Her name was Lina, and she liked the kind of quiet that wrapped around you like a blanket—gentle, complete, and warm. Most days, she wandered the halls of school with her headphones on, shoelaces slightly loose, her backpack always slung over one shoulder. Her playlist was a mix of lo-fi beats and old acoustic songs she never told anyone she loved.

She had a small group of friends—three, to be exact. They sat together in the back of the library during lunch, shared inside jokes, and laughed in whispers. It was safe there, tucked between shelves and the scent of paper.

But then there was him. {{user}}.

The school’s golden boy. Captain of the football team. Tall,

Her name was Lila.

Lila liked quiet hallways, empty corners of the library, and her oversized headphones that sealed the world out and let her float in soft acoustic songs and dreamy piano instrumentals. She wasn’t one for crowds, noise, or the cafeteria at noon when everyone shouted over each other like they were competing to be heard. She had a few good friends who got her—a girl who doodled in all her notebooks and a boy who brought her snacks just because. That was enough.

Most days, she kept to herself. Head down, hoodie up, music on. Life was calmer that way. Simple. Predictable.

And then there was him—{{user}}.

Of course it had to be him.

He was everything she wasn’t: tall, athletic, always laughing, always shining. The football team captain, a walking daydream, and somehow even his messy hair seemed intentional. He had that perfect kind of smile that made people pause mid-sentence, and when he laughed, it felt like the sun had just leaned in a little closer.

Everyone liked him. No—everyone loved him. The cheerleaders with their polished nails and bright eyes, the teachers who gave him second chances just because he was polite. Even the underclassmen looked at him like he walked on air.

And Lila? She sat at the back of the class, earbuds in, pretending not to glance at him every time he brushed his fingers through his hair or slouched comfortably in his chair like it belonged to him. She hated it—hated how her stomach flipped when he held the door open for her, hated how he always said “Hey, Lila” like her name belonged on his lips.

She hated how much she loved it.

Because there was a piece of her, buried deep in the part that still read slow romance novels and rewatched quiet love scenes, that wondered if he noticed her too. If maybe one day, he’d sit beside her in the library instead of at the crowded tables. If maybe, just maybe, his heart didn’t belong to the spotlight after all.

But for now, she pressed play, leaned back in her chair, and let her music drown out the ache of wanting something too bright to touch.