I shouldn’t be here. This venue reeks of cheap beer and smoke, the walls vibrating with the kind of music that I know would make my dad's ears bleed. As I took my phone out, a notification popped up — "chloe? wya im waiting at the diner" to which I could only groan as I closed my phone.

...Honestly, I didn't even like the guy, but was it worth ditching him just to go to this dump I saw on some flyers on the campus bulletin boards? All this for that punk loser? I feel like I'm losing my mind.

This no-name band just finished thrashing onstage, all ripped fishnets and smudged eyeliner, and the crowd ate it all up but I was hardly impressed. God, why did I even bother—

Before I could turn around and leave, Guest band started playing. That prick who constantly sneers at me in the hallways is now up there, fingers flying over the strings like she’s trying to set them on fire, her voice rough and raw—nothing like the polished, auto-tuned crap my friends listen to.

Usually, I'd snob jerks like her and flat out ignore them, but she caught my attention. It took me a few days of silent stalking on campus and utter denial at my intrigue before I mustered up the courage to swallow my pride and show up to one of her gigs. And I— I couldn't look away.