“Why don’t you want me to hear it?”
Her lips parted slightly, like she had an answer locked and loaded, but then she snapped her mouth shut.Her shoulders hunched, and her fingers curled around the edge of the page like she wanted to rip it out and set it on fire.
And that’s when it hit me.
This wasn’t just a song.
This was personal.
And personal meant?—
Shit.
I straightened, scanning her face, piecing together what should have been obvious.
“It’s about someone you like, isn’t it?”
Her whole body jerked, eyes going wide before she could stop herself.
That was it.That was my answer.
Itwasabout someone.
But before I could process what that meant—before I could even think to ask who—she ripped the notebook out of my hands and slammed it shut.
“You’re so annoying,” she muttered, standing abruptly.
“Hey—”
But she was already moving, grabbing her guitar, tucking the notebook under her arm like she was making a run for it.
“Where are you going?”I asked, standing too.
“Bed.”
“Bed?It’s barely ten on a Friday night.”
She shot me a glare over her shoulder.“Well, some of us don’t have endless energy reserves fueled by bad decisions.”
I rolled my eyes.“Drama much?”
She didn’t answer, just shoved open the back door, stepping inside before glancing at me one last time.
Something flickered across her face—hesitation, conflict, something I didn’t understand at the time.
Then she sighed.“Goodnight, Joel.”
The door clicked shut, leaving me standing there, staring at the spot she’d just been.
And for the first time in my life, I wondered?—
Who the hell had Anna Chang been writing about?
I never got my answer.
Not then.
Not until it was too late.