I shrug my knapsack higher on my shoulder, breathing a sigh of relief. The lecture felt like it would never end. What made it worse was the feeling of everyone’s eyes on me when I took my seat. They all think I’m new, but I’ve been online since freshman year. Today marks a week since my parents forced me to attend school in person. I cringe at the memory of the conversation.

“I don’t see why I need to,” I had sighed, folding my arms across my chest. “I’ve been doing well online.”

“Emery, would you listen to me for once in your life?!” my mother snapped. I jumped, eyeing her with wary surprise. My father stood off to the side, his mouth set in a thin line, glancing between the two of us.

“You can’t keep hiding from the world. People think you’re crazy.” Her voice was more even now, but her glare remained sharp.

“I don’t care what they think,” I muttered.

“But I do!” Her voice jumped an octave, the veins in her neck bulging. Mom didn’t have to say it out loud—I understood. I was embarrassing her. While all my cousins were socially comfortable, succeeding in school, and bringing home significant others, I sat in my room strumming my guitar, hoping my next song would be a hit.

“I’ll go,” I whispered, standing. “So that I won’t embarrass you any further.”

“Emery—”

But I was already out the door.

“Is he new here?” someone whispers, pulling me from my recollection.

“Some say he was online and—shh! There he is!”

I stalk past the girls, heading for my locker. The hall is bustling with students, but I can feel the weight of their stares—some curious, some judgmental. My stomach sinks as I approach my locker. I freeze for a second, noticing the gold numbers engraved on the metal.

Fumbling with the lock, I feel more and more eyes on me. I can practically hear the murmurs behind me.

“Oh my gosh!” Someone gasps. “He’s one of the eight!”

“Really?”

“No way…”

I finally get the lock open, quickly shoving my music binder inside before slamming the door shut. I don’t look back as I hurry away, the whispers following me like an invisible cloak.

                                                                                             ***

The music room is dark and quiet. Just the way I like it. The polished hardwood floors gleam in the low light, and the equipment is top-tier—high-end sound systems, mixing boards, and shiny instruments lined up against the walls.

My guitar sits in the corner, its sleek, custom body reflecting the light as I gently lift it from its stand. I strum absentmindedly, feeling the tension in my shoulders melt away. I didn’t pick this guitar because of the brand or its price—it’s the sound, the tone that matters. But I know people notice the name on the headstock.

We don’t create music to please others, Professor Charles had said earlier that day. We create music to tell of our sorrows and pains, our experiences and experiences to be. Maybe it’s time I stop making music about feelings I’ve never experienced—happiness, love, understanding. Maybe it’s time to create something that describes how I really feel.

I pull a folded paper from my pocket, scanning the fading words. Ever since I wrote the poem after the family reunion, I’ve come back to it again and again, adding more each time. An idea strikes me as I look over the lines. It’s long enough to be a full song.

I balance the paper on my lap and strum, searching for a progression that satisfies me. My eyes close, and Grace’s face floats into my mind—her red hair shimmering in the sunlight. My thoughts drift to the faded Polaroid tucked in my car’s visor, the one I’ve had for four years. The leather seats, the expensive dashboard—everything in my car is the best my parents’ money could buy, but none of it is as valuable as that polaroid.

“Nous avions l’habitude de capturer des moments…”

I surprise myself by singing the first line in French. Maybe it’s better that way. People rarely bother to look up the meaning of foreign lyrics. The chord progression flows naturally, and for once, I feel like I’m writing something honest.

A piano joins in, and I don’t stop playing. Soon, drums and a synth pad fill the room.

“Papi!”

Someone smacks my shoulder playfully. “It sounds good, but maybe the guitar makes it a bit messy, no?”

I stop strumming, turning to my bandmate.

“Oui, it is a bit messy.”

“Kill the guitar and get a bass, and the problem will be solved,” Noah suggests, fiddling with the synth.

“Where’s our bass player at?” Malachai asks.

“Here.”

Jaemin strolls in, bass slung over his shoulder, his voice low and nonchalant.

“What are the lyrics?” Santiago snatches the paper from my lap. I reach for it, but it’s too late—the paper passes from hand to hand. Haneul is the last to read it, his dark eyes scanning the lines before handing it back.

“Gwenchana?” he asks.

I nod, shoving the paper into my back pocket.

“You don’t sound okay to me,” Elias mumbles, setting up the mic stand.

“What he means to say,” Asher glares at Elias before turning to me, “is your songs are usually about… y’know, sunshine and rainbows.”

“That’s not him,” Jaemin’s deep voice cuts through the quiet. His gaze settles on me before moving to the others. “Those songs aren’t real. He writes them for the grades.”

The room falls silent. I feel the weight of their stares. My face burns. Jaemin always sees right through me. Lately, it feels like everyone does—my parents, my friends… myself.

Frustration coils in my chest. I don’t want to do this right now.

“Excusez-moi,” I mutter, pushing past them and leaving the room