Beautiful Girls II

"What is this boy doing?"

The thought rushed through Sydney's mind like a speeding train as she stood on the edge of the sidewalk, her gaze locked on Ethan. Her fingers twitched inside her sleeves. Her heart was racing—not with excitement, but with confusion and a strange panic that only he could inspire.

Ethan had just bent down, picked up the street performer's guitar like it was something sacred, and cradled it with a mix of reverence and mischief. Mischief won out.

Her eyes darted around. People were strolling past, eyes elsewhere for now, but it wouldn't last. The city buzzed with life. Neon signs spilled pink, purple, and electric blue across the pavement. Somewhere, a car honked lazily. A distant train rumbled beneath their feet.

Sydney pulled her oversized hoodie tighter, trying to fold herself into the fabric, to disappear. The cool night air brushed against her face, tinged with exhaust and fried street food.

But her eyes were on him. Ethan.

He wore his own hoodie—black and baggy, just like hers—and his face was half-hidden by a mask. That didn't stop her from recognizing him. It never did.

"Ethan," she whispered sharply, barely loud enough to be heard over the hum of the street. Her voice was urgent, clipped. But he didn't flinch. Didn't even look at her.

It was already too late.

Ethan rose slowly, the guitar snug in his arms. He strummed once—just once—and the sound floated through the air like a spark in a dry forest. Just that single note turned a few heads.

Then he smiled beneath his mask, the corners of his eyes crinkling with that familiar daring. He tugged the mask down with a quick flick of his fingers and flashed a grin—calm, mischievous, a little reckless.

And then he played again.

A rhythm this time. Gentle, smooth. The kind of melody that wrapped itself around your skin and made you shiver. It was nostalgic, like summer memories, and brand new all at once.

He moved casually, strumming with ease, walking forward as if guided by something only he could hear.

Sydney's heart skipped again. "Ethan," she tried again, louder. Harsher.

Still nothing.

He passed her with the guitar singing softly in his hands, and then—his voice broke into the night like sunlight slipping through shutters.

"You're way too beautiful, girl..."

And that was it.

That one line, that one velvet-soaked note, changed everything.

The world froze.

The people on the street slowed, turned. A toddler stopped crying. A man carrying groceries paused, mouth parted slightly. Street vendors froze mid-sale. A delivery driver on a bicycle turned and circled back. Phones came out like fireflies.

His voice was honey and thunder. Warm and raw. It had a rasp, like emotion caught in his throat, and it shimmered.

He kept going, still strumming, still walking, slipping further into the street like he belonged to it.

"That's why it'll never work...You have me suicidal, suicidalWhen you say it's over..."

The melody caught people by the heart. A group of college students instinctively began swaying. A woman in a yellow scarf clutched her chest like she remembered someone. A man in a sharp suit chuckled softly and leaned against a lamppost, letting the music wash over him.

Ethan didn't notice any of them.

Or maybe he did—and just didn't care.

Because he was lost in it now.

The crowd grew thicker by the second. Faces lit by streetlights and phone screens. Strangers edging closer together as the atmosphere swelled with something electric and golden. It wasn't a concert, not really. But it felt like one.

And Ethan owned the stage.

He danced.

Not rehearsed. Not stiff. Real dancing. Joyful. Effortless. Like the music had puppeted his body. He moved in time with the guitar, swaying, skipping lightly. He spun toward an older woman wearing a bright red scarf and floral slippers, held out his hand, and gave her a twirl that made her laugh like a girl again.

He turned next to a bald man in a three-piece suit and clapped him on the shoulder. The man looked startled—then grinned, raising his arms and bouncing slightly as Ethan swayed with him. The people around them clapped in rhythm, caught up in the spontaneity.

"Damn, all these beautiful girlsThey only wanna do you dirtThey'll have you suicidal, suicidalWhen they say it's over..."

He sang with power now, his voice cutting through the night air like a blade dipped in honey. The crowd clapped louder. Cheered. Some sang along, their voices shaky but joyful. Others just stood in awe, recording, smiling, living.

The original street performer had returned and nodded with a half-smile, taking over the chords as Ethan handed the guitar back with a playful bow.

But Ethan wasn't done.

He was in the middle of the crowd now, weaving through people like a dancing flame. He twirled a young girl in a sparkly pink dress, her ponytail bouncing. He bent and let a grandma shuffle side to side while holding his hands. He threw in playful spins, dramatic stomps, over-the-top hip swings that made teenagers cackle.

The world felt alive in that moment.

And then he turned and saw her.

Sydney.

She was still rooted at the sidewalk, her hoodie now gone—blown off in the breeze or pulled down in the laughter, who knew? Her face was still masked, but her eyes were visible—and wide, stunned. But not from panic anymore.

From something else.

She was laughing.

Her shoulders shook as her eyes sparkled, and her hand pressed to her stomach like she was trying to hold in the laugh, but it was too late. She was caught in the wave, just like everyone else.

Ethan moved toward her, arm extended.

"See, it started at the park, used to chill after darkOh, when you took my heart, that's when we fell apart'Cause we both thought that love last forever (Last forever)..."

He grabbed her hand and spun her—right there in the center of the crowd—and she let him. She laughed louder now, her mask tugged slightly by the motion but still on, while her hair whipped around like a golden halo.

