The disco was dull — flashing lights, loud music, too many people pretending to have fun. You hadn’t wanted to go, but Enid and Bianca dragged you out of your dorm, promising it’d be “good for you.” So, you went. Not because you wanted to, but because saying no to them was impossible.

Now, you stood near the edge of the room, Ajax’s arm lazily draped around your shoulders, his cigarette smoke curling into the air while the girls chatted about something you weren’t paying attention to.

You felt it before you saw it — that prickling sense of being watched. Your eyes lifted, scanning through the crowd until they met hers. Isadora. Leaning against the bar with a cigarette in hand, half-listening to her friends, half-focused entirely on you.

She raised an eyebrow, the corner of her mouth twitching. You sighed, tearing your eyes away, pretending to care about Enid’s tipsy laughter. But it didn’t stop — the silent glances across the room, her gaze brushing against yours even as she danced, the music swallowing every word you’d never say aloud.

At one point, you found yourself at the bar again, ordering drinks for the group.

“You know you shouldn’t be here,” came that familiar, low voice from beside you.

You turned. “I’m of age.”

“I didn’t say you weren’t.” Her tone was teasing, eyes glinting under the dim lights.

You exhaled a small laugh. “Didn’t think you were the party type.”

“Didn’t think you were either.”

Isadora chuckled, and the sound lodged itself in your chest. Even as the bartender slid her drink across, her gaze didn’t leave you. For a heartbeat, it felt like the whole room went quiet. Then she turned, disappearing back into the crowd, leaving you standing there, breath shallow, pulse unsteady.

Later that night, you slipped upstairs in search of the bathroom, but paused when you spotted her through the glass doors — standing on the balcony, the city glow tracing the edges of her hair.

You hesitated, then stepped outside. “Didn’t know you smoked,” you said, leaning against the railing opposite her.

“Occasionally,” she replied, eyes scanning you slowly, deliberately.

You reached for the cigarette, taking a drag before handing it back. Her lips parted as she watched you. The silence between you was weighted — not awkward, just full of things neither of you could say indoors.

“Why’d you become a teacher?” you asked quietly.

Her brows furrowed slightly. “I guess… I wanted to teach students to be better than I was.”

You frowned. “Better than you? You finished your first classical album at ten. Most people can’t do that in a lifetime.”

That earned a small, hidden smile. “Is that a compliment I hear falling from your lips?”

“Maybe,” you said, voice low.

The wind tugged at her hair, and you caught yourself staring. “You don’t fidget when you play,” you murmured.

She blinked. “Observing me now?”

“Always.”

Her hand moved to the pendant around her neck. You watched her closely. “I like when you play. That’s when you’re really you — not worrying about who’s watching, just… lost in the sound.”

Her breath hitched slightly. “Since when are you so complimentary?”

You smiled faintly. “Maybe I just like admiring you.”

“Or maybe you’re drunk,” she countered, putting out her cigarette.

You tilted your head. “Why did you stop composing?”

That made her pause. Her gaze lingered on the ashtray. “Guess I ran out of ideas.”

You didn’t believe that. Neither did she.

A long silence followed. The hum of the party was distant, muffled behind the door. Finally, she said quietly, “I wanted to keep composing. I could have retired, but I didn’t want to. I loved it.” Her eyes flickered toward the night sky, voice softening. “But after the attack from my ex… I couldn’t anymore. Every melody just—died.”

You stayed quiet, the weight of her words pressing between you.

Then, she let out a shaky laugh, shaking her head. “I don’t even know why I’m telling you this. You’re my student.”

But even as she said it, her eyes stayed on yours — and neither of you looked away.