You`re My Melody by itsvlada
You`re My Melody
Description
She has his voice in her head. He has her words in his mouth. Neither of them can breathe without the other, and both of them are lying. Allison Calloway hasn't written a word since a boy destroyed her at seventeen - stole her poetry, her dream and turned it into platinum records, became a star while she became invisible. Now she's on his tour bus with a secret contract and a job title that says sober companion and a real purpose that says write his songs or lose everything. Aiden Blackwell knows he's a fraud. He just doesn't know the girl pouring his coffee is the proof. He's cruel and magnetic and falling apart in real time, hiding whiskey in water bottles and talent behind arrogance, and every song she slides under his door pulls him closer to a truth that could save him or destroy them both. Enemies. Collaborators. Something more dangerous than either. And a secret that's ticking like a bomb between every note they sing together.
Chapter 1
Mar 19, 2026
Allison’s POV
Eight years ago. Westridge Prep.
Please don't let him find me here.
The bench behind the groundskeeper's shed had a broken slat and smelled like wet mulch, and it was the only place in this entire school where my shoulders came down from my ears. Fifteen minutes. That was all I got — the gap between last bell and the late bus — and I'd been guarding this spot for three weeks like a feral animal guarding the one corner of the cage nobody else wanted.
I pulled out the journal. Purple cover, dog-eared, spine held together with a rubber band that was one good stretch away from giving up entirely. Relatable. I wrote the way other people breathe after being held underwater — fast, urgent, desperate to get the words onto the page before they dissolved.
Today it was a poem. About silence. About being the kind of person who takes up so little space that even the air forgets she's there. About a boy I would never name whose voice fills every room and leaves no oxygen for anyone else.
The pen moved and the world shrank to the size of the page and for a few minutes I was not the scholarship kid with the secondhand uniform and the mother who worked double shifts. I was just a girl with a voice, and the voice was good, and it belonged to me.
I was mid-line when a shadow fell across the page.
"There she is."
My stomach dropped before I looked up. I knew the voice the way prey knows the sound of a branch breaking. Aiden Blackwell stood at the gap in the hedges, backpack slung over one shoulder, that half-grin I'd learned to read as a warning siren. Behind him: Carter with his permanent smirk. Jay, who laughed at everything Aiden said like a trained seal.
"Notebook Girl's got a secret hideout." He stepped through the gap, looked around — the broken bench, the rusted shed, the weeds — and his expression landed on the one I hated most. Not anger. Amusement. Like my entire existence was a show put on for his benefit. "This is sad, Calloway. Even for you."
I closed the journal. Held it against my chest. Said nothing. I'd learned that words were ammunition I couldn't afford to hand him.
Carter dropped onto the bench beside me — too close, deliberate, his thigh pressing against mine. I shifted away. He shifted with me. "Aw, don't be rude," Carter said. "We just wanted to hang out."
Aiden stayed standing, looking down at me, and for a half-second something crossed his face that in different lighting I might have mistaken for recognition. Like he saw me — the girl who rode the same bus route, who came from the same side of town, whose shoes were held together with the same stubborn denial as his.
When he'd transferred in three years ago I'd first thought we could be friends—two broke kids surrounded by people whose parents named yachts after them. Instead he found the rich kids, borrowed their cruelty, and made me the mirror he couldn't stop smashing.
The flicker drowned under whatever lived inside him that turned recognition into cruelty.
"What are you writing?" He held out his hand. "Let me see."
"No."
"No?" He tilted his head. "Come on, Calloway. Sharing is caring. Isn't that what they teach at the schools you came from?"
Jay snorted. My fingers tightened on the journal's spine until the rubber band bit into my knuckles.
Carter's hand closed around my wrist — not hard enough to bruise, just hard enough to pin — and in the half-second my arms opened, Aiden took the journal. Clean. Fast.
I lunged but Jay stepped between us and Aiden was already three feet back, flipping pages like he was browsing a magazine.
"Give it back." My voice cracked and I hated the crack, hated that he could hear it. "Aiden, give it back. Please."
The please was a mistake. I knew it the second it left my mouth. Aiden heard it and something in him — the part that was mean, the part that couldn't see vulnerability without testing how far it bent — locked on. His posture shifted, shoulders squaring, chin lifting. An audience of two was all he needed.
He opened to a page near the middle. I knew which poem. Last Tuesday, this same bench. About loneliness. About wanting. About a boy whose laugh sounds like the opposite of silence and what it means to love someone who doesn't know your name.
He read it out loud. Did voices. Paused for dramatic effect. Put his hand over his heart during the part about wanting and Carter doubled over and Jay was wheezing so hard he had to brace himself on the shed wall.
"'And I would hold his silence like a gift,'" Aiden read, voice pitched high, mocking, "'because even his quiet is louder than my—'"
"Stop." The word came out flat. Dead.
He didn't stop. He finished the stanza with a bow — an actual bow, hand sweeping low — and my throat closed so tight I couldn't have spoken again if I'd wanted to. He was performing. He was always performing. The whole world was a stage and right now my bleeding heart was getting a standing ovation from two boys who'd never written a single honest sentence in their lives.
I didn't move. My face went blank. A wall with nothing on it. I held perfectly still while the boy from my bus route read my soul out loud and laughed.
When he finished, he looked at me over the journal. The grin was still there but something behind his eyes — something he'd spend the next decade trying to drown — flickered. I stared back. Didn't blink. My jaw ached from the clenching but I would not give him more than he'd already taken.
He tossed the journal in the dirt between us. I reached for it — instinct, every honest thing I'd ever written lying in the mulch — and his shoe came down on the cover. Not hard. Casual. Like he was resting his foot on a step.
"Stick to cleaning, Calloway. The poetry thing isn't working out."
The late bus horn blared from the parking lot. Two short blasts. Aiden looked toward the sound, then back at me. His foot didn't move.
"Better run, Notebook Girl. That's the last one, isn't it?"
He knew it was. He rode the same route. He knew exactly what missing it meant — an hour walk through neighborhoods without streetlights, or calling my mother off her shift to come get me.
"Move your foot."
"Bus is leaving, Calloway."
The horn blared again. I looked at the journal under his shoe, then at the parking lot. I grabbed my backpack and ran — through the hedges, across the field, sneakers slapping wet grass — and made it to the doors just as they started to close.
I dropped into a seat. Pressed my forehead against the glass and the bus pulled away.
I'll get it tomorrow. First thing. Before anyone else gets there.
Mom was in the kitchen — still in her work apron, hands rough from twelve hours folding other people's laundry. She took one look at my face and went still. The wooden spoon stopped mid-stir.
"What happened?"
I sat at the table. I told her enough — not everything, because the words were still wearing his voice — but enough.
"I want to transfer."
She didn't say fight back. Didn't say it'll get better. She reached across the table and put her calloused hands over mine.
"Then we'll find you a new school, baby." Her grip tightened. "They don't get to have your words. They don't get to have any part of you."
I went to my room. Pressed my back against the closet door and stared at the ceiling until it blurred.
It's over. I'll never have to see him again. I'll forget his name and his voice and the way he read my words like they were nothing, and one day he'll be nothing too. Just a bad memory that fades.
I went back for the journal the next morning. The bench was there. The dirt was there. The journal was gone.
You`re My Melody
30 Chapters
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