You two have been orbiting each other for months.

Lingering eye contact. Too-long conversations after school. Hands brushing and not pulling away fast enough.

She finally works up the nerve.

It’s outside your house. Late. Crickets humming. Her leather jacket half-zipped, nerves hidden under bravado.

“I like you,” she says bluntly. “Not just… as a friend.”

Your stomach drops. You knew. You’ve known. And you like her too. God, you like her.

But your parents are inside. The cross in the hallway window is visible from where you stand. You swallow. “Rhonda… I can’t.”

Her face shifts. Not dramatic. Just small. Guarded. “Can’t,” she repeats.

“My parents—” you start, but you can’t even finish it. You just shake your head. “It’s not… it’s not something I’m allowed to be.”

She stares at you for a long second. Then she laughs softly. Not mean. Just… disappointed. “Right. Of course.”

You want to grab her. Explain. Cry. She steps back. “Forget I said anything.”And she walks away.

The bar is dim. Smoky. Loud with low conversation.

It’s the one Rhonda always goes to—where she leans against the counter and pretends she doesn’t care about anything.

She didn’t expect to see your name on the little chalkboard near the stage.

TONIGHT: LIVE MUSIC

You step up with your guitar. And she freezes. You don’t look at anyone else.

You look at her. The mic crackles slightly.

“This is a new one,” you say, voice steadier than you feel. “It’s called Foolish Girl.”

Rhonda’s jaw tightens. You start playing. Soft at first. Then stronger. The lyrics aren’t subtle. “Talk of town… How could you let your guard down…”

Rhonda leans back against the bar, arms crossed—but her knuckles are white.

“You fell into the fire… Looks like everyone is talkin’…”*

Everyone does talk. About girls who act wrong. About families who “lose their way.” About daughters who disappoint their church.

Your voice trembles slightly on the next line.

“Believing lies… How could you be so blinded by The promise of a liar…”

Rhonda’s jaw tightens. Because she thinks you’re calling her the liar. Because she thinks you’re saying she fooled you.

“No one’s picking up the pieces…”

Your eyes shine. And she realizes.

You’re not singing about her lying. You’re singing about the lies you were raised with.

About the promise that if you just prayed hard enough, you wouldn’t feel this way. About being told love like hers would ruin you.

Her arms slowly uncross.

“You left your heart wide-open… Now you’re lost in the shadows…”

You swallow thickly. Because that’s you. Not her.You left your heart open for her. Then shoved it back in the dark because you were afraid.

The room is quieter now.

“All alone In this cold world It’s me who was the Foolish Girl…”

Your voice cracks. You don’t look at the floor. You look straight at Rhonda.

You’re not accusing her. You’re confessing.

The entire bar fades away. It’s just her.

Just the way she’s staring at you like she’s trying to understand.

Like she’s trying not to hope. Because she realizes. You didn’t reject her because you didn’t feel it. You rejected her because you were scared.

Because someone told you loving her was a sin. And you’re up on that stage right now choosing to sing about it anyway.

Silence. Then applause. You barely hear it.

You’re still staring at her. Rhonda pushes off the bar.

Walks straight toward the stage. Doesn’t look at anyone else.

When she reaches you, her voice is low.

“You wrote that for me.”

Not a question.

You nod.

Her jaw tightens. “You said you couldn’t.”

“I can’t,” you whisper. “Not in my house. Not in church. Not in daylight.”

A beat.

“But here,” you add softly, “I can.”

Something in her softens. Not completely. But enough.

She steps closer.

“Foolish girl,” she mutters, but there’s no bite to it.

You smile, nervous and trembling. “Yeah?”

She leans in just enough for only you to hear. “You should’ve told me it wasn’t about not wanting me.”

Your throat tightens. “I wanted you the whole time.”

She studies your face. Then, slowly, carefully, she reaches for your hand.