Sarah wasn’t nervous.
She told herself that exactly 42 times as she walked to the music room.
(It was 43 by the time she reached the door.)
Inside, it was quiet. Soft light, wooden floors, that familiar dusty smell of instruments no one used unless it was exam season. And of course—he was already there.
Ronan.
Tuning a guitar like he hadn’t planned this whole thing.
He didn’t even look up. “Late.”
“You say that like you weren’t here an hour ago pretending to be casual.”
He smirked. “Maybe I like waiting for you.”
She ignored the way her chest betrayed her and tossed her bag onto a chair. “So what are we really doing here? Because I don’t see any mess that needs cleaning.”
“Maybe you’re the mess,” he said simply, still tuning.
Sarah blinked. “Excuse me?”
He looked up at her, smug. “Emotionally, obviously.”
She threw a pencil at him.
He dodged, laughing, then motioned for her to sit. “I wrote something.”
She paused. “Like… lyrics?”
“Maybe.”
He handed her his headphones — the cheap, slightly cracked kind that only worked in one ear. But she took them anyway, slowly sliding them on.
He hit play.
The guitar started first — soft and low, like a quiet thought.
Then his voice came in.
Not perfect. Not polished. But real.
> “There’s a silence I wait for
In the middle of all your noise
And I keep it, like a secret
‘Cause I don’t know if I have a choice…”
Her heart stuttered. She didn’t move.
> “You left something behind
But you never said you did
So I wear it like a question
Pretending I don’t know what it is…”
By the time the track ended, she was gripping the wire so hard it creaked.
She took off the headphones.
He watched her, calm.
“Well?” he said.
She cleared her throat. “Was that… inspired by a person?”
He shrugged. “Maybe.”
“Do I know them?”
He smiled slightly. “You might.”
Sarah blinked, then stood. “Well. Thanks for the performance. Very mysterious. Very poetic. Great lighting.”
She started toward the door.
“You’re doing it again,” he said behind her.
She froze. “Doing what?”
“Running when it gets real.”
She turned around, slow. “And you’re doing your thing again.”
“My thing?”
“That half-flirty, half-truth, quarter-lie, emotionally confusing thing.”
Ronan tilted his head. “You say that like it’s not working.”
She rolled her eyes so hard it hurt. “Goodnight, Ronan.”
YOU ARE READING
Connecting The Strings 💕🫶🏻
Romancesoft romance, admiring him from afar, adorable little story 🫶🏻🥹
