Ethan didn't like waiting.
He never had.
His life had always been fast—tight schedules, louder crowds, constant movement. Waiting wasn't something he was used to. Waiting meant uncertainty. Waiting meant something was out of his control.
And Ethan Vale hated that.
But here he was.
Sitting on the cold concrete steps of the hidden stairwell…waiting.
His fingers tapped lightly against his knee, his jaw clenched just enough to show his irritation. He checked his phone for the fifth time in ten minutes, even though he knew there wouldn't be anything new.
No messages.
No missed calls.
Nothing.
His gaze shifted to the door.
Still closed.
Still quiet.
Still empty.
"She's just late," he muttered under his breath, leaning back against the wall. "It's not a big deal."
But it felt like one.
And that annoyed him even more.
Why did it matter?
Why did it bother him that she wasn't here yet?
It wasn't like they made plans. It wasn't like she promised anything. They didn't even exchange numbers. There was no reason for him to expect her to show up.
And yet…
She always did.
Every day.
At almost the exact same time.
Sitting on the same step, with her notebook in her lap, looking up with that soft expression like she had been waiting too.
But today…
Nothing.
Ethan exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. "This is stupid."
He pushed himself up from the step, pacing once, then twice, the confined space suddenly feeling too small.
"She has a life," he muttered. "She's not just going to sit here all day waiting for you."
The words felt harsh. Defensive.
But they didn't help.
Because beneath the irritation…
There was something else.
Something quieter.
Something he didn't want to name.
Disappointment.
He stopped pacing, staring at the empty step where she usually sat.
It looked…wrong.
Too empty.
Too quiet.
He scoffed under his breath, grabbing his jacket. "Whatever."
And just like that, he left.
---
The rest of the day felt off.
Ethan was sharper than usual. Colder. More distant.
At rehearsal, he missed cues—something he never did. His voice cracked once, and the entire room went silent for a split second before the music continued like nothing happened.
But he noticed.
He always noticed.
"Focus, Ethan," one of his bandmates said, frustration creeping into his tone.
"I am focused," Ethan snapped.
"You're not."
"I said I am."
The tension hung thick in the air.
No one pushed further.
They never did anymore.
Not since everything happened.
Not since he stopped being the easygoing, smiling guy everyone used to know.
Rehearsal ended early. No one said it was because of him. But he knew.
He always knew.
---
By the time evening came, Ethan found himself walking familiar paths without thinking.
His steps slowed as he approached the hallway.
The one that led to the stairwell.
He stopped just before the door, staring at it like it might give him answers.
"This is ridiculous," he muttered. "You already checked."
But his hand still reached for the handle.
Still pushed the door open.
Still stepped inside.
Empty.
Again.
The silence hit harder this time.
He walked down a few steps, then stopped, his gaze falling on the spot she usually sat.
Nothing.
No notebook.
No soft humming.
No Lia.
Ethan swallowed, something tight forming in his chest.
"She's not coming," he said quietly.
The words echoed slightly in the stairwell.
And for some reason…
They didn't sit right with him.
He leaned against the wall, sliding down slowly until he was sitting on the step. The same one he always took. The same distance from where she sat.
His fingers traced absent patterns against the concrete.
Why didn't she come?
Was she busy?
Sick?
Or…
Did she just decide to stop?
The last thought made his chest tighten more than he expected.
He frowned, pushing it away immediately.
"It doesn't matter," he said firmly. "She can do whatever she wants."
But his voice lacked conviction.
Because it did matter.
And he hated that it did.
---
Meanwhile…
Across town, Lia sat by her bedroom window, her notebook resting unopened on her lap.
The room was quiet. Too quiet.
She stared at the blank page in front of her, her pen unmoving.
Her throat felt tight.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
Her father's voice echoed faintly in her mind.
"Focus on things that matter, Lia. Singing is just a hobby. Don't waste your time."
She had heard it too many times.
Too many years of quiet discouragement, disguised as concern.
And today…
It got to her.
More than usual.
She had tried to sing earlier. Tried to write. Tried to be the version of herself that existed in that stairwell.
But the words wouldn't come.
The confidence Ethan had given her—it felt far away now. Fragile. Easy to break.
"What if he was just being nice?" she whispered to herself.
"What if I'm not actually good?"
Her fingers tightened around the pen.
"And what if… I go there and I ruin it?"
The thought scared her more than anything.
Because that place—
That quiet stairwell—
It was the only place she felt seen.
And Ethan…
He was the only one who had ever listened to her like that.
What if she lost that too?
So she stayed home.
Telling herself it was just for today.
Just one day.
But her heart didn't feel settled.
Not at all.
---
Back at the stairwell, Ethan finally stood up.
It was getting late.
Too late.
He shoved his hands into his pockets, taking one last look at the empty space before turning toward the door.
But just before he left…
His eyes caught something.
A small piece of paper.
Folded.
Resting on the step where Lia usually sat.
He froze.
His heartbeat picked up slightly as he walked over, picking it up slowly.
For a second, he just stared at it.
Then he unfolded it.
Messy handwriting. Soft. Familiar.
I'm sorry I didn't come today.
I just… wasn't feeling like myself.
I'll come tomorrow. Maybe.
—Lia
Ethan stared at the note for a long moment.
Then he exhaled quietly, tension leaving his shoulders in a way he didn't even realize had built up.
"She was here…" he murmured.
Just not at the same time.
His fingers tightened slightly around the paper.
I'll come tomorrow. Maybe.
"Maybe?" he repeated under his breath.
A small frown formed on his face.
Then, before he could stop himself—
"Don't 'maybe,'" he muttered quietly.
The words slipped out so naturally it startled him.
Because they sounded…
Almost like he cared.
And that was dangerous.
Very dangerous.
But still…
He folded the note carefully, slipping it into his pocket instead of throwing it away.
And as he walked out of the stairwell, one thought stayed with him.
Quiet.
Unspoken.
But undeniable.
She better show up tomorrow.