Like a Line Never Meant to Sing

ARES POV

1:48 a.m.

He stared at the screen like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to reality.

Blinked once.

Then twice.

His breath caught—like that moment stepping off stage, when the crowd's roar fades but the adrenaline still pounds, but now, there was no crowd. Just his quiet room. Hoodie pulled low over his head. Hair tangled like he'd been running fingers through it all day. Knees pulled close, phone resting gently on his thigh, like it held the whole universe—and maybe it did.

And then a

Buzz

Ares clicked

*Then maybe… we both waited for the same thing.

And neither of us knew it until now.*

It was her. Eira.

That chaos-wrapped-in-a-sweater girl with ink-stained fingers and too many thoughts spilling out all at once. That girl who never tried to be careful with her words, and maybe that's what made her feel like the safest thing he'd ever known.

He read it again.

And again.

Each time, it landed differently—softer, deeper.

Not a million clicks, likes, or headlines. Not a lyric or a soundbite crafted for the world to hear. This was hers. Pure. Unpolished. Honest.

His lips twitched into a grin—slow, dangerous, the kind that once made tabloids swoon and fans swoon harder. *Heartthrob or heartbreak?* they called him. But right here, right now—he wasn't playing any part.

He didn't want to be the *guy* on the posters.

He just wanted to be *him*. Just a boy who felt like he was suddenly waking up from a long, lonely sleep.

He imagined her—this wild, sharp, utterly unpredictable girl. The one who sent chaos like confetti, but somehow managed to make everything feel like a calm breath in the middle of a storm.

She wasn't fooled by the fame, the bright lights, or the noise. She looked straight through it all and saw… him.

*The real him.*

That thought made his chest tighten—not the heavy kind, but the kind that sings quietly, telling you something is shifting inside.

He leaned back against his headboard, phone still warm in his hand. His mind wandered—what would she say if he told her how scared he'd been? How lonely?

*Am I just a voice to her? Or does she hear the silence behind it?*

He couldn't resist himself by checking her profile.....after he clicked over it all he got was blurry profile picture. The occasional cryptic photos of a coffee mug, the edge of a sleeve, a city street soaked in rain.

Ares found himself wondering—what does she look like when she smiles?

But in his head?

She had a form.

In his head, she lived somewhere between poetry and defiance. Between softness and sharp edges.

He pictured her with quiet eyes—deep and endlessly readable, like a song you only understood after the third listen. Maybe they'd be brown, maybe something else, but definitely the kind that didn't blink away from truths.

Her hair was always a little messy. Not like she didn't care—just like she had better things to do than fuss with mirrors. Maybe she tucked it behind her ears when she was nervous. Maybe she chewed on her sleeve when she was thinking. Maybe she wore rings that didn't match and boots that had been through too many walks.

He saw her in layers. Scarves, oversized sweaters, mismatched colors like she got dressed in a poem and forgot to rhyme.

Not perfect. Not curated. Not branded.

Just… her.

The kind of girl who smelled like old bookstores and quiet mornings. Who left little bits of herself behind—phrases, laughter, unfinished thoughts that you'd remember long after she was gone.

He imagined her standing in a crowd, but never of it.

Leaning against a wall, arms crossed, eyes lit with something smart and secret. The kind of girl who asked questions that stopped you cold. Who listened like it mattered. Who never made you feel like you had to earn her attention—you already had it, the moment you were honest.

And maybe… she'd have freckles.

He didn't know why, but that detail always stuck in his brain. Like someone who didn't mind the sun. Someone who didn't hide.

And the truth?

Maybe that was the part that scared him most—not that he didn't know what she looked like… but that he already missed the version of her he'd built without even seeing her once.

His fingers trembled over the screen. He opened his notes app, fingers typing a line, deleting it. Typing again. Overthinking everything. Too much. Not enough.

He went back to their messages, thumb hovering above the reply bar.

He smiled softly, a secret smile meant just for himself.

Then, without hesitation, he typed and sent:

*"You feel like the part of the song I never thought anyone would hear."*

The words hung in the quiet like a fragile promise.

And just like that—something shifted.

For the first time in what felt like forever, he didn't feel like a million screaming fans or a headline in a magazine.

He felt seen.

Not as the stage name.

Not as the myth.

But as the boy beneath it all.

And maybe… just maybe, that was enough.

*Not every story starts with a meeting. Some start with meaning.