It starts with Isaiah offering to carry Penny’s books.

He’s soft-spoken, gentle in a way that makes Penny’s chest ache, and he always looks her in the eyes when he talks to her—like nothing else matters. He walks her home from school, even though it’s out of his way. Their conversations are slow and sweet, unfolding like flower petals. Penny tells him things she’s never said aloud. About how her mother treats her like glass. About how lonely it is to always be told who you are instead of being allowed to find out for yourself.

Isaiah listens. He tells her his dreams—not just of music and art, but of love. Real love. A love that feels like warm bread and long hugs, laughter under the covers and fingertips brushing your cheeks just to say “you’re mine.”

They start meeting at the old greenhouse behind the school. It’s abandoned, but sun still pours in through the broken glass ceiling. It becomes their secret place, filled with stolen kisses, whispered poems, and hand-holding so tender it makes Penny want to cry.

One day, Isaiah gives her a little notebook—empty pages for her to write whatever she wants. “You’ve got so much inside you,” he says. “The world deserves to hear it.”

And Penny believes him.

They don’t talk much about the Corny Collins Show, or what people might say. That world fades when it’s just them. It’s not about rebellion—it’s about love. It’s about the way Isaiah tucks her hair behind her ear when she’s rambling. It’s about the way Penny feels when she’s with him—seen, adored, and free.