go on," Ginevra said, calm as a metronome, "breathe. Deeply. Like you always do in practice."
"Mhm, mhm." Jayna nodded at her own reflection, hairpins held between her fingers. "Where are you sitting? So when I walk onstage, I can find you first."
Ginevra hesitated. With the spotlights, with the crowded hall—how could Jayna possibly see her in the sea of faces?
"I'm far back," she said at last. "The front rows are for the principal, the board, and staff."
In other words: You won't be able to see me.
Jayna laughed, quick and delighted, like she'd heard a challenge instead of a refusal. "I have a special technique. Like—I put a GPS tracker on you. I'll locate you. Believe it or not?"
Her teasing wrapped around the words the way her fingers always seemed to wrap around everything she wanted to keep.
Even the stylist, hovering close enough to hear, looked faintly scandalized—as if Jayna were chatting with a boyfriend instead of a friend.
"Eyeshadow now," a staff voice warned from somewhere near Jayna's shoulder. "Don't move."
Ginevra caught the shift in sound, the subtle choreography of people around Jayna. Her voice softened.
"I'll be there in fifteen minutes," she said. "Focus on what you're doing. Don't panic. Take it slow."
"Okay." Jayna's reply was obedient in a way that made it feel intimate.
She hung up and gave the stylist a small, apologetic smile—one that seemed to say I'm trying, I promise.
"Close friend?" the stylist asked, brushing pigment carefully across Jayna's lid.
Jayna considered it as though the word friend were a coat that didn't quite fit the shape of what she felt.
"Mmm…" she said, thoughtful. "Someone very important. The kind no one can replace."
The stylist chuckled, shaking her head, a little envious despite herself. At this age, feelings—whether friendship or love—could still be unbearably pure, unbearably bright.
"All right," she said. "Open your eyes slowly."
Jayna did.
Then she stared. For a second she forgot to breathe, leaning closer to the mirror as if the glass might confirm she wasn't imagining it.
"It's… it's like an art piece," she whispered.
The stylist smiled at her own work. She'd done makeup on countless faces, but rarely did she see someone who needed only the lightest touch to reveal something so effortless—beauty that wasn't manufactured, only uncovered. Jayna's features carried a strange combination: something high-class and innocent, threaded through with a quiet, dangerous allure.
If Jayna hadn't still been in her junior year, the stylist might have been tempted to introduce her to an agent friend on the spot.
"Is it too much?" Jayna asked, lips parted—glossed in a pale shade, soft as a secret. She'd worn foundation before, but this… this was the difference between a beginner and a master.
"Don't you want to stun her?" the stylist countered gently, amused.
Jayna's cheeks warmed.
Her naturally wavy hair had been shaped into loose, temporary Hollywood curls, a jeweled band woven through and tied back. She wore a long, light-pink dress, the sheer neckline framing her swan-like throat so cleanly it felt almost unfair.
"This dress," the stylist said, touching the fabric with appreciation, "French couture. Rare, too."
Jayna nodded, proud and a little sheepish. "You've got a good eye. My aunt brought it back from abroad for my birthday. I've kept it in a box forever—couldn't bear to wear it. It's not exactly… everyday."
She lifted the skirt slightly on both sides, demonstrating how the hem threatened to trip her if she didn't.
"Then why today?" the stylist asked, charmed by how frank she was. "You'll be the brightest focus in the room."
Jayna almost licked her lips out of habit and was promptly stopped. She froze, then remembered—the lipstick.
She laughed under her breath.
"Being the focus doesn't matter," she said, voice lowering, suddenly sincere. "As long as the person I want to see me… sees me."
And when Jayna stepped onto the stage—this girl who looked like a night-born sprite dressed in soft color—an astonished hush went through the auditorium.
She walked with careful elegance, the long dress forcing her to slow, but it only made her seem more deliberate, more poised. She reached the piano, dipped her head in greeting, and rested her hands on the white keys.
When the first notes floated out—clear, unspooling like ribbon—her performance began.
The piece she chose was one she loved. To match the piano, she raise the key and softened her voice, letting the melody carry her words like water carries light.
I wish I was more than just someone you walk by
Wish I wasn't scared to be honest and open
Instead of just hopping
You're feel what I'm feeling inside
Ginevra sat among the audience and watched Jayna shine as if she were a star pinned to the ceiling of the world. There was a faint halo to her, something that made the air around her seem thinner, softer—like light had found a reason to linger.
Jayna played and sang at the same time, and it was the first time Ginevra had heard her voice like this—sweet and distinct, steady in its tenderness.
The sound sank under Ginevra's skin.
For a reckless moment, it almost felt like Jayna was—no, that was absurd—
It almost felt like Jayna was confessing to her.
The thought was so ridiculous it should have evaporated on contact, but it didn't. It stayed. It pressed warmly behind Ginevra's ribs until her eyes softened against her will.
She smiled toward the stage, then—quietly, as if committing a small crime—lifted her phone.
For the first time in her life, she wanted to steal an image of someone.
