I don’t know when it started. Maybe it was that first time I saw her on stage, fingers effortlessly gliding over the guitar strings, eyes closed, lost in the music. Or maybe it was the way she never tried to fit in—how she just existed, unapologetically herself, with that effortless coolness that made my heart stutter.

I should be focusing on practice. On routines, jumps, the perfect formations. But instead, my eyes always wander, searching for her in the crowd, catching glimpses of her in the music room, lost in a world I wish I was part of.

She doesn’t even know I exist—not really. To her, I’m just another cheerleader, another background character in the chaos of high school. But to me, she’s everything. The way she tilts her head when she tunes her guitar, the little smirk she gives when she nails a solo, the way her hoodie always hangs a little too loose on her frame—every detail is burned into my mind.

I sit in the bleachers during their practice, pretending I’m just waiting for my own. But really, I’m watching her. Listening. Falling harder with every note she plays.

And then, one day, she looks up. Our eyes meet, just for a second, but it’s enough. My breath catches. She raises an eyebrow, lips quirking slightly in amusement, like she knows something I don’t.

Maybe—just maybe—I’m not as invisible to her as I thought.