Naturally, Mom was convinced a guardian angel must’ve been watching over me that day. One from the Underworld, I suppose.
I was so furious about my broken wrist I refused to speak to Hayes, even though I was the idiot who took the dare and should’ve known better. Back then, I didn’t know you didn’t have to prove yourself just because someone told you to do something reckless.
Hayes didn’t argue. He just looked miserable. I think he felt even worse than I did.
The next day, he bought my forgiveness by handing over his limited-edition Demogorgon Funko Pop. It was his favorite. He was obsessed with the showStranger Things—not just for the monsters and jump scares, but he loved the idea of the Upside Down, a shadow world running parallel to our own, only darker and more dangerous. The vinyl figure was his version of a peace offering. My broken bone in exchange for the best creepy monster on TV.
The gift ended our fight almost instantly. It wasn’t even a full day.
So, yeah. I’m not used to going this long without Hayes making his daily appearance in my life, but maybe a little space isn’t the worst thing. If anything, his absence gives me room to focus on what actually matters for my future. Time for my music. Time towork on my transfer applications. Maybe even time to figure out who I am without him.
After classes that week, I head home each day, grab my guitar and songwriting journal, and get to work. Maybe it’s all the pent-up emotion, worrying about Mom and about Hayes and his inevitable reconciliation with Amber, but the music pours out of me like it’s been waiting for this. As if it’s been building up inside me for years and just needed the silence and space to finally surface.
Even the melodies, which are usually the hardest part for me, come easily for once. It’s like they already exist somewhere in me, quiet and fully formed, just waiting for permission. It feels like something’s cracked open inside me.
I record a brand-new track and upload it to my YouTube channel. It’s like nothing I’ve ever written before. More real, more raw. It’s got legs and edge—angry girl rock, pure Olivia Rodrigo energy. I fall asleep that night with my guitar still beside me and a flicker of hope burning in my chest.
When I wake the next morning, the first thing I do is checkSander Sings—and I nearly drop my phone. My new song already has hundreds of likes, pushing toward a thousand. My heart stumbles as I blink at the screen, rereading the number like it might disappear.
I’m still buzzing when I walk into Vocal Performance Studio later that morning. The room is mostly empty. A few students are gathered in the back, and Professor Jones is at his desk, flipping through asongbook. He’s wearing one of his signature bow ties, red with pink polka dots, paired with a crisp white button-up and khakis.
“Uh, Professor Jones?” I ask, walking over. “Can I talk to you for a second?”
He looks up, his brown eyes crinkling at the corners. “Of course, Ms. Smith,” he says, closing his songbook and setting it aside. “What’s on your mind?”
“I, um… started a YouTube channel. For my music.” The words tumble out in a nervous rush. “I was wondering if you’d maybe take a look. Tell me what you think?”
I slide my phone across the desk and hit play before I can second-guess myself. Guitar chords spill out of the tiny speaker as he leans in closer and bumps up the volume. My voice fills the quiet theater, and a wave of panic spikes through me.
Do I sound pitchy?
Are the lyrics too simplistic?
My confidence unravels with every note.
I look away, pretending to study the faded theater production posters from past performances on the wall, anything to avoid meeting his eyes. The longer he listens, the more convinced I am he’s about to tell me I’m not cut out for this. The high I felt last night after hitting upload? Completely gone.
When the song finally ends, my skin burns with embarrassment. I want to grab the phone and bury it under a rock.
But then… Professor Jones claps.
“Wonderful! Truly wonderful,” he says, eyes bright. He taps the screen and lifts a bushy brow. “And look at that—already thousands of likes. Impressive.”
I blink. “Wait, what?”
I take the phone back and check the screen. Sure enough, there are over 4,000 likes and climbing. Hundreds of comments too, most of them kind. Praise for the lyrics. Fire emojis. People asking for more.
“I’m proud of you. Putting yourself out there takes guts,” he says. “How does it feel?”
“Good,” I say, sliding the phone into my backpack. “I think.”
His stomach growls just then, and he reaches into his desk drawer for a brown paper bag. “Do you mind?” he asks, holding it up like an apology.
“Oh—no, of course not.”
He hums softly as he dumps the contents onto the desk: a sad little cup of oatmeal—no toppings, not even brown sugar—and one hard-boiled egg. It’s barely enough food for a toddler.
“That’s your lunch?”
