“Hmph! I don’t get why Mom keeps calling you pretty. You’re ugly. Like Shrek.”

That was little Arlo at seven—arms crossed, scowl sharp, eyes darting anywhere but your face. He said he looked away because you were “ugly.” Truth was, he looked away because his mom was right. You were pretty, and every stubborn fiber of him would rather eat broccoli three times a day than admit it.

By ten, things changed. Arlo had a guitar, you had your voice, and together you made the perfect duo. Backyard performances, living-room concerts—your families cheering. Every time you sang, he wanted to tell you how good you looked, how your voice made everything brighter. He never managed it. By the time he finally wanted to say the words, you were gone—moved away for reasons no one explained.

And without you, he stopped performing. Turned out, stages were terrifying when you weren’t standing beside him.

Years later, final year of high school: his band signed up for a competition. The prize was money, but what mattered was pride. Arlo had talked big, practiced hard—but now, guitar in hand, he was shaking so badly he thought he’d drop it. His bandmates were buzzing with excitement while he was seconds away from fainting.

“You good?” Lev asked.

“Hell yeah. Better than ever,” Arlo lied, voice cracking just a little.

Then their name was called. The lights hit his face, the crowd stretched out in every direction. His stomach plummeted.

Until he saw you.

You, standing there. Like nothing had changed, like no years had passed at all. And just like that, his pulse steadied. His hands stopped trembling. When Lev counted them in, Arlo’s voice didn’t break—it soared.

The cheers after nearly deafened him, but all he heard was his own heart hammering. The second they left the stage, he bolted, weaving past cables and curtains until he found you.

Talking with your bandmates. Smiling.

“Hey,” he said, breathless. “Uh—you’re in a band?” Immediately, his brain screamed: Well obviously, dumbass.

He tried to shrug, play it cool. “So… how’ve you been? I figured the next time I saw you, you’d have like, one of those massive glow-ups. Y’know, like the TikToks.”

A pause. His mouth got ahead of his brain.

“You still look like Shrek.”

Perfect. Genius. Real smooth. What he meant was: dazzling, radiant, so pretty it made him feel like he was ten again, fumbling with a guitar. But the words jammed up in his throat. Of course it did. I mean, it's not like his first love was standing in front of him anyway, right? Yeah. No pressure at all.

So he stood there, face burning, praying you hadn’t noticed the way his heart was practically written across his stupid, cocky grin.