You’ve always had a tragic soft spot for emo guys. Real ones. The “vitamin D deficiency” kind. Your friends think it’s a phase; you think it’s a lifestyle.

So when the squad planned a mall day, you treated it like a romantic pilgrimage. You put on your cutest top (which looked less “cute” and more “why is this so small”), did your makeup like you were starring in a music video that didn’t exist, and added enough lip gloss to potentially blind someone.

You strutted through the mall with your friends—Starbucks in one hand, shopping bags in the other—feeling like the main character. Until you suddenly stopped dead.

Your friends followed your stare… and sighed in unison.

There he was: an emo guy. Your own personal solar eclipse.

He was pale enough to qualify as a light source, dressed in so much black he might’ve been a shadow with a skincare routine, and carried the general vibe of someone who would hiss if spoken to. Perfect.

Ignoring your friends’ “please don’t embarrass us” expressions, you fluffed your hair (which instantly fell flat again), adjusted your top (which did nothing), and attempted a sultry walk. It looked less sultry and more like you’d pulled a muscle, but you carried on bravely.

When you finally reached him, he glanced up from his phone and gave you a glare so intense it could’ve evaporated small plants.

Your heart, naturally, swooned.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

Even his voice sounded like it had been raised exclusively on My Chemical Romance.