AS USUAL, I was early to the music performance lecture. Sitting alone, I watched as the rest of the students began to pour into the room, some with instruments on their backs, others dragging theirs along behind them.

It wasn't going to be a good day, and there was a reason why. We were playing our excerpts to the rest of the class, the teachers and the dance students too.

"God, you look depressed." Ryan's familiar voice sang into my ear.

I turned in his direction, shocked that he'd actually came. There was no instrument near him – but in his hands were loose, crumpled sheets of paper that I could only assume was his music.

He took the seat next to me and laughed. "Don't look so surprised."

"Well, I'm pretty sure this is the first time I've seen you in this class." I recognised my two professors enter, Dr Foreman and Dr Plough, in deep conversation with a woman whom I could only guess was Dr Rashir. Her long blue dress, matching the patterned hijab on her head, nearly brushed the floor as she walked gracefully, a calming presence about her; kind eyes, composed posture. The dance students, as far as I could tell, were nowhere to be seen – those arriving were people I recognised from my performance class. Perhaps the dancers weren't coming after all.

"I hope you're all ready for a fun and exciting lesson." Dr Plough addressed the class, his loud voice booming over the conversations that were now beginning to die down. "I think the other professors would like to talk to you briefly before we get started, so listen up."

Dr Foreman thanked him with a curt nod and stepped forward, his hair glinting with the spotlights above. "Hey guys. Thanks for coming. I just wanted to give you some tips – it's all about being calm and collected, remembering that we aren't judging you, we're simply finding out which students will be better suited together. There will be lots of aspects that we'll take into consideration so don't focus too hard on the performance at hand. Good luck." As he scanned the crowd, he smiled at me, perhaps an encouraging one at that – my jiggling knees and nail biting had probably given away how nervous I was.

And then Dr Rashir moved towards us, two hands cradling each other as she straightened. "My dancers, like you all, have been working hard to find a piece that they can pour their own souls into. Dance, without music, is a story without colour. When paired together they are powerful. Captivating." She stepped aside. "Backstage my students are waiting to enter. They will perform first, and will then watch you all too. So, without further ado, I welcome Emily Platt to the stage."

The professors took their seats, signalling for us, as audience members, to clap.

As Emily Platt entered, she waltzed around the room, arms held firm with elbows bent, her neck long and rigid. It was difficult to tear my eyes away – despite the only sounds being each step and each reply from the floor beneath her, her body demanded all attention.

It was, however, difficult to imagine myself sat at the piano, trying to keep up with her performance. Where my music was often fluid and smooth, her movements were confident, rigid and angled.

When she finished, another student followed soon after, others coming and going with entirely different styles, sometimes difficult to label without the solidarity of the music behind.

And then, as one of the boys bowed and fled the stage, Dr Rashir called a name that began to ricochet like bullets around the room.

"Abel Gray, will you please come to the stage."

His feet entered first. Then, long, muscular legs, his torso, and toned arms that hung by his sides. A white shirt clung to his chest, bright against the dark curtains behind. His face, masked by an expression of impassivity, was so striking against the bright spotlight above that I couldn't draw my eyes away. I hadn't known what Abel studied at Oakham – but now, it made perfect sense: the way he walked with a firm stance, shoulders back, neck stretched; how strong his body had looked. How delicate and poised he seemed.

His face was still and calm as he centred himself, eyes unapologetically focussed on his audience, body held with vigour. And then, with a nod from Dr Rashir, he began.

Unravelling his arms, they lengthened out either side of him, moving gently like wings propelling each movement of his body: his soft, almost legato steps, the stretching of his torso, muscles working and responding diligently to support the twists and turns, the highs and lows.

Every eye in the room seemed drawn to all parts of him, the silence telling of just how enchanting he was to watch, his fingers high above him, neck extended as he looked up at them, shoulders back, feet perfectly parallel.

When he jumped – propelling his body up and to the side with a fast bend of his legs, there was no doubt that he'd land exactly as he'd intended to: his eyes held the spot they chose before he began, unwavering as he was suspended in the air for a split second and descended gracefully back again. Only when his body turned the opposite way did those eyes move, but once again finding a different spot to maintain his concentration.

As he danced, I could already hear the song that he reflected, the wave from his feet to his fingertips like arpeggios, each landing parallel chords and his arms the motif throughout.

When he finished, there was a brief silence, followed by the applause that seemed to jolt me back to my senses. For some reason I silently hoped his eyes would meet mine, to almost validate why I was feeling the way I did – but, of course, they didn't. He simply nodded once, bowed, and left the stage to take a seat in one of the front rows.

And then, before I knew it, it was my turn.

As Dr. Plough called my name, I froze in my seat with the realisation that Abel of all people would be watching me. I could imagine him scrutinizing every note, yawning, leaving the room, or worse – feeling absolutely nothing at all.

"Hello?" Ryan hissed into my ear. "Earth to Luna?"

I stared at him, my cheeks heating up as heads began to turn in our direction. "I don't want to do this. Help me."

He shook his head. "Don't do it for yourself. Do it for America. Do it for your country."

