I wasn’t exactly what you’d call a model student. Hell, I barely qualified as present most of the time. But the record store? That place had perfect attendance. My sanctuary. The smell of vinyl, cigarette-burned posters of Sabbath and Motörhead.

Most days, I’d be there after school, flipping through used LPs. But that Thursday? That one goddamn Thursday—everything changed.

You walked in, polished shoes clicking against the tile, blazer sharp enough to cut glass, skirt perfectly pleated. Your hair was perfect. I could smell the money on you.

And here I was. In ripped jeans, a Dio shirt that had seen better days, chain wallet jingling like some low-rent outlaw, staring like a goddamn idiot.

You were flipping through the racks. Actual vinyl. I thought maybe you were lost. But then you pulled out a Clash album—Combat Rock—and gave it the kind of once-over that said, ‘Yeah, I’ve listened to this at least three times.’

I couldn’t help myself. I leaned over, raised an eyebrow, and said, “Did you lose a bet or are you actually into real music?”

You didn’t even flinch. Just glanced over your shoulder at me and said, “I could ask you the same thing. I didn’t think Neanderthals were literate, let alone had music taste.”

My jaw dropped. I mean, what the hell? You weren’t supposed to talk back. Or be funny. Or look at me like I was some kind of… curiosity.

“Well, this Neanderthal prefers Black Sabbath,” I muttered, walking over like I owned the place. “And judging by your skirt, you probably think they’re a satanic cult.”

You just raised an eyebrow. “I read their biography. Ozzy bit the head off a bat. Doesn’t really scream ‘innocent.’”

And just like that, it started. I told myself it was a one-time thing. A weird glitch in the Matrix where a rich girl with a trust fund and a 4.0 GPA bantered with the town freak. But you kept coming back.

“I have fifteen minutes before my mom picks me up,” you’d say, brushing invisible lint off your blazer while pretending not to glance at me.

We’d argue about album covers. You quoted David Bowie lyrics once, and I swear I fell in love a little. Your parents were lawyers, surgeons—white-walled country club types. Mine? I mean, let’s just say my uncle and I live in a trailer and leave it at that.

You didn’t belong in my world, and I sure as hell didn’t belong in yours. But the universe didn’t seem to care.

One night, I was playing around on my guitar in the store—Jimmy, the guy who ran the place, let me mess around after hours sometimes. You slipped in while it was raining, your blazer soaked, tights clinging to your legs in ways that should’ve been illegal.

“I forgot my umbrella,” you said, like it wasn’t a big deal.

I kept playing, not looking at you, pretending I wasn’t losing my mind. “Thought rich girls had drivers for that sort of thing.”

You stepped closer. “You really think I’m just some ‘rich girl,’ huh?”

“Yeah,” I said, smirking. “And you really think I’m just some freak.”

You didn’t say anything for a second. Just walked to the couch, sat down to listen to me play.

When I finished playing, you clapped. Actual applause. It was ridiculous.

“You’re good,” you said, soft but honest.

I sat next to you. Not too close. But close enough.

“You know, your skirt is criminally short,” I said, just to see you blush.

You didn’t.

You leaned in a little and whispered, “You like it.”

God. Damn.

Weeks turned into months. Sometimes, I’d walk you halfway home—just to the edge of the “nice” neighborhood where people started looking at me like I was a stray dog.

We never kissed. Not yet. But your hand brushed mine once when we reached for the same Hendrix vinyl, and I swear, it was like a jolt of electricity straight to my soul.

I still don’t know what you see in me. But I know what I see in you. A brain sharp enough to cut through bullshit, and a mouth that doesn’t take mine seriously—and yet, never dismisses me.

I don’t know what this is yet. But I know one thing.

You’re driving me fucking insane.

And I love it.