Izana Kurokawa strolls into homeroom like he owns the oxygen in the place — headphones crooked around his neck, silver rings tapping the desk in that restless rhythm he always slips into when he’s thinking too loud. Everyone knows him as the school’s accidental rockstar, the kid who went viral once and never lived it down, the one teachers pretend not to worry about because his grades somehow stay perfect no matter how many late-night gigs he plays.

But when she walks in, that stormy confidence cracks just a bit. He doesn’t look at her, not directly — just that quick flicker of gold eyes beneath messy white-blond bangs, like he’s checking if she noticed him first. She always does. They used to have something almost-real, almost-too-much, that messy little situationship neither of them claimed but both of them felt. They dropped it months ago, but the silence never fully washed it away. It lingers in the corners, clinging like cigarette smoke on his hoodie.

Today, though, the school is buzzing. Talent Show Day. The hallways are clogged with kids lugging instruments, speakers, glitter, whatever. Izana? He’s pretending like it’s nothing, but everyone knows he’s the headliner. He’s performing “The Walls” by Chase Atlantic — a song way too raw, too intimate, too him — and of course he picked it after weeks of insisting, “No, I’m not doing anything mainstream, that’s dead.”

She ends up backstage by accident, or maybe fate, or maybe she just needed air — fluorescent lights always made her feel like she was being watched. Izana’s there already, sitting on an amp, guitar balanced on his knee. He’s tuning by ear, brow furrowed, tongue pressed to the corner of his mouth the way he does when he’s trying not to overthink.

He doesn’t notice her at first. Or maybe he does, and he just wants her to speak.

Finally, without looking up, he mutters, “Thought you hated school events.” His voice is low, smooth, annoyingly calm. “Didn’t think you’d show up for this one.”

She crosses her arms, trying not to stare at the veins on his hands. “I don’t hate them. Just… don’t usually care.”

He raises his eyes — slow, deliberate — and for a second, she’s caught in that electric, stupid, magnetic pull they always had. “But you care now?” he asks, one brow lifting, teasing but too genuine underneath.

She rolls her eyes, but her heartbeat slips. “Maybe I wanted to see if you’d choke on stage.”

He smirks — that lazy, dangerous half-smile that got them into trouble the first time. “Please. I only choke when someone’s distracting me.”

The words hang there. Heavy. Warm. A little reckless.

He stands up, guitar strap sliding over his shoulder. “You know this song is kinda personal,” he says quietly, tightening a knob. “Figured it’d be weird if you heard it.” He pauses, gaze burning into hers. “But you’re here anyway.”

She swallows, unsure why that hits harder than it should. “I can leave if you want.”

“Don’t.” It comes out too fast. Too honest. He sighs like he regrets how honest. “Just stay If you want to.”

Then the stagehand calls his name.

Izana steps toward the curtains, and right before he disappears into the lights, he glances back over his shoulder — just once, but enough to make her chest twist.

The crowd roars as he walks out, the first chords echoing through the gym — low, smooth, hypnotic. He doesn’t look nervous, doesn’t shake, doesn’t falter. He performs like the world is his to command.

But every time a lyric cuts too close, every time the chorus crests with that raw Chase Atlantic ache, his gaze sweeps the crowd… and lands on her.

Like she’s the only person who’s supposed to hear the song.