There’s something in his voice, vulnerability mixed with frustration, that makes me close my book and pat the couch beside me. “Of course. What’s going on?”
He sits down heavily, slumping forward with his elbows on his knees. For a long moment, he just stares at the floor.
“Micah?”
“I think I made a huge mistake,” he says quietly.
My stomach drops. Does he regret the kiss? Is he coming to tell me that he wishes we’d never done it? If that’s what he tells me, it will kill me. I swallow and try to keep my voice light. “What do you mean?”
He lowers his head, still not looking at me. “What if I’m not good enough? What if Atlantic Coast realizes they signed some nobody kid who got lucky with a few viral videos?”
“Micah—”
“No, listen.” He finally looks up, and I can see the fear in his gray eyes. “They’re expecting me to deliver an entire album. Professional quality. Something worthy of a major label. And I’ve never even been in a real recording studio before.”
I shift to face him fully. “You’ve been making music for years. Your songs are incredible.”
“In my bedroom with basic equipment,” he says, his voice getting tighter. “That’s completely different from flying to Nashville and working with producers and sound engineers who know what they’re doing. What if I get in there and mess up? What if I can’t perform under that kind of pressure?”
“You won’t mess up.”
“How do you know?” The question comes out more desperate than angry. “Cricket, these people are used to working with real artists. People who went to music school, who have been performing professionally for years. I’m just some kid from a small town who taught himself guitar from YouTube videos.”
I reach out and take his hand, even though touching him physically hurts me now. “You’re not ‘just some kid.’ You have something special, Micah. That’s why millions of people watch your videos. That’s why every major label wants to sign you.”
He shakes his head. “What if it was all a fluke? What if I can’t recreate that magic when it really matters?”
I squeeze his hand, warmth shooting up my arm. “Talk to me. What’s really going on in your head?”
He’s quiet for so long I think he’s not going to answer. When he finally speaks, his voice is barely above a whisper.
“I keep thinking about all the talented musicians who never make it. People who are probably way better than me but just never got the right break. And here I am with this incredible opportunity, and I feel like… like I’m about to waste it. Like everyone’s going to find out I don’t actually know what I’m doing. This song I’m working on… what if it’s no good?”
My heart aches for him. “Micah, you earned this. Your talent earned this.”
“Did it though?” He looks at me with such raw uncertainty. “Or did I just get lucky because some algorithm picked up my videos at the right time?”
“Luck doesn’t get you fifty million views on a single video. That’s what you’re up to now. And luck doesn’t make people connect with your music the way they do.”
“But what if I can’t do it again? What if I sit down to writesongs for the album and nothing comes? What if the pressure kills my creativity completely?”
I can see him spiraling, the way he does when his anxiety takes over. I take both of his hands in mine, ignoring all the tingles and flutters it sends through me. “Look at me.”
He does, reluctantly.
“Do you remember when you wrote that song, ‘Midnight Train’?”
“Yeah.”
“You were going through that rough patch, fighting with Tobias. You missed your parents so much. You said you didn’t think you could write anything good because you felt so messed up inside.”
His expression softens slightly. “I remember.”
“And then you wrote one of your most beautiful songs. The one that made me cry the first time I heard it.”
“That was different.”
“How?”
