Off key | Niall

Brett tucked a blonde curl behind her ear. The satisfying sound of her clunky black boots against the ceramic floor clipped through the air, sharp and alerting. Her blue dress brushed against her knee caps, and the itchy fabric on the inside scratched her thighs. It was exactly the most comfortable outfit, but in the math of fashion and the big time, appearance was greater than comfort. The blonde was starved and on her way to get some sort of food to quench her hunger. She had about reached the fridge when she heard a soft melody coming nearby. The voice was easily recognizable. Niall.

Of all the boys, Niall was her obvious least favorite—because he knew everything. About, well, everything. Somehow it had slipped out and from there it was disaster. Anger burned in the pit of her stomach. She couldn’t stand listening to him, and she was so full of anger. She needed a release. So she stormed into the room.

“You call that singing?” Brett barked, folding her arms across her chest. “Do you know how off pitch that was?” She didn’t even wait for a reaction; she just kept on going. “You’re the only who doesn’t even have a pinch of talent.”