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[THREE]
“𝘛𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘍𝘢𝘤𝘦-𝘖𝘧𝘧𝘴”

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"Petra, if you're hearing this, I want to tell you that I've loved you since the day you accidentally stepped on my Jordans."

I turned my head at the sudden, uninvited sound, my eyebrows pulling together in confusion as a raspy, manly voice echoed around the bustling mall. Everyone on the first floor stopped in their tracks, the squeak of rubber soles on white tile echoing awkwardly into the silence.

I'd been in the middle of devouring the feast my aunt—who owned the pizzeria I was currently crashing in—had proudly laid out for me. A graduation celebration. High school had ended decently than expected, and somehow this felt like a perfect send-off.

But who would've guessed that my peaceful little pizza party would spiral into one of the most violently vivid cases of secondhand embarrassment I'd ever suffered in my life?

From across the food court, I squinted toward the sound, eyes narrowing as I spotted a man standing wobblily on a small stage beneath a whirl of color-changing lights. A worn acoustic guitar clung to his torso like a life vest. Pale blond hair, droopy smile lines, and squinty eyes that practically begged for forgiveness.

His bandmates—two of them—looked like they'd just tasted sour milk. They visibly shrunk in their seats, probably rethinking all of their life decisions up to this point.

In a place where most people just minded their own business, time seemed to pause—all of us silently sucked into the vortex of whatever public meltdown was unfolding onstage.

"I haven't washed those Jordans yet. It's one of the only marks I have of you," the guy continued, voice cracking and breathy through the mic.

Fascinating. A public confession.

A tragic, open-wound, can't-look-away kind of confession.

Probably followed by an emotionally unstable cover of some indie breakup anthem. Classic.

"Y/N, do you know that guy?" asked one of the waitresses—someone I'd been friends with since my aunt opened the shop. She must've caught some kind of recognition on my face. I scoffed mid-bite, the oily slice of pizza dripping onto my palm like it, too, was trying to escape this situation.

"No. Thank God, no. What the hell is he doing?" I asked, my head bobbing forward in disbelief.

She laughed, leaning lazily on the brick wall, eyes still fixed on the unfolding spectacle.

"This actually happens more than you'd think," she mused. "Last time I saw a band guy do a public confession like this was, what—two months ago? Oh, that one was unforgettable."