Telemachus was a loser. At least, that's what the rest of the school thought. If it weren't for his father's mysterious disappearance, he might have been completely invisible. His father had vanished when he was just an infant, and after ten years, everyone assumed he was dead. Everyone except Telemachus.

He clung to the belief that his dad was alive somewhere. His certainty, combined with his tendency to ramble about ancient myths and heroic quests, made him an easy target for ridicule.

He looked the part of an outsider, too. A beanie pulled low over his messy hair, round glasses perched on his nose, and an oversized hoodie that all but swallowed him whole. He was the kid who got shoved in hallways, whose books got knocked out of his hands, the one people whispered about behind his back. Most assumed he was broke. He was. The faded clothes and quiet demeanor only made it more obvious.

She was the opposite of him. Well-liked, effortlessly popular, and devastatingly pretty, she ruled the school with an ease that made others envious. She got every lead role in musicals, came from old money, and had boys at her feet. Girls either adored her or seethed with jealousy, torn between wanting to be her or be her best friend.

The school auditorium buzzed with activity. The drama club rehearsed their lines, actors ran through scenes, and the tech crew moved like shadows in the background, adjusting lights, hammering set pieces, making sure the show didn't fall apart.

Telemachus was one of those shadows. He preferred it that way. Working quietly, methodically—fixing a backdrop, testing the pulley system, making notes in the margins of a script—things no one else noticed.

Until she did.

She was waiting for her cue when she spotted him near the back of the stage, half-hidden behind a set piece, scribbling in a notebook. He didn't look like the usual tech crew kids—too focused, too lost in his own thoughts. She watched as he pushed his glasses up, muttering something under his breath.

"You always talk to yourself, or am I special?"

Her voice cut through the noise like it belonged everywhere.

Telemachus startled, nearly dropping his pencil. He hadn't expected her—the lead actress, the star, the girl the entire school seemed to orbit—to even notice him, let alone acknowledge him.

"I—uh—what?" He blinked up at her, completely thrown off.

She smirked. "You were muttering. Sounded important." She tilted her head, glancing at his notebook. "What are you working on?"

He hesitated. Most people didn't ask. Most people didn't care.

But she was still looking at him—curious, waiting. So, against his better judgment, he answered.

"The set design is historically inaccurate," he said bluntly. "The play is set in ancient Greece, but the columns are Doric, and those didn't become common until much later. And the costumes—"

He stopped himself. He was rambling.

But instead of looking bored, she looked amused.

"Okay, genius," she teased, crossing her arms. "What should it look like, then?"

And just like that, she's in his world. She listens as he talks about architectural styles, about the way Greek theater worked, about things no one else would even think about. And she laughs—not at him, but because she actually enjoys hearing him talk.

That's when he knows he's doomed.