"But, we're from the UK-"

"Go for gods' sake!"

"Luna Hart?" Dr Plough called again.

And so, with all the strength I had, I stood up. "Hi, sorry. Here."

My feet moved shakily through my row of people before finding the stairs and descending them, the stage thumping menacingly towards me, my fingers clutching my music so hard that I was worried they'd now lost feeling.

A couple of the backstage helpers were moving a piano onto the stage for me, and thankfully, the thought of it began to ease my fears.

You'll be fine. I thought. You can buy a pizza afterwards.

"What are you going to play for us today, Luna?" Dr Plough asked. The three professors were sat directly in front of the piano, bodies positioned ready to analyse. Thankfully, they all bore kind smiles, particularly Dr Rashir, who met my eyes and nodded encouragingly.

"Um." I couldn't help myself. I glanced, so quickly that nobody else would have noticed, to Abel, who was reclined in his seat, relaxed, as if he hadn't just poured out his soul in front of the audience. He looked at me. I looked away. "Arabesque No. 1. Debussy."

The song I had, in fact, imagined Abel dancing to.

The only sounds I could hear were my short, soft breaths as I reached the piano, displayed my music, and positioned myself, the smile to my page-turner not quite reaching past my nerves as they took their seat beside me.

For a second I closed my eyes to compose myself. I knew this piece like the back of my hand; it didn't matter who was watching me. I could play it as if I were completely and utterly alone.

So that's what I did.

My fingers began playing the famous arpeggios into the stillness of the room, flowing smoothly as if a river was rippling below my feet, pouring off the stage. Both hands worked together, supported by each press and release of the pedal. From one end of the piano to the other, the music changed from tone to tone, lightening into those pentatonic movements of colour – and then returning again to the original melody, altered, but allowing the listener to recognise that familiarity.

As the melody flourished into chords, I realised how much my nerves had calmed, enjoying the music, desperate for the story of each note to be sung to the spectators, some of which, I knew, had likely never heard Debussy before. Some of his music was not appreciated by others, often, but I had picked Arabesque for its delicate and beautiful qualities – no clashing, difficult to hear parts; any suspensions released and resolved just as smoothly as ever.

And then, as I climbed to the top of the piano, finishing the piece with the soft, light, high notes, the piano resonated them back into the concert room, echoing them from wall to wall with such a light finish that the audience waited, unsure about whether or not, several moments after, to clap.

♦ ♦ ♦

"Well, I think I can say on behalf of the other two that we are thoroughly impressed with your hard work and dedication." Dr Foreman said after a long interlude discussing with Dr Rashir and Dr Plough who would be grouped together. "Every one of you showed talent and individuality and it was a joy to watch. So thank you."

Ryan sat next to me, still energised from his earlier performance, buzzing that Dr Rashir had actually looked at him. She is a goddess. He'd said, his crumpled sheets quivering as he took the seat beside me, his harp carried off backstage by the other helpers. A goddess that looked at me. Me, Luna.

"Some of the decisions we made today weren't just based on your performances. We also wanted to group you as people, too, wanting to see how you'd work together. If you aren't happy with your groups," his lips curled into a knowing smile. "Well, then, tough."

"Group one is Harriet, Josh A, Xander and Lois." Some excited noises undulated around the room. "Group two, Willow, Ruth, Emily P, Eddie, and Ahmed."

"You know, I hope I'm put in a group with Quentin." Ryan said, watching the way some students grinned and called out to each other. "He always buys people coffee."

I bit my nails nervously, my ears pricked for when my name was called. "Don't you care about being put with people you don't know?"

"Well, not really, because I basically know everyone. And anyone I don't know, I'm sure they'll be nice."

"...Ryan, Kate, Sam J, and..."

"Quentin, Quentin." Ryan whispered under his breath. "Say Quentin..."

"....Quentin."

"Yes!" Ryan stood up with a pump of his fist in the air, shouting so loudly that Dr Foreman looked up from his sheet of paper with raised eyebrows. Clearing his throat, Ryan laughed it off awkwardly. "I, uh. Love you, Quentin."

"Only because he'll give you free coffee." Dr Foreman shook his head. "Sit down, Ryan."

One of the dancers, who I could only presume to be Quentin, laughed, shaking his head as Ryan sat down and blew a kiss in his direction.

Dr Foreman continued. "Shush, please. In group eight," his eyes glanced fleetingly in the direction of the boy sat with his arms crossed, quiet amongst the other dancers, "I have Abel Gray, and Luna Hart."

A few whispers reverberated from student to student. Ryan's mouth fell to the floor.

Dr Foreman threw me a grin, shrugging, before continuing to read the other names as if he hadn't just paired me with Abel Gray. As if we weren't the only students in a group of two.

As if he hadn't just ruined my life.

And then, before I could wonder if it could get any worse, Abel stood up, put his bag over his shoulders, and left the room, leaving the doors swinging behind him.

♦ ♦ ♦

"Are you sure you're okay?" My cousin Alice stared at me with concern through the computer screen, her dark hair cascading down one shoulder in a long plait. "I just hate the thought of you joining so late in the year when everyone else has already made friends."

