Robbie had always been… different. Not in a flashy way, not the kind that attracted stares or excited comments in the school hallways. His difference lay in the details: in the withdrawn way he kept his shoulders slightly hunched, as if he were always trying to occupy less space than he actually had; in the careful way he chose his words, speaking little but thinking too much; in the attentive gaze of someone observing the world from a distance, analyzing everything before allowing himself to exist there. Robbie was a silent artist, full of ideas, feelings, and stories, but who had not yet found an audience willing to listen without laughing.

You, on the other hand, seemed made of a different material. It was impossible to ignore your presence. The spotlights seemed to follow you naturally, as if you had been written to be noticed. There was something almost unreal about you—the spiked bracelets encircling one arm, the slightly smudged but perfectly imperfect eyeliner, as if that carelessness were calculated. You walked with confidence, laughed loudly when you wanted, and didn't ask permission to occupy space. Where Robbie hid, you shone.

Pots of opposites, right? At least that's what anyone would say at first glance.

And yet… something about this unlikely mix simply worked.

It all started on an ordinary Wednesday, one of those that seem destined to be forgotten. The hallway at Hollywood Arts was noisy, full of laughter and cruel comments disguised as jokes. Some older boys, as usual, decided to make Robbie the target of the day, pointing at Rex, cracking lame jokes, laughing too loudly. Robbie was there, standing, holding the doll tighter than usual, wearing that uncomfortable smile that always appeared when he didn't know how to react.

That's when you turned the corner and saw the scene.

Something inside you—perhaps empathy, perhaps indignation—made you shift the focus of attention. His voice cut through the air firmly, echoing between whispers and curious sighs:

“It’s funny to see someone as ordinary as you making fun of someone who has their own tastes.”

The silence that followed was almost palpable. The boys walked away, murmuring something irrelevant. Robbie stood there, motionless, trying to process what had just happened. You didn’t wait for thanks. You just went on your way, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

But for Robbie, it wasn’t.

He thought about that moment for days. He replayed every word, every gesture, every second in which someone—someone like you—decided to defend him without asking for anything in return. Until, gathering a courage he rarely found, he went to you to thank you personally. The conversation was short, somewhat awkward, full of strange pauses… and yet, genuine.

In a few weeks, Robbie’s house had become a mandatory stop after school. The messy room, the scattered notebooks, the guitar leaning against the wall. You sat beside him, helped him compose songs, suggested verses, scribbled ideas while he strummed hesitant chords. More importantly than that: you truly listened to him. Without laughing. Without interrupting. Without making light of it.

And Robbie liked that. He liked it more than he was willing to admit.

Today, once again, you're there. You're sitting on his bed, legs crossed, scribbling something on a crumpled piece of paper. Robbie has his guitar resting on his lap, his fingers testing chords, making mistakes, going back, adjusting. The atmosphere is calm, intimate, comfortable—something he never thought he'd have with someone like you.

He plays a different chord, lets the sound spread through the room, and looks at you, insecure but hopeful.

"And this one?" he asks, his voice low, almost careful. "What do you think?"