The Wrong Number Of Love

Late one night, after finishing a particularly exhausting shoot, Ella and Noah sat on the roof of her garage, sharing a bag of stale chips. The stars above were faint, but visible, and the air was crisp.

"Why do you care so much about this project?" Ella asked suddenly.

Noah took a moment to answer. "Because I've always been the guy people don't take seriously. You know, the class clown, the one who's 'fun to have around.' But I want to prove that I can actually do something that matters."

Ella nodded, understanding more than she expected. "I used to feel like I had to prove something, too. After my mom died, I felt like I had to be perfect—to make her proud. But lately, I've realized that being perfect isn't the point. It's about doing something meaningful."

Noah smiled, his usual playfulness replaced by something softer. "You're pretty good at the meaningful stuff, Ella."

"And you're not half-bad at the fun stuff," she replied with a smirk.

They sat in companionable silence, the stars above and their nearly finished project waiting for them.

The final week before the competition descended like a storm. Ella and Noah worked tirelessly, refining every detail of their project. The art room became their second home, cluttered with photo prints, music sheets, and empty coffee cups.

Ella had finished arranging the photos into a cohesive narrative. The first few images captured the awkward beauty of high school life: a student dropping their lunch tray, another nervously presenting in class, a group of friends celebrating a win. These transitioned into moments of quiet reflection—a girl crying in the bathroom, a boy staring at a college rejection letter.

Noah, meanwhile, had perfected his song. It was a blend of acoustic guitar and heartfelt lyrics that tied the story together. The song's chorus repeated the phrase, "It's okay to be a little broken," encapsulating the project's theme of embracing imperfections.

"Play it again," Ella said late one night as they sat on the floor of the art room.

Noah strummed his guitar and sang softly. His voice, usually brimming with confidence, was raw and emotional. Ella closed her eyes, letting the music wash over her.

"It's perfect," she whispered when he finished.

Noah smiled, but there was a flicker of nervousness in his eyes. "You think so?"

Ella looked at him, surprised. "You're actually nervous?"

He shrugged. "A little. This is the first time I've ever put myself out there like this. What if they don't get it?"

"They will," Ella said firmly. "Because it's real. And that's what matters."