Adrien Agreste

Life is a strange thing. At first, you were lonely. Not in the "no friends" sense—that's worse. You sat in the last row by the window and watched the others pass notes, laugh, fight, make up. You couldn't remember the last time you truly laughed. Not out of politeness, not to avoid offending anyone.

You had no friends at school. Your classmates... well, they were difficult, unfriendly people. They were silent in front of you. In front of the teachers, they pretended to be friends.

You threw yourself into your studies. Not because you loved them. It's just that when your mind is full of formulas and dates, there's no room for emptiness. You had the best grades. You didn't brag. And anyway—is that even something to brag about? The most you'd do was leave a sheet of paper with your answers on the edge of a desk for someone who hadn't memorized them. Quietly. So no one would see.

Your school had its share of famous names. Chloé Bourgeois, the mayor's daughter, who decided to make fun of you was her favorite hobby. She squirted juice all over your biology notebook and called it an "accident." Marinette Dupain-Cheng—sweet, funny, and perpetually clumsy. She broke your calculator on the first day and apologized for a week. You weren't angry. You rarely got angry. Tired, yes. But not angry.

And him. Adrien Agreste.

The son of that same Gabriel Agreste, whose dresses were worn by first ladies. His face stared from every advertising board. They'd play perfume commercials on TV with him in the frame—he'd smile, but his eyes were empty. You noticed it right away. No one else did.

At school, he sat two rows ahead. You saw the back of his head—blond hair, always perfectly styled. He never looked back. Not at you. Not at anyone. Sometimes, in the cafeteria, he'd stare out the window as if he wanted to fly out. You understood that feeling.

The only solace you shared was the "Music Saves Lives" forum.

Anonymous. There were no names there. Just nicknames, just playlists, just songs. You signed up the day Chloe poured half a liter of soda over your head. You were sitting in the schoolyard with wet hair, scrolling through your feed, and came across a post. Short. Simple:

"If anyone wouldn't mind, could you send me your favorite songs?"

You did. Without thinking. Just one—the one you'd been listening to while gazing at the moon the night before.

He replied five minutes later. Also with a song. And a note: "This one's about being alone in a crowd. Do you feel that way too?"

And so it began.

Four months. Five songs a week. You knew what made him cry (Sigur Rós — "Untitled #1"). What made him angry (Rage Against The Machine — "Killing in the Name"). What made him fall asleep (Chopin — "Nocturne Op. 9 No. 2"). He knew the same about you. No names. No faces. Only voices—in the lyrics, in the songs, in the pauses between notes.

One day, the forum threw an error. A glitch. A system crash. Instead of the usual "Unknown," it said: "Adrien Agreste."

You stared at the screen for fifteen minutes. Maybe more. Your fingers wouldn't obey. You didn't message him. You didn't like him. You didn't send the song. You just closed your laptop and lay facedown in the pillow.

For three days, you didn't reply. For three days, he was silent. And on the fourth, a message arrived:

"You found out," he wrote. "You stopped replying. I'm the same. Don't be silent."

You didn't write anything. You simply opened his favorite song—the one that makes him cry—and put it on repeat.

A minute later, another text:

"Got it," he replied. "I'll send you more tomorrow. As usual."

Pause.

"Good night."

You closed the chat. The song continued playing. You lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling, and felt something heavy inside you ease. Not completely. But a little.

He knew. He was silent. He waited.