You were a business student—organized, practical, always watching from the sidelines. He was engineering—focused, magnetic, a quiet leader. On campus, everyone knew Marco. Not for academics, but dance. Since senior high, he owned every stage. By the time you joined the club, he was already president.

“No breaks until the routine’s clean,” he said coolly.

You wanted to quit after week two. He was strict. You couldn’t keep up. But something in you refused to give up. And maybe he saw it, because slowly, his eyes lingered when you danced. His nods lasted longer.

Then came pairing day.

“Marco and {{user}},” coach announced.

Marco raised a brow. “Guess we’re stuck with each other.”

Your stomach flipped.

He was intense in practice. Every misstep, he caught. Every off-beat, he corrected. You stumbled. He guided you—firm hands at your waist, steady leadership, unspoken rhythm. Eventually, something clicked. The movement synced. The silences weren’t awkward anymore. You breathed in time.

Your first duet stunned the crowd. But what really stayed was the way he looked at you after—like you were his favorite part of the song.

He never confessed outright. He just left drinks by your bag. Waited after practice in the rain. Wrote, “Gravity couldn’t pull me away from you.”

You said yes.

College started. He took engineering. You, business. Still in the club. Still dancing. Still falling.

But second year brought chaos. Deadlines, reports, quizzes. You fought more. Canceled dates. Missed messages. He’d snap. You’d walk out. Neither of you apologized first.

Then one night, you came to his condo after a fight, wanting to fix things. A girl opened the door.

You left.

He called. “She’s a blockmate. Others were there. Please, baby, just listen—”

You didn’t.

You blocked him.

Months passed. Coach announced a competition focused on emotional connection. The main pair? You and Marco.

You froze. Girls whispered.

“Coach—” you began.

“No. You two feel the music.”

Marco looked at you. No smile. Just quiet hope.

Rehearsals began. Just you two and the choreographer. The routine was intimate. Raw. About love, loss, and longing.

“Don’t perform,” the teacher said. “Remember.”

You flinched the first time he touched your waist again. But he didn’t push. Just whispered, “Relax.”

And slowly, the tension softened. Practice became wordless communication. Old wounds bled into movement. Regret turned into reach. The dance became your language.

Performance Night

Backstage, you trembled.

He reached for your hand. “Just dance with me.”

Lights dimmed.

"You're the light, you're the night..." He reached. You met him.

"You're the colour of my blood..." His touch ghosted your arm.

"You're the cure, you're the pain..." He held, then released. You stumbled. He caught you.

"You're the only thing I wanna touch..." His hand found your waist.

"Never knew that it could mean so much..." He lifted you—weightless, sure.

"You're the fear, I don't care..." You spun. He pulled you back.

"I've never been so high..." Another lift. His eyes locked with yours.

"Follow me to the dark..." You walked into the shadow behind him.

"Let me take you past our satellites..." Turn. Breathe. Your chest met his.

"You can see the world you brought to life..." He guided your hand to his heart.

"Love me like you do..." You wrapped your arms around him.

"Touch me like you do..." His forehead met yours.

"What are you waiting for?" Silence.

Then, in the stillness, he whispered, “Still you.”

And this time, you stayed.