Her gaze lowered to the screen after the shutter sound—gentle, almost reverent.
So beautiful.
When the song ended, Jayna had given everything she had, clean and bright and aching with effort. The applause that followed was the most thunderous of the night—so loud it carried a silent pressure for every performer after her.
Jayna stood slowly from the bench, facing the crowd. She accepted the clapping, the cheers—yet her eyes, glossy and determined, weren't looking for approval.
They were searching.
And the moment her gaze locked onto the one figure she'd been waiting for, her mouth curved in triumph.
Giny. I found you.
Under the spotlight, she didn't flinch. She stared straight through the ocean of people, straight at the person who mattered most.
Ginevra's breath caught.
How—how could Jayna see her from that far?
Jayna dipped her head politely to the audience again, then turned her eyes back to Ginevra with unmistakable mischief and lifted her hands in front of her chest, shaping them into a heart.
In that instant, Ginevra felt her heartbeat misstep—like a piano note struck a fraction too soon.
She knew Jayna probably meant nothing by it. Jayna was like this—playful, thoughtless with affection, bright enough to burn without noticing the heat.
But Ginevra couldn't adjust fast enough. Couldn't make her face remember how to be calm.
The tips of her ears flared red. She turned her head away sharply, hiding from Jayna's gaze as if hiding from the truth of her own reaction.
The performances continued—one after another, dazzling and loud—but Ginevra was already gone from the moment. She kept lowering her eyes to the photo on her phone. It wasn't perfectly clear, but Jayna's outline looked painted there anyway, like an oil portrait captured in a stolen second.
Fear pricked her: What if it disappears? What if I lose it?
So she locked it behind a password, as though a small barrier could keep something precious safe.
"Ginevra," a voice suddenly burst from behind her, "I've been watching you stare at that photo for an hour!"
Ginevra jolted, fingers closing around her phone as if someone might snatch it.
Calista Renner shoved past a couple students with her usual reckless energy, then gestured for someone to swap seats so she could plant herself directly behind Ginevra.
From that angle, she leaned forward, peering at Ginevra's hair with open admiration. No wonder Jayna always liked braiding it—Ginevra's long dark hair was glossy and soft-looking, the kind you wanted to touch just to confirm it was real.
Calista stretched her neck toward Ginevra's ear, conspiratorial.
"Relax," she whispered. "I won't tell anyone you secretly photographed Jayna."
"Shut up," Ginevra snapped, voice sharp enough to cut.
Her jaw tightened. For a second, she genuinely felt Calista might deserve a lesson.
Calista only grinned, wicked and pleased with herself. She leaned closer, lowering her voice even further.
"Ohhh, I get it. You took a terrible photo on purpose so you can tease her later. Don't worry, I won't tell her. I'm loyal."
Ginevra's shoulders eased by a fraction. She glanced back, expression still cold.
"When the show ends," she said, "if a teacher asks for me—tell them I already left."
Calista popped a lollipop into her mouth, looking far too smug. "You could just say you're going to find Jayna."
Ginevra's eyes narrowed.
Calista laughed awkwardly and lifted both hands in surrender. "Okay, okay. I got it. I'll cover for you."
"Thanks," Ginevra murmured.
She took the white tote carefully into her hand again. Her face remained composed, distant; but beneath that restraint, something tender moved quietly, like a flame protected by glass.
I wonder… if she'll like it.
When the host delivered the closing remarks, the grand school celebration finally drew its curtain.
Four hours—an entire evening poured out onstage.
After her performance, Jayna had stayed backstage to rest. Or at least, that was what she told people. In truth, she was waiting.
Waiting for someone to come to her.
The crowd dispersed. Staff began to pack up cables and props. The backstage noise thinned until it became mostly footsteps and echo.
"Jayna," someone asked at last, "you're not leaving?"
"Oh. I'll go in a bit," she replied, smiling faintly.
…
Eventually, there was no one left but Jayna.
She sat alone before the dressing-room mirror, quiet as a held breath. Her lashes lowered as her fingers toyed with the white lace at her neckline—absent-minded, anxious, delicate. In the glass, she looked almost like Venus: soft, luminous, too vivid to be real in the plain light of an empty room.
She adjusted her curls again, carefully. She wanted to be beautiful when that person arrived.
Then she heard footsteps beyond the curtain.
Hope shot through her so quickly it was almost painful.
She spun around, joy breaking loose in her voice.
"You're here!"
But the person who stepped into view wasn't Ginevra.
It was Mason Hawthorne.
Disappointment flashed in Jayna's eyes—raw enough that she turned away at once, as if she could hide the feeling by hiding her face.
Mason didn't miss it. He saw everything.
He glanced down at the bouquet in his hands—roses so red they looked wet with color—then walked toward her with a small, determined smile.
"Congratulations," he said softly. "You were incredible."
He held the bouquet out, careful, reverent.
Jayna turned back, staring at the vivid cluster of red roses. Then she lifted her gaze to him, startled.
"This… is for me?"
"Yes," Mason said. His voice didn't waver. "Only for you."