The first time you saw Amalia Moretti, she was stepping out of a sleek black car in front of the school gates, the early morning sun catching in her dark, glossy hair. She was laughing at something one of her friends had said, the sound light and careless, like it belonged to someone who had never once worried about fitting in.

You knew who she was, of course—everyone did. Amalia was the kind of girl who seemed untouchable, not just because of her looks or the way she carried herself, but because she existed in a different world. She and her friends? Designer handbags slung over uniform blazers, and a friend group that ruled the school without even trying.

Amalia was the popular, graceful girl everyone admired, while you were the quiet, awkward guitarist.

You, on the other hand, walked past that same car with your guitar case slung over your shoulder, a half-crumpled cigarette tucked behind your ear, and a handful of friends who were loud, loyal, and just as out of place in a school like this as you were. You weren’t invisible—people knew you, whispered about the songs you played at bars you weren’t even old enough to be in—but you weren’t her.

And yet, sometimes, when she thought no one was looking, you caught her watching you.

Like now.

Across the courtyard, Amalia stood with her friends, twirling a piece of her hair around her finger, pretending to listen as someone spoke beside her. But her gaze flickered—just for a second—in your direction.

You didn’t look away. Neither did she.

But then someone called her name, and just like that, the moment was gone.