The night of the Talent Show, the Eastwood High gymnasium had been transformed. Strings of fairy lights draped from the rafters like frozen starlight, and the usual smell of floor wax was buried under the heavy, cloying scent of expensive perfumes and nervous sweat. For me, the air felt electric, humming with a frequency that made the hair on my arms stand up. I had spent the last two weeks in a state of quiet, dangerous euphoria. Every time Ryan helped me with my math, every time our fingers brushed over the margin of a calculus equation, I felt like I was moving closer to something real. Mark had been a distant, impossible fantasy, but Ryan felt like a choice. He felt like a possibility I had actually earned.
I sat in the front row with Sarah and Jessica, my hands tucked tightly under my thighs to keep them from shaking. I had dressed up more than usual, choosing a soft, cream-colored sweater that I hoped brought out the warmth in my eyes. I wanted to look like someone worth noticing. I wanted to ensure that when Ryan looked out into the crowd from behind that grand piano, I was the first person he would see.
"You are literally glowing, Sadie," Sarah whispered, nudging me with her elbow. "If he plays any better tonight, I am going to have to catch you when you faint. You have it bad for him."
I laughed, a nervous, fluttery sound. My heart was doing a frantic, Olympic floor routine against my ribs. I watched the earlier acts with a polite, forced interest. There was a comedy troupe that was not particularly funny and a girl playing the violin with a stiff, robotic precision that made my own neck ache. My mind, however, was already on the grand piano sitting center stage. It looked like a sleeping beast, waiting for the only person who knew how to make it speak.
Finally, the lights dimmed. A single, sharp spotlight cut through the darkness, illuminating Ryan as he walked out from the wings. He looked breathtaking. His long hair was pulled back loosely, a few stray strands framing his face, and he wore a simple black button-down that made him look older and more serious. He sat at the piano, and the room fell into a hush so profound you could hear the faint hum of the speakers.
He began to play. It was the piece he had been practicing in the music room, but under the stage lights, it sounded entirely different. It was powerful, a surging wave of sound that seemed to tell a story of longing and hidden depths. I leaned forward, my breath hitching in my throat. I felt like he was playing it for me. I felt like every note was a secret conversation we had started over a math book in the courtyard and were now finishing in front of the whole school. It was intimate. It was ours.
Then, his duet partner stepped onto the stage. She was a senior, a beautiful girl with dark, flowing hair and a cello that looked like a natural extension of her own body. As they began to play together, the music reached a crescendo. The harmony was perfect, their movements synchronized as if they were sharing the same heartbeat. I felt a small, nagging prickle of unease, but I pushed it down. This was art. This was just a performance.
The final chord echoed through the rafters, hanging in the air for a long, beautiful second before fading into the silence. The crowd erupted into deafening applause. I stood up, clapping until my palms stung, my face aching from the force of my genuine smile. Ryan stood up, taking a bow, his eyes bright with the adrenaline of the moment. He turned toward his partner. I expected a high-five or perhaps a formal, professional nod of appreciation.
Instead, he reached out, cupped her face with both hands, and kissed her.
It was not a quick, accidental brush of lips. It was deep, lingering, and unmistakably public. It was the kind of kiss that claimed someone in front of the world. It was a declaration.
The roar of the crowd suddenly felt like it was underwater. I felt the smile slide off my face, replaced by a cold, numbing shock that started in my fingertips and raced toward my heart. The butterflies in my stomach did not just stop dancing; they died. My chest tightened so sharply that I had to gasp for air. I looked around the gym, realizing that for everyone else, this was a romantic highlight. They were seeing the it-couple of the music department sharing a cinematic moment. For me, it was the sound of a glass house shattering into a million jagged pieces.
"Sadie?" Jessica's voice was small, filled with a sudden, heavy pity that hurt more than the betrayal itself.
"I have to go," I whispered.
I did not wait for them to follow or offer empty comforts. I pushed through the rows of chairs, ignoring the curious glances of students as I bolted for the exit. I burst through the double doors into the cool night air, running until the music and the cheering were nothing but a dull, mocking throb in the distance. I ended up at the edge of the darkened athletic field, sinking onto the cold, damp grass. The sky was clear, the stars looking down with a steady, indifferent light. I felt a hot, angry tear track down my cheek. I had let myself believe that I was special. I had let myself think that the new version of me was immune to the old patterns of being overlooked.
"Stupid," I choked out, wiping my eyes with the back of my shaking hand. "Just so incredibly stupid."
I had survived the disappointment of Mark because he was untouchable and distant. But Ryan had let me into his world. He had helped me, laughed with me, and made me feel like the music room was our secret kingdom. All the while, I was just a placeholder, a girl to pass the time with until he could stand in the spotlight with the person he actually loved.
I sat there for a long time, the dampness of the grass seeping through my clothes. I made a vow then, staring at the dark, looming silhouette of the school. No more piano players. No more secret smiles. No more giving my heart away to boys who only saw me as a temporary distraction.
As I walked back toward the dorms, I passed the library. A lone light was on in the high window of the study hall. I saw a figure sitting there, hunched over a desk. It was Carl. Even from this distance, I could tell his focus was absolute. He did not have a duet partner. He did not have a cheering crowd. He just had his books and his cold, steady ambition. For the first time, I felt a strange sense of envy for his solitude. He did not care if people liked him. He was just himself, unbothered by the messy, shattering nature of hope.
"Someone saw me," I whispered, glancing up at the library window again. I felt a flicker of awareness, a neutral presence watching me from the shadows of the building, but I was too numb to care.
"No more crushes," I whispered to the empty, silent hallway as I entered my dorm. I meant it. I would build a wall so high that no one would ever see me cry again. I was done being the girl who waited. I was ready to become the girl who did not care.