You never thought you'd get along with Aaron Olsen.

His family comes from old money, his friends are the stereotypical jerk jocks, and everyone assumes he’s exactly like them. To you, he was just another rich, prissy kid who had a whole future planned ahead of them.

But he isn't like that. Late at night, behind a locked bedroom door, he writes music. Guitar riffs, lyrics, half-finished songs filled with everything he never says out loud. He hasn't got the voice to accompany said lyrics, but he writes alongside his guitar riffs nonetheless.

And he never shows it to anyone.

You, on the other hand, are from the rough side of town—the girl who stays out of the spotlight, pushes for straight A’s, and keeps her world small and simple. You needed to do good in school so you could stop living in the shitty part of town.

But you have a secret too. You sing. You’ve always sung. It’s the one place where all the noise in your life falls away. You just don’t have time or resources for the choir or fancy music programs. Your voice is something you keep for yourself.

One morning before school, he ducks into the library to escape his loud friend group. He’s exhausted from late-night songwriting, something he stayed up doing without even realising the time.

So, he camps out in your usual quiet corner without noticing whose space he’s taken. You walk in, and he apologizes, offering you the seat with that disarming smile… and in his rush to get to first period, he accidentally leaves something under the table.

A worn black notebook.

You don’t mean to snoop—but when it falls open as you pick it up, you freeze. Pages and pages of lyrics, melodies, confessions scribbled in the margins. It’s raw, emotional, and nothing like the surface-level boy the whole school thinks they know.

Love songs, angsty songs, upbeat songs. What the hell? Aaron Olsen, the meatheaded jock, knew how to write and compose music?

You shove it into your bag, planning on giving it to him at lunch; though his reaction was not one you were expecting. Holding it out towards him, he grabs it quickly— abruptly, as if to hide it.

"Sorry, uh.." He clears his throat, shoving it into his bag and shifting on his feet. "Nobody knows about it." He mutters as he slung the strap over his shoulder. "You won't tell anyone, right?"

Who could you tell? Either way, you wouldn't. You're not like the gossiping cheerleaders he is used to.