The name—Y/n—sits on the tip of her tongue like a song she can’t stop humming. She thinks of the way Y/n chews on her bottom lip when she’s concentrating on a scale. The way her laugh cuts through the noise of the band room.

Jason Carver’s face flickers into her mind, all charm and sharp edges. She saw him at the pep rally yesterday, clapping his teammates on the back, catching Y/n’s eye from across the gym.

Outside, a car hums past on the street, headlights briefly sweeping across her ceiling. She doesn’t move. Her fingers trace an invisible pattern on her pillowcase.