The voice inside my head—the one Kenna begged me to listen to—howls at me. I’ve never really researched manifestation before, passing most of it off as overpriced candles, glittery jewels, and good marketing, all wrapped in moon phases and cliché quotes.
But I’m ready. I’m ready to try anything.
Come midnight, Alex is asleep in the bedroom, and I’m on the balcony, cross-legged in an old hoodie, a cup of tea growing cold beside me. A crackle of thunder rumbles in the distance.
Kenna’s starter kit is strewn across the wrought iron table like spilled thoughts: a rose quartz heart, moonstone, black tourmaline, and an indigo candle that smells like cinnamon and courage.
I light it with trembling hands.
My mother used to tell me that writing poems and singing songs weren’t a phase or a hobby. They weren’t something I needed to shelve when real life showed up. But I’ve let other voices get louder. The ones that tell me to beresponsible and quiet. And somewhere in all that static, I convinced myself that my dreams had an expiration date.
Now, the big question looms in the back of my mind.
What are my dreams? Those burning, heart-bursting dreams?
What do you want, Annalise?
What. Do. I. Want.
My eyes water as I tip my face to the sky, and a few raindrops sprinkle down to earth.
“I want to stop being afraid,” I whisper as the slim crescent moon glows faintly through the cloud cover. I feel stupid. I feel scared. I feel free. “I want to stop apologizing for the things that set my soul on fire.”
I inhale a deep breath, pressing a hand to my heart.
Tiny raindrops dapple the stones. I don’t even know what half of them are supposed to do, but I don’t move them. I just stare.
At them. At the candle. At the sliver of honey moon floating in the sky.
I focus on the voice I’ve spent years turning the volume down on like a haunting old song.
But she’s not whispering tonight.
She’s roaring.
And her voice doesn’t sound like some mystical thing—it sounds like me. My truest self. The girl who used to write lyrics on math worksheets and stayed up until 3:00 a.m. watching bootleg concert videos. The girl who used to believe that if she worked hard enough, poured enough of herself into a poem or a chorus, the world might listen.
And God, I miss her.
The answers don’t hit me like a thunderbolt. They seep inside like a chord progression, a melody that’s been humming in my bones since I was a pigtailed grade-schooler.
I want the music. I want the mess and the noise and the risk of it all. I want to be in the room where songs are born and mistakes are made and something real happens.
I don’t want to keep living this muted version of my life just because it’s safe.
I want that secret chord.
Blowing out the candle, I watch the smoke rise in a twisting trail.
Kenna was right; these things take time.
But the truth is, I already knew what I wanted. I just needed to listen.
“I want this,” I say, my voice louder, laced with years-worth of buried conviction. “I want this so much.”
Tears rush to my eyes.
And then I’m on my feet, racing out of the condo, forgoing an umbrella. The rain grows heavier with every step, pummeling down in unyielding sheets.
