(Time skips to battle of bands, section e turn. all are same except that during festival talks, Jay Jay was asked to sing, but she declined. And on the festival day, Keifer said he'll win battle of bands, in exchange wants Jay to sing. Then, jay shows her moves and wins snorlax. And she never suggest Keifer to sing any song.)
The battle of the bands: Section E's turn. Keifer is singing. Yuri's on chorus and lead guitar. My heart's already doing somersaults.
I don't know the song, but I wanna know Keifer's voice — and that's all that matters.
Ci-N is recording on my phone; I let him because I know I'll forget everything else later.
Keifer and his band step onstage like they walked out of a magazine spread. Business suits, pressed and perfect; ties neat, shoes polished. Even their hair looks like it cost money and meticulous hours. Yuri's attitude is the rest of their uniform: arrogant, effortless, like he expects attention and gets it.
The only thing that jars is their band name. "The Only One"? Really. It sounds like someone tried too hard to be poetic and failed.
They start playing. The crowd roars — a wall of noise — but all my attention narrows until it's only Keifer. He's hot. He's too close to be onstage; he's unreal. He looks at me as if he's been waiting. He opens his mouth, and the world slips sideways.
"I wanna be your vacuum cleaner,
Breathin' in your dusty…"
His tone catches me in a net. There's a roundness in the vowels and a hush at the edges that makes the words feel private. My pulse claws under my skin. I try to breathe normally, but his voice rearranges my ribs.
"I wanna be your Ford Cortina,
I will never rust…"
He's beautiful. Not just good-looking; the way he sings makes the syllables liquid and warm. My cheeks heat. My fingers curl into the fabric of my skirt because there's nowhere else to put the restlessness.
"If you like your coffee hot,
Let me be your coffee pot…"
He's not looking away. He's not breaking eye contact, and the intensity of it is embarrassing and intoxicating. Every line feels like it's aimed for the exact place in me that unfurls on contact. The auditorium melts into soft light and a hum behind his voice.
"You call the shots, babe,
I just wanna be yours…"
I close my eyes for a fraction of a second to stop staring and to steal the moment purely for me. When I open them, he's still there — softer now, like the smile in his voice has personalized the lyrics. It's like listening to a confession disguised as a pop song. Heat pools all over my face. I pray no one notices the way I'm dissolving.
"Secrets I have held in my heart,
Are harder to hide than I thought…"
Why did he choose this song? Why did he have to pick one that sounds exactly like a promise? The part of me that likes control jumps up, furious and embarrassed; the romantic part is halfway across the room, already handing him the keys. Maybe that's why I used to picture punching him after that first kiss — it was how I tried to get control back. Now, when he sings "I wanna be yours," my control feels like a paper boat in a rainstorm.
"Maybe I just wanna be yours,
I wanna be yours, I wanna be yours…"
Everything else is noise: people, clapping, the bass thumping. All of it turns into a soft white static at the edges of my hearing. The only colors are the way his pupils darken when he smiles and the flash of the stage lights on his cheekbone. My thoughts fray into single images: his hand on the microphone, the corner of his mouth lifting. I replay the first time he kissed me, absurd and teasing and ridiculous — him smirking as I pretended to be mad — and I feel a foolish grin tug at my mouth.
"Let me be your 'leccy meter,
And I'll never run out…"
He's making this performance private. He's making it mine.
"Let me be the portable heater,
That you'll get cold without…"
I catch myself stepping forward before I realize I did it; instinct is trying to close the distance between us. For a second I imagine being the only person in the auditorium with him, sharing the warmth off his breath. My cheeks burn brighter; people's faces blur in the crowd as if I'm looking at them through steamed glass.
"I wanna be your setting lotion…"
(wanna be)
His voice lowers at the edges, like he's teasing and promising in equal measure. A ridiculous, tender part of my brain thinks of silly metaphors — vacuum cleaners and Cortinas — and how they somehow make this more real, less theatrical. He's not just performing; he's choosing small, intimate images to stake a claim. Each line presses closer.
"Hold your hair in deep devotion…"
(how deep?)
I clamp my hands at my sides because twining my fingers is the only thing that keeps me from reaching for him. Why does he always make it so impossible? He made a plan — why would he pick a song that peels the skin off my composure? Of course he'd be cruel. Of course he'd be charming.
