Lovely: A Momojiro Fanfic

9. She

Momo's PoV
        Jiro's room was... it is exactly what I expected, but how did she just get even hotter? I like imagining her calloused fingers strumming an acoustic guitar song into its beautiful existence. How long has she spent learning to play all of those instruments? I don't know about that, but what I do know is that I want her to strum me a love song on one of her array of instruments.

Jiro's PoV
        I think I'll manage in the dorms. As long as I get to talk to Yaomomo as much as I have already, I'll be ten times happier than when I was only talking to her in school. Why does talking to her make me so happy? I guess she's just a really good friend. I like looking at her too. Is that... bad?
        I'd rather not dive into all of the weird feelings that have been plaguing me lately, so I burrow into my covers, put my earbuds in, and go looking for new songs.
        I scroll through my main Spotify playlist and stop on a song that I found a while ago, If I'm Being Honest by Dodie Clark. I don't think I've ever heard any other songs by her, but her voice enthralls me every time I listen to that song.
        I begin shuffling songs by her and curl up next to my band posters and... wow.
        Am I allowed
        To look at her like that?
        Could be wrong
        When she's just so nice to look at?
        The lyrics flow through my ears and in between the gears of my brain. I look at my phone which shows that 'She' is the name of the song slowly turning my world upside down.
        She smells like lemongrass and sleep
        She tastes like apple juice and peach
        Oh, you would find her in a Polaroid picture
        And she means everything to me
        A silent tear rolls down my cheek as all I can show is daze, adoration, and surprise.
        The lyrics continue to enchant me with every little word and chord.
        And she tastes like birthday cake and story time and fall
        But to her
        I taste of nothing at all
        The words cut through me like a knife through hot butter. I begin trembling, the sound of the quiet gasps of someone sobbing but trying desperately to stop filling the room. I'm not... I don't want her to be right. I don't want the girl who made my first of middle school hell to be right about everything she called me.