Shade stared at the blinking cursor like it was an enemy.
The practice room had emptied out hours ago. Nova had left first—always the first to arrive, always the last to stop thinking. Echo had followed, dragging her hoodie on like she'd been sleeping in it for days, calling over her shoulder:
"Don't flirt too hard, Shade!"
Shade hadn't replied. Replying implied it bothered her.
(It bothered her.)
Now she sat alone in the faint blue glow of her laptop, the silence buzzing like electricity in her ears. Outside the window, the city lights looked smeared and distant, like they didn't belong to her world. Like she was in a different dimension entirely—one built from neon, rehearsal echoes, and unfinished plans.
Her screen showed a simple message box.
No dramatic music. No cinematic lighting.
Just:
To: Blaze
Shade's fingers hovered above the keyboard.
She typed:
Hi, Blaze—
Then deleted it.
Too soft.
She typed:
Hello Blaze.
Then deleted that too.
Too cold.
Shade exhaled slowly through her nose and leaned back in her chair like she was preparing for combat.
This was ridiculous.
She had performed in rooms full of strangers with cameras pointed directly at her face. She had smiled while her entire body screamed to leave. She had endured things she didn't name out loud.
And yet—
messaging a girl felt like walking into a ring with no gloves.
Shade tried again.
Hello, Blaze.My name is Shade.
She paused.
My name is Shade.
As if Blaze didn't already know. As if Blaze hadn't been a presence in Shade's mind for weeks—long enough to start feeling like something permanent.
Shade swallowed, then added:
I'm part of a project called Echora.
That was true. Safe. Professional.
She continued:
We're currently building our debut lineup and I came across your work.
She stopped.
Came across.
Like Blaze had been an accident. Like Shade hadn't searched her name, watched her clips in silence, replayed the same laugh until it became a bruise in her chest.
Shade's jaw tightened. She highlighted the sentence and rewrote it.
We've been scouting talent for our debut, and your presence stood out immediately.
Better.
Still too honest.
Shade stared at the message until the words began to blur. Her heartbeat felt unreasonably loud. Her shoulders were tense. Her body acted like danger was near.
But the danger was her own feelings—and Shade had never known how to fight those without turning them into anger.
She typed again, faster this time, forcing herself into momentum.
Echora is a performance-focused music project with cinematic storytelling.We're preparing a major release and would love to discuss you potentially joining as a vocalist.
There.
Simple. Clear. Clean.
Shade read it back.
It sounded like a business email.
It sounded like someone who didn't care.
It sounded like a lie.
Her eyes flicked to the boxing clip she had open in another tab—Blaze ducking under a punch with that same composed expression like the universe couldn't touch her. Like nothing could break her.
Shade's fingers curled.
She opened a new line and typed something she didn't intend to:
I think you'd be perfect.
Shade froze.
Stared at it.
Her stomach dropped so hard it felt like falling.
Echo's voice replayed in her mind like a curse: Don't flirt too hard.
Shade's face heated—not blush exactly, not sweetness.
More like fury.
Fury at herself for letting it show.
She deleted the line immediately.
Then stared at the empty space like it had insulted her.
Shade exhaled sharply and pressed the heel of her palm against her forehead.
Focus.
This is strategy.
This is recruitment.
This is not—
She stopped herself.
Not what?
Not attraction?
Not desire?
Not her discovering something about herself she'd spent years refusing to name?
Shade lowered her hand and continued.
If you're interested, I'd love to schedule a call to explain the concept and expectations.We're aiming to finalize our lineup soon, so timing is important.
That sounded like Nova. That sounded like control. That sounded like professionalism.
That was safe.
Shade added:
No pressure if this isn't the right fit — but I believe your skillset and discipline would translate perfectly into what we're building.
She paused.
Discipline.
Yes. That was good. That was real.
Blaze's discipline was what made Shade's mind quiet.
Shade's eyes flicked over her message again. It looked… fine.
Too fine.
Too neutral.
Like it could have been sent to anyone.
And Shade hated that more than she expected.
Because Blaze wasn't anyone.
Blaze was—
Shade's fingers hovered, trembling slightly now.
She typed one more line, careful, controlled, like a blade sliding into place.
Either way — I respect what you do.
That was all she allowed herself.
Not I admire you.
Not I can't stop watching you.
Not your existence rewired something inside me.
Just:
I respect what you do.
Shade sat back, reading the final message.
Professional.
Polite.
Direct.
Like a letter to an enemy kingdom.
Like she wasn't about to change the course of her own life with a single click.
Her thumb hovered over Send.
Her chest tightened.
Shade whispered to the empty room, voice barely audible:
"Don't be dramatic."
But her hand was already moving.
Shade pressed Send.
The message vanished.
Delivered.
Gone.
No taking it back.
And for a second, there was nothing but silence—
then her phone buzzed with a notification from Echo:
Echo: DID YOU SEND IT 😏
Shade stared at the text.
Then she locked her phone without replying.
Because the truth was—
Shade didn't feel victorious.
She felt like she'd just fired the first shot in a war she had no idea how to win.
And somewhere in the city, Blaze's phone was going to light up.
Shade—who didn't do crushes—had just stepped into the ring.