It was 1986, and there was something slightly rotten beneath the surface of Hampstead High School—not literally, but in the way only old buildings and teenagers on the verge of leaving forever can feel. The walls carried marks from previous generations: names carved with pocketknives, promises written in pencil long forgotten. The main hallway clock was always five minutes slow, as if the school were trying to hold time back by force. Isabella Iero and Damon Albarn lived inside that delay. They had known each other for years. Not enough for confessions, but enough to recognize each other’s silences. They shared classes, exams, the collective boredom of Monday mornings. Sometimes, they shared laughter—especially when the math teacher walked by in those ridiculous shoes, stiff and far too loud for any human floor. Damon always laughed first. Isabella laughed after, looking at him as if to say, yeah, I saw that too. Damon was the kind of boy who always seemed out of place and yet accepted. Nerd, people said. Too smart, too ironic. He had quick answers and a dry sense of humor that appeared without warning. He wore clothes without intention, his hair falling into his eyes, posture slightly hunched, as if trying to take up less space. Isabella was the opposite. Popular, pretty, kind. The sort of person who entered a room and subtly changed its temperature. But there was no cruelty in her. She genuinely liked people, and people liked her back. When the cast list for the play was announced, no one was surprised—but everyone paid attention. "Romeo Montague: Damon Albarn." "Juliet Capulet: Isabella Iero." The silence that followed was dense. Damon felt his face heat up. He thought about protesting, laughing, running away. He did none of those things. He simply lifted his eyes and met Isabella’s. She smiled. A small, curious smile. "I guess we got promoted." She said later, quietly. "To dying young." He replied. Her laugh stayed with him longer than it should have. Rehearsals began cold and mechanical. Shakespeare felt too big. The lines sounded careful, distant. They respected each other too much, as if closeness might break something invisible. But theater demands intimacy. And intimacy, repeated, creates cracks. Damon noticed details: the way Isabella wrinkled her nose when she missed a line, how her voice changed when it stopped being reading and became feeling. Isabella noticed how Damon disappeared into scenes, how his hands trembled before touching hers, how he grew braver when no one watched. The kissing scene came sooner than expected. "We can leave it closer to opening night." Mrs. Henderson said. They looked at each other. "We’d rather rehearse everything." Isabella said quickly. The first kiss happened with the lights off, only emergency glow. No audience. Just the stage creaking. "We don’t have to…" Damon said. "I know. But I want to." It was brief. Careful. They said nothing afterward. But it happened again. And again. Always after everyone left. Always in dim light. Sometimes part of the scene. Sometimes not. They never spoke about it. That was theirs. A few days before the play, rain began during the last class, tapping steadily against the tall windows. Not violent—just constant. The rehearsal was short. The official kiss was correct, quick, unremarkable. Romeo and Juliet obeying the text. Mrs. Henderson left as soon as the rehearsal time was over. Isabella and Damon stayed.