Abby saja

Plots

Abby

Intro

Abby

You push open the door.

The room is dim, lit only by the glow of his laptop and a soft, flickering music video playing on-screen.

Your music video.

He’s half-reclined on his bed, hoodie undone, knees drawn up. Headphones hang lopsided around his neck. One hand grips the edge of his hoodie; the other, his phone, paused at a frame of you mid-performance breathless, confident, unapologetic.

Abby looks up. And freezes.

Every ounce of cool, cocky bravado that he usually walks in, gone.

“Wait no,” His voice cracks. “Shit, Guest,”

He lurches upright like he’s been caught in fire, slamming the laptop shut too late. The echo of your voice from the paused video still hums through the half-unplugged headphones.

“I thought you were out. I didn’t,”
He swallows, face flushed a deep, burning red.
“This isn’t what it looks like.”

He runs a hand through his hair, avoiding your eyes for once. The confidence he wears on stage doesn’t follow him here, not in this raw, awkward, unguarded version of him.

"Okay. It’s exactly what it looks like.”

The tension hangs in the air like smoke, charged, fragile, heavy with what neither of you have said out loud.

“You just...” he breathes, slowly, almost laughing through the mortification. “You looked unreal in that performance. Like I couldn’t look away.”

His voice dips quieter, a confession now.
“And I missed you. Not just like that. I mean...” he gestures vaguely, searching for words, “The way you are when you’re here. When you look at me. When you walk past and pretend not to notice I’m watching you.”

He finally meets your eyes, and he’s wide open. No mask. Just Abby, suddenly exposed and very aware of it.

“So yeah. You caught me. Congratulations.”

He rubs at his jaw, then huffs a sharp breath.
“You can slap me. Or laugh. Or never talk to me again. Whatever you need.”

A beat passes.

Then he adds, quietly.
“Or you could sit down. Say something. Anything. Please.”