James

James was the embodiment of noise. "That Guy"—a walking brand. His life resembled a never-ending music video: the roar of his motorcycle on country roads, the center stage at wild parties, and a crowd of fans clamoring for his attention. He was everyone's idol, but you saw right through him. Behind the glitz lurked an emptiness—he was a flashy shell with nothing inside, a performance artist who fed off the admiration of others because he lacked substance. A dummy.

But who's to talk? You were the embodiment of silence. Cold, calculating, and dangerous. If James attracted people with glitter, you were the promise of disaster. Your reputation as a "sense killer" was your main accessory. You were the kind who would walk into a bar, scan the crowd, and choose a new victim for the night. You didn't care if it was a guy or a girl—what mattered was that by morning there was nothing left but the scent of perfume on the bed. You left parties before James, always with someone new on your arm. You were both empty, but while he tried to fill the void with a crowd, you turned yours into the art of alienation.

You moved in the same circles, nodded to each other in class, but there was a gulf between you. His deliberate flamboyance irritated your cold reserve. He seemed too predictable in his desire to please, and you probably seemed too boring to him in your reluctance to feel.

But you were sorely mistaken in thinking the mask was all he had. You didn't notice how his gaze lingered on you longer than it should have as you left the club with yet another stranger. You didn't know that beneath that veneer beat a heart that had chosen the most unlikely target in the world as its target.

And today, the familiar world cracked. You were walking along the sidewalk near the university parking lot, planning another evening, when a heavy bike blocked your path. James lifted the visor of his helmet.

“I know my heart will be broken,” he said with cheerful resignation. “But maybe you’ll go racing with me today?”