Only Him

Chapter 5: The Literature Club

The silence after Latrell left was deafening. It pressed in on me, heavy and suffocating, amplifying the emotions swirling inside. Sunlight streamed through the dusty windows of the club room, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air like tiny, mocking reminders of the intimacy we'd shared days before. The memory of his touch, the warmth of his body pressed against mine, seared my skin like a brand.

I'd chosen the Literature Club on a whim, a random selection from a list of extracurricular activities that had all seemed equally terrifying and foreign. 

Singing? Nope, not my forte. 

Dance? Definitely not. 

Volleyball? Please, the only reason I'd even considered it was the hope of impressing Latrell with some nonexistent athletic prowess. 

Latrell, naturally, had gone straight for the Debate Team. With his sharp wit and natural charisma, he was practically born for the cutthroat world of competitive argumentation. The twins, on the other hand, are in separates clubs. Mark is in the choir while Mike is with the basketball team. 

The other freshmen in the Literature Club, however, seemed to have found their tribe. Their conversations were a dizzying role-playing game jargon and obscure literary references, a language I didn't understand. I felt like the dust in a box full of glittering gems. 

My gaze drifted towards the back of the room, where a lone figure was hunched over a guitar. His fingers danced across the strings with a mesmerizing fluidity. There was an intensity about him, a focus that radiated outwards. He wasn't classically handsome, not in the traditional sense. But there was a raw, unpolished beauty to his features.

Our eyes met, and his playing faltered. A single note hung in the air, suspended like a question mark. I quickly looked away, heat creeping up my neck and a strange flutter in my chest.

Minutes crawled by, my mind replaying the encounter. I fixated on the whiteboard, pretending to study an outdated announcement while stealing furtive glances at the guitar player. He was still strumming, his brow furrowed in concentration. A wave of confusion washed over me. Wait, I was with Latrell. Why was I even noticing this guy, let alone feeling this strange pull towards him? Was I already questioning my decision, my commitment to Latrell?

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him rise from his seat. My heart quickened. He was walking towards me. Was he... was he coming over to talk to me? A surge of confidence, irrational and exhilarating, washed over me. I plastered a casual smile on my face, ready for... well, I wasn't sure what I was ready for. 

But my hopes were dashed as he simply walked over to a nearby outlet to charge his phone, slumping into a chair with his guitar propped against his leg. Disappointment, sharp and unexpected, pricked at me. I felt foolish, exposed. I pulled out my phone, immersing myself in a mindless game, anything to distract from the awkwardness.

Suddenly, the club advisor burst into the room, "Hello, people! I'm Raymond Del Mundo, but you can call me Sir Ray. Sorry for the delay..."

As he droned on about club rules and upcoming events, I felt a light tap on my shoulder. I turned to find the guitar player standing beside me, his dark eyes searching my face. Up close, he was even more striking. His features were sharp and angular, his jawline a work of art. A warm, comforting scent, like vanilla and wood smoke, clung to him. My heart stuttered, and I had to fight the urge to stare.

"Mind if I swap seats with you?" His voice was a low rumble, surprisingly gentle. "This outlet's dead." He gestured towards the wall with his guitar. 

"Uh, sure. No problem," I squeaked, my voice betraying my nerves. I scrambled out of the chair, my cheeks burning with a blush I couldn't control. He settled into the seat, his long legs stretching out, his guitar resting comfortably in his lap. He plugged it into the wall, his fingers already moving over the strings, testing the connection.