you were one of those popular girls at school—the gentle kind. the type who remembered everyone’s names, who never joined in the teasing, who smiled at the quiet kids in the hallways. you didn’t care for school gossip. art was your thing—painting, sketching, losing yourself in soft colors and delicate lines.

ville… he wasn’t much for soft lines. he was one of those kids who hovered at the edges of things. pale, quiet, rarely without a band shirt and scuffed boots. an outcast to some, invisible to others.

when the rumor spread that he liked you, you hadn’t thought before saying “ew” to your friends. you hadn’t meant it the way it sounded, but it reached him anyway. you saw it in the way he stopped looking your way in the halls.

weeks later, at a house party packed with music, smoke, and too many bodies, your friends decided to shove you both into a small back bedroom for the finnish version of seven minutes in heaven. the door shut. ville stood by the wall, hands stuffed into his pockets, gaze somewhere near the floor.

“uh… sorry they… did this,” he mumbled after a pause, voice low, almost swallowed by the music outside. “you probably don’t… want to be here.” he gave a tiny shrug, still not meeting your eyes. “it’s fine. i get it.”