People cheered as they danced.

He let her go gently, twirling away, and then kept the energy rolling, pulling in strangers, turning the street into his stage. A little boy in Spider-Man pajamas joined in. A woman in a business skirt kicked off her heels and spun. A man held up his dog and made it "dance" too.

"They say we're too young to get ourselves sprungOh, we didn't care, we made it very clearAnd they also said that we couldn't last together (Last together)..."

Ethan's body was in motion with every beat—his hips, his shoulders, his arms slicing through the air with a dancer's fluidity. His feet tapped and slid with grace, his smile still there, still real.

And then he pulled an exaggerated pose and turned to the older women watching from a bench. He placed a dramatic hand over his chest, gave a slow, theatrical wink, and sang the next lines like a man serenading royalty:

"See, it's very defined, you're one of a kindBut you mash up my mind, you haffi get declinedOh Lord, my baby is drivin' me crazy..."

They roared with laughter, one of them even tossing her scarf into the air like she was at a Vegas show.

And Ethan? He just danced harder.

He was glowing.

Not from lights. Not from fame.

But from freedom.

From joy.

From music.

Ethan stepped away from Sydney for a brief moment, his energy pulsing, heart racing with the rhythm of the night and the music still hanging thick in the air. He turned back to the crowd, eyes bright and wild with that spark—the performer's spark. With one hand raised and a wide grin pulling at his lips, he called out to the gathering, his voice strong and teasing:

"SING IT WITH ME!"

The crowd didn't hesitate. They were ready.

And they roared it.

"You're way too beautiful, girlThat's why it'll never workYou have me suicidal, suicidalWhen you say it's over…"

The voices rose, harmonized, overlapped—some perfectly in tune, others shouting wildly off-key—but it was glorious. Pure, beautiful chaos. People were dancing, strangers were locking arms, tourists were spinning in circles with locals they'd never met. The street had become a festival.

"Damn, all these beautiful girlsThey only wanna do you dirtThey'll have you suicidal, suicidalWhen they say it's over…"

Ethan threw his head back and laughed, genuinely, his voice echoing over the sea of sound. He twirled once, let his arms fall wide, basking in the moment. Then—without breaking the rhythm—he sang again, joining their chorus:

"You're way too beautiful, girl…"

They all shouted it with him, matching the beat, the heart, the fun:

"That's why it'll never workYou have me suicidal, suicidal…"

And just as the crowd reached the last line, Ethan raised one hand sharply—like a conductor—and took over.

"Suuuuuiiiiiciiidallllll… awooo ooo ooo…"

That note. That note. His voice soared, raw and rich, stretching the word like silk pulled through the sky. It rang out, pure and powerful, rising like a prayer, a spell, a cry and a celebration all at once.

And everything stopped.

The dancers froze.

The chatter died.

Phones were lowered.

Even the air seemed to pause.

His voice had taken over.

The moment held—and then, softly, gently, tenderly—he turned back to Sydney. His steps were slower now, intimate. The smile on his face shifted, melted into something softer, something real. His hand reached out, curling lightly around her wrist, pulling her toward him.

She blinked up at him, caught off guard, their eyes locked like two people in a room full of sound but completely alone.

Ethan leaned down, just slightly, his lips near her ear.

"You're way too beautiful…" he whispered, barely audible—only for her.

And in that instant, the world blurred out.

No noise, no people, no crowd—just the two of them in their own little world where time dared not intrude.

But it couldn't last.

Because one second later—

BOOM.

The street exploded with noise.

"Wooooooo!""AYEEEEEEE!""GOOAAALLL!!!""YOOOOOO!!!"

The entire crowd erupted in laughter, cheers, and wild applause. People were clapping so hard their palms stung. Someone whistled loud and long. Another started stomping rhythmically. Phones flashed. Hats were tossed in the air.

A lady near the front dabbed at her eyes dramatically, shouting, "You better sing, boy!"

Sydney jumped back slightly, stunned, as Ethan gave a theatrical bow, laughing breathlessly. He waved.

"Thank you! Thank you! You've been amazing!"

He was still smiling when he heard it.

A sharp voice slicing through the chaos:

"I know that voice! That's Ethan Jones!"

Time slowed.

His smile faltered.

His eyes went wide.

"Shit," he muttered under his breath.

Before anyone could blink, he spun around and grabbed Sydney's arm.

"Woah—hey!" she gasped as he yanked her toward him, already pushing through the crowd.

The spell was broken. Phones came up in waves. People shouted his name now—"ETHAN JONES!" "ETHAN JONES!" "IT'S HIM!"

But he didn't wait.

He ducked into the swarm of people, pulling Sydney close, weaving through bodies, ducking under an old man's arm, dodging a food cart, past a teenager yelling "OH MY GOD!" with her hands on her cheeks.

Sydney barely kept up, hoodie half-falling off, breathless and laughing in disbelief as Ethan whispered, "This way! This way!"

He turned into a side alley, dragging her behind, his heart pounding like a drum solo.

Behind them, voices shouted louder.

But ahead?

Darkness. Freedom. Laughter echoing behind like confetti in the wind.

And they ran.

Together.

Just two figures disappearing into the night, the street still alive with music, memories, and magic.