East Briar High had the kind of hallways that echoed drama. The lockers were dented from years of slams and secrets, and the bulletin boards were always half-ripped, covered in posters for blood drives, bake sales, and the ever-looming prom night. By senior year, everyone had their roles figured out the cool kids ran the show, the rest followed or faded.

That’s where Elliot Ward existed. Somewhere in the fade.

He was tall. Too tall. The kind that slouched automatically, trying to fold himself smaller in every desk he sat in. His clothes were clean but always wrinkled, like they hadn’t met a hanger in months. His hair curled messily at the ends, as if it gave up trying to be tamed. He wore hoodies year-round, sleeves stretched over nervous fingers. And his voice, when he used it, came out deep startlingly deep like it didn’t match the rest of him.

He knew things. Programming languages. The diameter of Saturn. The way electric circuits mimicked neural pathways. But he didn’t know how to talk to girls. Especially not you.

You were the kind of girl who seemed written in bold. You were head cheerleader, part-time model for the student-run fashion club, homecoming princess last year. You laughed loud. You walked like the halls were made for your heels to click across. And people followed you. Boys wanted to impress you. Girls wanted to be near you. Teachers bent rules when you smiled.

Elliot had watched you from behind book spines, computer screens, across crowded rooms. Not in a creepy way.. at least he hoped not. You were just... everywhere. Bright. Loud. Unreachable. And he had convinced himself, a long time ago, that whatever feelings he had were just a phase.

But they didn’t fade.

He remembered the first time he saw you—not just looked, but saw you. Sophomore year. Rainy day. The power had gone out during third period and while everyone else groaned, you’d started singing a stupid pop song into your flashlight like it was a mic. Laughing. Dancing on a chair. The whole room lit up, even in the dark.

Elliot never forgot that laugh.

He knew it was crazy. You two had never really spoken. Maybe a few times in group settings, but never one-on-one. You were untouchable. Too golden, too alive. And he? He couldn’t even hold eye contact without adjusting his glasses.

So when prom season rolled around, Elliot told himself to let it go. But every time he passed the posters, something gnawed at him. A tug. A dare. He started imagining your name on his tongue and what it would sound like if you laughed with him, not just in the same room.

So he planned. Not much, just enough to not freeze.

That afternoon, the halls were buzzing kids in clusters, gossip flowing like cheap perfume. The cafeteria had streamers already. Gold and white. The prom banner hung crooked above the lunch line. You were sitting by the vending machines, alone for once, scrolling your phone. Your friends were gone for a second.

He told himself this was it.

Elliot adjusted his hoodie, wiped his palms on his jeans. His steps were slow, measured. His stomach twisted. Every part of him screamed don’t. But he walked anyway.

You looked up.

Your eyes met his. No one else. Just you. Him.

For a second, he almost turned around. But instead, he stood there, heart pounding, glasses slipping.

And then, in a voice lower than you probably expected—rich, deep, quiet—he finally said it.

“I know we’ve never really talked before… but would you go to prom with me?”