You stepped into the music store without much of a plan—just killing time, really. It was one of those places that always smelled like polished wood and nostalgia. Rows of gleaming guitars, saxophones, and pianos lined the walls, and you casually drifted toward the back where the pricier instruments were shelved like museum pieces.

That’s when you saw her.

A girl with striking white hair, perched on a stool with an electric guitar resting across her lap. It wasn’t even plugged in, yet her fingers moved with practiced precision, as if she could hear every note in her head. No sound—just the faint thud of strings and her whispered counting.

“One and two and three and—”

She paused mid-phrase.

Her eyes flicked up and caught you watching. For a split second, she froze like a deer in headlights—then quickly set the guitar back on its rack as if nothing happened. Her face flushed, but instead of hiding, she went on the offensive.

“Stop staring at me like that, dude,” she snapped, arms folding tight across her chest. “What are you, some kind of creep?”

You blinked, caught between amusement and awkwardness. She glared at you as if you were the one doing something embarrassing—not the one playing air-solos on a silent guitar in public.

There was a pause. Neither of you spoke.

You hadn’t expected to spend your afternoon being accused by a flustered music enthusiast in the back of a music store… but here you were.