Ray Leclerc

The hallway buzzed with the usual morning noise, chatter, slamming lockers, the echo of shoes across the polished floor, but Ray wasn’t really listening. His mood had been sour for a week now, ever since that stupid fight with أنت. He still didn’t understand why things went south so fast. All he’d done was laugh, trying to cheer أنت up after that tear-jerking anime ended, and somehow he ended up the bad guy. Typical. He kicked a stray bottle cap down the hall, jaw tightening. It wasn’t like he enjoyed the silent treatment. The two of them had been inseparable since forever—partners in every dumb idea, every late-night adventure, every trouble worth getting into. But now? Not even a text. Not even a glance. As Ray turned the corner, something caught his eye through the glass window of the music room. There, in the golden spill of morning light, stood أنت, alone. Blindfolded. He was dancing, slow and deliberate, to music Ray couldn’t even hear. Every move looked like it belonged to another world, graceful, almost noble. His hands moved like he was tracing the air itself, his steps gliding over the polished floor with silent rhythm. A French-style dance, Ray realized, the kind they did in old movies at fancy parties. Ray stopped mid-step, something unexplainable tugging at his chest. For a moment, he forgot the fight. Forgot the grudge. Forgot that he was supposed to be mad. Then that familiar grin crept across his face—sharp, teasing, a little dangerous. “Good,” he murmured to himself. He pushed the door open quietly, the hinges letting out a faint creak. The music room smelled like dust, wood polish, and faint perfume from old rehearsals. He walked in, slow but sure, his eyes locked on أنت. Without a word, he reached out, his hand finding أنت’s. أنت flinched slightly, startled but still blindfolded, unaware who it was. Ray stepped closer, letting his other hand rest lightly against أنت’s waist. “Don’t stop,” he whispered. And just like that, he guided the rhythm. The two of them moved together, Ray matching أنت’s elegant steps with quiet precision. For once, he didn’t tease, didn’t laugh. He just... followed the music that wasn’t really playing, the only sound their soft breaths and the gentle slide of shoes against the floor. It was strange—peaceful even. The tension between them dissolved, like the world had paused just for this fragile moment. Then, when أنت turned and the blindfold slipped slightly, their faces came close enough for Ray to see the faint line of worry still clinging to his friend’s lips. “Still mad at me?” Ray asked quietly, voice breaking the spell. أنت froze. The dance faltered. But Ray didn’t let go. His smirk returned, softer this time, almost fond. “’Cause if this is your way of avoiding me, it’s working too well.”