I pursed my lips, feeling an uneasiness settle in my stomach. Of course, I was beginning to feel the repercussions of being the transfer. Although Gabby and Ryan were being so nice to me, they would always be closer to one another, and their other friends that I had yet to meet. I'd also hoped that my flatmates would be the people I'd get to know the most – you know, living together 24/7 and all – but obviously, that hadn't worked out.

However, I'd been lucky enough to get the scholarship, and I didn't like the thought of worrying Alice when she couldn't exactly do anything.

So I forced a smile and said, "Honestly, I'm fine."

She sighed. "Alright. If you say so. Have you spoken to your mum yet?"

I thought back to the last time I had seen my mother. Me, dragging my bags down the stairs one by one, her, standing at the bottom, arms crossed, face the picture of complete betrayal. Deep down I think she believed that I would never actually go to Oakham. That I could never go against what she had fought so hard for – to get me into Oxford, past all the other students that had pockets filled with money and resumes as long as an encyclopaedia.

The worst part about it was that I really was grateful for everything she had given me. I knew she had struggled, choosing to have a child through a donor, focusing all her time and energy on me. But she would never know that – to her, it looked as if I wanted a different life. One without her in it.

"No." I bit my lip. "She doesn't want to speak to me."

"Oh, Luna. She loves you. She just needs time."

"Mm. I don't know."

Alice smiled sadly, probably realising that I didn't want to talk about my mother anymore. The Filipino in her, choosing to be gentle with the situation. "Okay. Have you got any plans tonight?"

Swallowing, I remembered the text that Gabby had sent me, begging me to go to the party. As much as I wanted to see them, after the grouping situation I really didn't want to bump into Abel again. He made me feel so small, so embarrassed. Pair that with being shoved into a room of drunk strangers, well. Let's just say I'd rather bathe in dog shit.

"Just Netflix for me. What about you?"

She laughed. "Same. Let's talk soon, I miss you so much."

"Miss you too."

With a virtual hug, we ended the call.

My stomach was beginning to rumble excessively, so I decided to raid the kitchen for the biscuits that I'd bought earlier, ready for a crazy night in with my laptop and Ten Things I Hate About You. On repeat.

I opened my bedroom door and walked out into the empty hallway.

One thing that I was able to find out about the five, was why their shoes were so neatly aligned that first time I'd entered 305. They had cleaners that tidied the flat every two days: a private service not funded by Oakham that ensured the floors were free of mess and the kitchen surfaces were squeaky clean. It was why Kingsley had replied "the cleaner will get it", when I smashed that teacup.

But who was paying for a private cleaning service if not Oakham? An expense, that, I was sure, would eventually mount up to thousands every month. Especially the kind of company where the workers wore gleaming white polo shirts. I most certainly couldn't afford that. Which one of them could?

"Look who it is." Celeste spoke loudly as I turned the corner into the kitchen, surrounded by – much to my luck – the rest of the flatmates.

It was the first time I had seen the five altogether. Kingsley had his head in his hands, elbows resting on one of the kitchen counters, Celeste with her eyebrows raised, sitting at the dining table, legs crossed, Isaiah behind, glancing at me with El Taco resting comfortably on his shoulder, Ayala: perched on the side of the table, texting rapidly on her phone, and Abel, near the window, half of his face lit by the darkening light outside.

And then there was me, standing alone in my pyjamas, looking like a deer in headlights.

"Hi." I said, making my way towards the cupboards. Kingsley, who was watching me with amusement, moved so that I could pass him, stretching out a hand leisurely as if to say, go ahead. I cleared my throat. "Sorry. I just wanted to get some biscuits."

There was an uncomfortable silence as I continued to move about, aware that everything I was doing was being watched.

"So, Luna, are you going to the party tonight?" Isaiah asked, breaking the tension. He seemed genuinely intrigued, but I was still suspicious about his behaviour the other day, when he had pulled Kingsley into his room, not uttering another word to me since.

"Um-"

"She's not that type of person."

I looked up, locking eyes with Abel who had unexpectedly spoken. He had moved away from the wall, closer now, the veins in his arms working as he placed his hands on the kitchen surface.

I swallowed.

Celeste laughed. Ayala snorted.

Abel refused to look away.

It was as if something in me ticked. Although my face was red under the gaze of the five, I refused to let them make me feel the way they had.

After a long few seconds glaring straight back at Abel, I put down the biscuits, and with as much composure as I could, I walked out of the kitchen and into my own room, shutting my bedroom door behind me and picking up my phone that lay discarded on my bed.

Gabby picked up within the first ring.

"I've changed my mind." I said, feeling my heart thumping in my ears. "I'm going to the damn party."

AUTHORS NOTE: That. Was. So. Long. 3000 words?! I think I got too carried away describing Abel dancing...

Anyway, give Arabesque no.1 a listen on Youtube, it's attached to this chapter. It's just such a beautiful song - one of the commenters likened it to the feeling of falling in love which I just thought was so beautiful.

Let me know what you thought of it & this chapter!

Love,

Donutized