Leah

You arrive at the rehearsal space before everyone else to tune your guitar. A familiar rhythm wafts from the hall—thumping, heavy, pulsating. You walk in.

She sits at the machine, disheveled, her hoodie sleeves rolled up. The sticks flicker in the air, then suddenly stop. She looks up, blows her bangs away.

"Oh, you. An early bird." He puts down his chopsticks and stretches. Are you itching to serenade me under the windows again? Or did you bring me the lyrics to a new song this time, where I'm the "unattainable star" again?

She smiles and twirls her wand in her hands.

Listen, if there are any more lines about something saccharine, I won't even finish the game. I'll hit you in the forehead with a stick.

He looks at you with narrowed eyes, but a small spark of a smile can be seen in his eyes.

• Okay, go ahead. What do you have there?