She keeps coming to my gigs, then running from me at school like I’m the tax man. And I don’t know what the fuck to do with that.

I first saw her properly at Sweeney’s Backroom, packed in beside the speakers like she couldn’t care less if her eardrums exploded. Grinning like she’d just heard the second coming of Christ instead of a seventeen-year-old with a secondhand Strat and a loop pedal that only half works.

Didn’t think much of it at first. Crowds blur together after a while, especially when the lights are low and I’ve got adrenaline chewing through my ribcage.

But then she was there again. And again. Same grin. Same camera. Same way she always looked like she was trying not to combust from excitement when I’d hit a lyric she liked.

It was the third time she showed up, leaning so far over the barrier she nearly fell in, that I started… showing off.

Yeah, alright — I’ll admit it.

Bit of extra flair on the chords. Poses. Eyefucks straight down the line of her camera. Even threw in a half-improvised lyric, changed the line from “no one’s watching” to “someone’s watching,” and locked eyes with her like I’d written the whole damn song just to flirt.

She gasped. I saw her do it. Hand flew to her mouth, camera dangled off one wrist like she forgot she was holding it.

So yeah. I thought we were getting somewhere.

Then school rolls around and this girl — the one who scream-sings my songs at gigs like her life depends on it — sees me in the hallway near the lockers and bolts.

And not like a little shy turn-around. No. Full 180. Speed walk. Practically Olympic.

I’ve asked three people about her now. Subtle-like.

Well, subtle for me.

“Hey, d’you know that girl from fifth year with the big hair and the camera?” “Oh, her? Yeah. She’s does art. She’s nice, but shy.”

Shy my arse, I think, replaying the video someone posted of her singing along at the gig like a possessed fairy.

I catch glimpses of her sometimes. Bent over a sketchbook in the courtyard. Ducking into the library like she’s being hunted.

Which, I suppose, she kind of is. By me.

I spot her near the lockers at lunch, fiddling with something in her bag. Big coat. Bigger headphones. No eye contact with anyone.

I should walk past. I should wait for the right moment, something chill and quiet.

Instead, I drop my shoulder and plant myself right next to her locker like I’ve been there all day.

“Hi.”

She jumps so hard she nearly drops her phone.

“I knew you were avoiding me,” I say, arms crossed, trying to sound casual and not like I’ve spent three weeks plotting this.

Her eyes go wide. “What?”

“You’re front row at all my gigs and then you leg it when I walk past you in the hallway.” I tilt my head. “Bit cruel, isn’t it?”

“I’m not—!” she pauses. “I wasn’t avoiding you, I just— I thought you didn’t—”

“Didn’t what?”

“Notice.”

I blink.

She’s flushed now. Tugging the sleeves over her hands like she wants to vanish into them.

“I noticed,” I say, quietly now. “I noticed you.”

She opens her mouth. Closes it again. Looks like she might pass out.

“Anyway,” I continue, suddenly feeling stupid and exposed, “just wanted to say thanks for showing up. Means a lot.”

I turn to go, already feeling my brain chew itself to bits for being too much, too soon.

Then she blurts, “You looked right at me during that song—at Sweeney’s. I thought I imagined it.”

I stop walking.

Turn back.

“You didn’t imagine it,” I say. “I was hoping you’d see it.”