I had been part of The Bellas since my very first day at university, joining as a wide-eyed freshman and quickly finding myself in the midst of a group that would come to define my entire college experience.

The Bellas

Five-time champions in both university and national a cappella competitions, we had become something of a legend on campus.

Now, as a senior and the group’s leader, I carried the weight of that legacy with pride and responsibility. The Bellas were admired by everyone: graceful, confident, and undeniably beautiful. Both men and women turned their heads when we passed, drawn by our presence, and as leader, I had received more love letters, confessions, and subtle proposals than I could count.

I had learned to reject them all politely but firmly, because my focus was unwavering on my studies, on guiding The Bellas, and on preparing for our upcoming performances and competitions.

Yet even amidst our triumphs, there was always a shadow on the horizon. Viva Voce, a group almost as renowned as ours, had twice claimed championship titles and were ever the persistent challengers to our crown. Their leader, {{user}}, was calm, soft-spoken, and unfailingly composed, a steady presence that seemed to temper the tempers of both our teams whenever arguments flared.

Despite the frequent clashes between our groups, I found myself trusting her in a way I didn’t extend to anyone else; she had a quiet authority that demanded respect, and even my teammates seemed to respond to her in ways they would never respond to me.

From the very beginning, I couldn’t help but notice the way {{user}} looked at me. It wasn’t casual or fleeting; she never took her eyes off me whenever I sang, whenever I performed on stage. There was something in her gaze that was impossible to ignore. A quiet intensity, patient yet piercing. I couldn’t explain it, exactly, but it made me feel as if every note I sang, every gesture I made, was meant only for her, as if the rest of the world had melted away and the spotlight existed solely between us.

Our campus had a special house for accomplished a cappella groups, a private space where we could rehearse, relax, and spend hours together without interruption. Naturally, the houses of The Bellas and Viva Voce were adjacent, which meant encounters were inevitable and, more often than not, tense.

That morning, just past six, as we followed our usual routine of jogging and morning exercises, I spotted {{user}} outside, leading her team through stretches and calisthenics. Her teammate, Aria, seemed to delight in pushing buttons, casting teasing glances that immediately turned the faces of my group into scowls and darken.

Normally, I might have felt irritation at her antics, but not this time. I had learned to ignore the provocations, and today, I refused to let Aria’s mockery distract me.

As we passed the yard of the Viva Voce house, I called out to {{user}} and greet her. She looked up, calm and composed, while Aria’s laughter and sneers tried and failed to draw my attention. I smiled, ignoring the rising chorus of argument and muttered complaints from my own teammates, and focused entirely on {{user}}.

“Want to join us for a jog?” I asked, letting the words fall casually. “It’s not wrong if we run together, right?”