"At least as deep as the Pacific Ocean,
I wanna be yours…"
The last chorus hangs in the air like smoke. When they finish, the applause is enormous, a tidal wave that finally breaks the bubble around me. People are on their feet now, but I'm slow to move. I can still hear the echo of his voice even though the notes are spent. My chest feels hollowed out and full at the same time.
Keifer's footsteps are the only sound I notice in the crush of bodies as the band steps down. He comes straight toward us, like he's got no interest in the crowd, like he already knows where he needs to be. Everyone else offers congratulations and high-fives, quick and loud. I stand frozen, toes glued to the linoleum.
He doesn't waste time with them. He walks right up to me. That teasing smile — the one that has a dangerous kindness to it — is already on his face. My blush returns like a tide and I try to hide it under my hair.
"How was it? No complements or congrats?" he asks, voice low, amused.
I look away because staring would be an admission. Because I'm a child of habit and awkwardness. Because answering honestly might make me sound foolish.
"I-it was n-nice. C-congrats," I stammer, words tripping over themselves as they scramble out. My mouth feels thick.
Why am I trembling?
He leans down to my height. The woody scent of his cologne wraps around me and I have to remind myself to breathe. His breath is warm, peppermint-sweet. For a heartbeat his lips are so close my name might have slipped out with the next syllable.
"Who are you telling to? I'm here," he murmurs, smug and soft.
"I-I know," I say, still not meeting his eyes. My voice goes small.
I could deny being affected all I want, but the truth is audible in the way my knees feel like jelly.
He leans in again, closer this time; his words fold into my ear like a private chord. My breath catches; an involuntary, helpless sound escapes me.
"Remember your promise. If I win, you're going to sing. Don't forget," he whispers, then straightens and takes a step back. He lets the air between us thicken with the memory of his proximity.
"W-why did you select 'The Only One' as your band name?" I blurted before he could step away.
He smirked, that slow, infuriating smile that makes my spine both stiffen and melt. He didn't rush to explain; instead he tilted his head like he was enjoying the puzzle.
"Well, out of seventeen, there's only one who's different. Special. Yet like us," he said.
The words settled into my head like a pebble dropped into a still pond. Seventeen. I blinked once, twice, as the ripples spread. Our class strength — seventeen. A prickle of realization crawled up my arms. He's talking about us. About our section.
Only one who's different. Only one who is special. My chest tightened with a heat that felt almost like being singled out under a bright stage light. The stupid, thrilling part of me raced ahead: I'm the only girl. He could mean me.
"Wait—" I started before I could stop myself. The sentence came out small, bewildered. "You mean—me?"
Keifer's eyes flicked to mine, and for a second something unreadable passed through them. His smirk softened into something like satisfaction, like a secret revealed on purpose.
"If you want to look at it that way," he said, voice low and easy, as if he'd been rehearsing this ambiguity for days. "One who stands out. One who fits where no one else does. That's not a bad thing."
My heart did a ridiculous, traitorous flip. Pride warmed me even as the rest of me bristled — because did he really mean me? Or was he just being provocative, the way he always is? I scanned his face for the telltale wink or the laugh that would break the moment, but he kept his expression steady, deliberate.
"You could have picked anything," I said, trying to sound nonchalant. My voice betrayed me with a flutter.
"Maybe," he replied. "But nothing fits quite like the truth."
He took a step back as if to make the moment end, then gave me one last look — not teasing this time, but something quieter, edged with something that almost passed for sincerity. Then he turned and disappeared into the press of students and musicians, leaving me with the echo of his words like a chord that keeps vibrating long after the speaker stops.
"Remember, you promised" he repeats, then turns and melts back into the press of people.
I watch him go until he disappears into the crowd, and then the realization lands: I'm stuck with this promise I made. Part of me bristles — the part that needs to feel in control — but the rest of me, the one that floated on the notes of his song, doesn't want to be anywhere else. It's okay until he's with me. It's okay when he's near. It's okay when his voice is close enough to fold me into his melody.
I glance at Ci-N; he's still recording, but even his camera can't capture the way my heart is doing somersaults. My hands find my phone, and for a second I consider replaying the video a dozen times. I want to memorize the angle of his jaw, the little lift in his smile, the rawness in his voice when he sang those words like a promise. I want to believe he meant them.
For now, I tuck the memory into a small, secret place and wait for the moment he says it again — or asks me to sing.