Nico Sanchez 

The classroom was stuffy, thick with end-of-day fatigue and the stale scent of old textbooks and floor polish. The overhead lights buzzed softly, syncing with the scratch of pencils and the low murmurs of students waiting for the final bell. Nico sat near the back by the window, honeyed sunlight slanting in low, spilling across his desk and lingering on the cluttered pages of his notebook. He wasn’t even pretending to follow the equations anymore. The whiteboard was a blur, formulas looping into each other like meaningless code. His head tilted slightly, the edge of his pencil hovering as he filled the margins of the page with slanted words and half-formed thoughts.

My hands shake but my heart’s louder
Fear just means it matters
Out like paper boats to sea
Hoping someone sees the real in me

He chewed absently on the back of his pencil. This was how it always started, fragments of emotions that surfaced without warning and demanded to be written down. The world could roar and pull at him, but when something honest stirred inside, Nico felt grounded, tethered to the page like an anchor. Whether the line was good or not didn’t matter. What mattered was that it came from a genuine place.

The bell rang, snapping everyone out of their post-lunch stupor. The room jolted back to life. Chairs scraped, backpacks zipped. The hush of the last few minutes fractured into chatter and footsteps and plans for after school. Nico was caught somewhere between the math he hadn’t done and the song he hadn’t finished.

“Deep stuff.”

He glanced up to see Theo looming over his desk. Theo was tall and lanky in that unfinished teenage way, with rumpled light hair and blue eyes that always seemed to be laughing at something. His uniform shirt was half-untucked in a careless manner, the top button undone and the striped tie loose like it had given up trying to keep him tidy, despite the teacher reminding him at least twice a day to fix it. His navy blazer was a little wrinkly, and his charcoal grey trousers carried the faint scuffs of someone who absolutely skateboarded even though it wasn’t allowed on school grounds. Nothing about him stood out, but his energy did. Easy, open, like someone who didn’t try too hard to be liked but somehow always was.

“You nervous?” Theo asked, nodding toward the notebook.

Nico shut it, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips. He stood and reached down for his backpack. “A little. Mostly excited, though.”

“First proper gig,” Theo said, slinging his own backpack over one shoulder with a dramatic sigh. “That’s crazy.”

“I mean, it’s just The Rookery, but… at least it’s not some corner of a mall.”

On weekends he’d wander down to the city mall, Willowmere Gallery, guitar slung over his shoulder, and claim a spot near the fountain. He liked the way the water tinkled behind him, the echoes bouncing off the glass ceiling and marble floors, mixing with the murmur of shoppers and the distant scent of roasted coffee and pretzels. More often than he expected, someone stopped long enough to watch. Occasionally, a few coins found their way into his hand, even though he hadn’t left anything out to collect money. He didn’t play for that. He played because he could, because music could carve a tiny pocket of stillness in the rush of the world. Because he wanted to see if he could make someone pause, even for a heartbeat, and actually listen.

The Rookery would be different. It was a tiny bar wedged between a laundromat and a pawn shop with barred windows. Dark wood, vinyl booths, low lighting. The Rookery offered an actual stage, and a chance to be heard. 

“It’s a real step up,” Theo said as they moved into the hallway. “Street musician to bar legend. Are you even allowed in there?”

Technically, the bar was eighteen-plus, but Nico didn’t think that would be a problem once he flashed his ID and made himself known. At first, he worried the owner—a broad-shouldered, no-nonsense guy named Frank—might not remember him, until Theo reminded him that there was no way the guy could forget after Nico had called, emailed, and texted enough times to qualify as harassment, all just to ask if he could perform in his bar.

The hallway was crowded, echoing with the last-bell chaos, lockers slamming, voices bouncing off the walls, sneakers squeaking on tile. But Nico barely noticed. His thoughts were already ahead of him, skipping hours into the future, to chords and lyrics and the quiet buzz of a mic warming in his hand. They navigated through the chaos, waving to a few familiar faces.

At their lockers, Theo rummaged for his keys. “I wish I could come.” 

“Babysitting?” Nico spun his lock open.

Theo groaned. “Yup. Just me and Charlie, frozen pizza, and Ariel’s greatest hits.”

“It’s okay. I’ll fill you in tomorrow. Maybe I’ll get discovered by some moody talent scout with a cigarette and a dream.”

“If you do, I’m selling your notebooks to the tabloids. For art. Retro content, big money.”

