Smash to the Heart

Margo's POV 

She didn’t look back even once.

Margo kept walking—no real direction, just moving wherever her legs would take her. 

She passed dimly lit corridors and unfamiliar buildings, the campus still buzzing faintly with post-tournament chatter, but distant enough now to feel like background noise.

Eventually, she found herself in front of an old building.

*Music Hall*, the sign read. 

Probably unused this late. 

Her eyes lingered on the glass doors for a moment, then pushed one open.

It wasn’t locked.

Curiosity—or maybe something deeper—pulled her in.

The inside was quiet, almost sacred. Warm. Dusty, but not abandoned. 

The soft moonlight filtered through the blinds and landed right on the rows of instruments—keyboards, violins, drum sets. 

But what caught her attention was a guitar resting on a stand near the corner, slightly worn but clearly well-loved.

She walked over slowly, almost reverently. 

Her fingers curled instinctively around the neck of the guitar, lifting it with ease like she’d done a hundred times before. 

Her thumb brushed against the strings—out of tune, but familiar.

She sat on the nearest stool.

Her fingers found a chord without needing to think. 

The first strum was uneven. 

The second, smoother. 

By the third, she was already lost in it.

A slow, quiet melody began to form. Something nostalgic. 

Her fingers moved faster as the tune picked up—soft, thoughtful, melancholic. 

It echoed faintly in the empty room, wrapping around her like a memory.

No whistles. 

No shouting. 

No scoreboard or pressure. 

Just six strings and the feeling in her chest.

She didn’t need to be Margo Castellen, tennis prodigy, right now.

She could just be a girl with calloused fingers and a song stuck in her head.

She closed her eyes and played.

And for the first time that day—maybe even in a long time—she felt free.

—

Outside the room, the hallway was silent, empty—almost.

Footsteps echoed faintly in the distance before pausing near the doorway. 

A shadow crossed the frosted glass window. 

The knob didn’t turn, the door didn’t open, but someone was there.

They didn’t speak. Didn’t move.

They just stood there.

Listening.

For a moment, the quiet tune spilling from the room softened something inside them. 

Margo had no idea she was being watched—her back was to the door, too immersed in the sound she was weaving to notice anything else.

The person outside stayed for a few more seconds, gaze lingering on the silhouette behind the glass.

Then, just as silently, they walked away. 

No questions. 

No interruptions. 

Just a quiet revelation, kept to themselves.

Inside, Margo kept playing.

Still unaware that someone had caught a glimpse of the version of her no one else ever saw.