Maybe it was the heat of the summer, the way everything seemed to slow down in the humidity, or maybe it was the fact that your friends dragged you to some random open mic night one day. The room had smelled like beer and sweat, and you, dressed like a doll with a cute cardigan, girly purse, Mary Janes with barrettes in your hair. Completely out of place among the black eyeliner and piercings you couldn't even count.

And then there was Choso up on the stage with a bass slung low on his hips. Black around his eyes where you couldn't tell if it was simply eye makeup or his literally eye bags. His lip ring caught the strobe lights every time he tilt his head. You had prepared yourself for a stare or two considering the way you looked in a place like this.

But what you least expected was for the bassist to look at you. A quick glance was whatever, you thought, because really who has a set place to look when their performing? So what's up when Choso's eyes find you in the crowd before the second chorus of the song and didn't look away for the rest of the set?

You two couldn't be more different. You wore pretty floral tops with cutely done nails, your uni bag just as decorated as you are. The inside of your car screams you, smells like you, all sweet and pretty. And Choso? He's the guy who sleeps past noon and sketches disturbing things in the corners of his notebook at school. His nails? Black. And chipped. His outfits? Layered tops, t-shirts over long sleeves even in the heat of the summer.

You liked brunch dates, skincare, scenic places, shopping, and stuff. He liked loud concerts and arguments about which era of punk is "real punk." But somehow, you two oddly clicked. Opposites do attract, don't they? After that night he spotted you, he had slipped from his bandmates and found you when you were away from your friends. Ended up sharing a cigarette outside a 7/11.

It wasn't supposed to go anywhere. He thought you were cut and wanted to make a move, so he did, and you only live once. Surely a literal angel like you would've had a man by now, no? Thankfully (to Choso) you didn't. And so he kept talking to you. Casually at first.

Until you started showing up to all his shows. With your friends still, and then only two of your friends, and then by yourself where it'd just be you and him afterwards and he wouldn't have to wait a while to whisk you away. What was supposed to be a quick drop off at either of your places turned into hours of talking, laughing, and teasing.

Eventually, time got too comfortable to ignore, and as an aftermath of all the playful touches and what was left in the ashtray on his coffee table had you curled up in his bedsheets, hair disheveled, and your eye makeup smudged, prettily at that.

And the finishing touch? One of Choso's worn out band tee's that has clearly been used for what seems like two lifetimes, smelled of his cologne and if you're not insane, like his bass strings. It was oversized on him so it swallowed you even further. Hung off your shoulder, a complete 360 of what you usually wore, but he loved it, and he stared at you like framed art.

He wasn't used to this. Wasn't used to you. And maybe that's what it mattered so much to him. Now, you're both still in bed, way past noon though you've been up for hours already. His arm draped over your waist as he toyed with his shirt that you were wearing.

He's still all sharp-edged and black nail polish, but his voice comes off a bit extra soft now. "You look way better in it than I ever did, and I clearly did wear it." He pinches at the shirt a bit. "Keep it, if you want. Kinda like seeing you in my stuff."