“I’d be honored.”

Theo clapped him on the shoulder. “You’ve got this, Nico. Just sing like no one’s judging.”

“You mean like you tonight, hitting those high notes in Part Of Your World?”

“I will neither confirm nor deny.”

Nico laughed as he shut his locker with a thud, the sound ringing through the hallway like a little exclamation point, marking the end of the day. Theo gave him a mock salute before wishing good luck one last time. 

He watched as Theo turned and started toward the bus stop, his figure fading into the bustle of students spilling into the halls. For a moment, Nico just stood there, feeling the quiet settle around him before he grabbed his own bag and headed the other way, the weight of the night ahead folding into the hush around him.

Outside, the sunlight hit him like a slow exhale. It poured across the sidewalk in streaks of gold, touched the tops of the trees, and caught in the long shadows of passing cars. He breathed in.

Performing at The Rookery wasn’t a big deal on paper. Not a headline or a life-changer. But to Nico, it felt like standing at the edge of something. The first flicker of a future he could almost touch. 

A stage. A mic. A bar full of strangers. And for now, that was more than enough.

He reached his home, and the door groaned as it swung open, the sound echoing through the stairwell. He kicked off his sneakers and loosened his tie. His backpack thudded onto the floor behind him, headphones still tangled around his neck, the muffled bass of a song vibrating softly against his chest.

The comfort of home hit instantly. Steam laced with the scent of simmering rice and onions filled the air, clinging to his clothes like a welcome-home hug. 

“I'm home!” he called in Spanish. 

Their apartment was small. Just two tight rooms, one bathroom, and a kitchen that barely fit a table, but it was full of love. The kind of place where the floors creaked and the fridge door had to be kicked shut. 

The hallway was narrow enough to bump shoulders with the peeling paint. There were family photos crammed into every corner, his father with his arm around a much-younger Nico, frozen in time beside birthday cakes and paper streamers, school portraits with crooked smiles, a graduation photo of his mom from the housekeeping course she’d taken last year. A fan buzzed somewhere in the background, competing with the muffled chatter of a telenovela playing too loud on the living room TV.

“In the kitchen!” his mother called back, her voice bright despite the usual exhaustion.

Nico darted down the hall, past the laundry basket balanced on a chair, and ducked into his room. His bedroom was barely big enough to turn around in, but every inch of it was his. One wall was covered with posters—Prince, Amy Winehouse, Freddie Mercury, Elton John—while another was stacked with soundproofing foam squares he’d glued up with cheap adhesive. In one corner sat his digital piano, a full 88-key model with chipped edges from years of use. Beside it leaned two guitars; one acoustic, one electric. Plus a third he never played but couldn’t bring himself to sell. Cables coiled like vines around his desk, which was cluttered with audio gear, an old interface, a USB mic, a beat-up laptop with cracked stickers along the lid. His closet barely held any clothes. Most of the space was taken up by notebooks and milk crates of handwritten lyrics and demo CDs he never gave anyone.

On his way to grab one of the guitars, he paused in front of the small mirror above his dresser. His curls were a mess, tumbling softly over his forehead. He ran his fingers through them, then gave up halfway, letting them fall where they liked. He gently lifted the acoustic guitar, brushing his thumb across the strings as he sat on the edge of his bed. He’d always preferred the piano, but tonight, the guitar made more sense. Easier to carry, easier setup. And he was good at it. 

A soft knock sounded at the door. His mother peeked in, already dressed in her work clothes, ready to head out for a double shift. “Mi amor,” she said. “You’re going to be amazing tonight.” 

Nico smiled back at her. “Thanks, mom.” 

“You are a star, Nico,” she said, her English laced with her Spanish accent. Something in her certainty made his chest ache. 

He looked down at the guitar in his lap. His thumb brushed the strings again. 

“I’ll be back late,” she said, stepping into the room just enough to kiss his forehead before slipping out again. “Go make some magic, mi niño.” 

The door clicked shut behind her.

Author’s Note: 

Thanks so much for reading the first chapter! 

This story’s been living in my head and heart for a long time, so finally sharing it is both exciting and a little scary. It’s a story about love that isn’t simple, people who don’t always know how to be good to each other, and all the complicated feelings in between. If that sounds like something you’d like to explore with me, I hope you’ll stick around!

I’d love to hear your thoughts, reactions, or even just a quick hello. Comments and feedback mean the world to me! ❤️