Evan, now, years later, sitting in a studio that costs more per hour than my father made in a month, I can still hear the ticking.

The metronome wasn't just a tool; it was a tyrant, slicing through my childhood like clockwork cruelty. Every tick was a command, every tock a judgment. Back then, the piano wasn't an instrument...it was a cage. And yet, somehow, I walked into it willingly.

I was four the first time I climbed onto that old, beaten bench. The keys were chipped at the edges, yellowing like old teeth, and the wood smelled like cigarette smoke and whiskey. The baby grand wasn't grand at all...it was a hand-me-down from a cousin, left in the corner of our cramped living room like an afterthought.

But to me, it was magic.

There was something about how sound answered my fingers, how notes shimmered in the air just for me. I remember trailing my fingers over the keys, surprised that these simple black and white blocks could sing. It wasn't music yet...but it was mine. And for those few minutes, I felt I'd discovered a secret language no one else understood.

Of course, HE noticed.

My father was sprawled on the tattered sofa, a half-finished bottle dangling from his fingers, smoke from his cigarette coiling above him like a warning. His eyes were glassy, but sharp in a way I'd come to fear.

He heard the music...heard potential. And potential was profit.

"Look at you," he slurred, dragging himself to his feet. "Didn't even need a lesson. That's talent, boy."

At the time, I thought it was pride in his voice. Later, I realized it was a calculation.

I didn't know about the debts back then...the loan sharks, the missed payments, the bar tabs passed off with empty promises and a fake smile. All I knew was that, after that day, the piano stopped being fun.

It became currency.

A few hours later, my father had me practicing until I learned how to play a song all the way through, and when I did, I wanted to stop, but my father kept pushing me to keep going. Again and again, nonstop until nightfall hit that day, and my hands felt like they were going to break at any moment. Like, why would someone treat their kid this way? I couldn't do anything at the time. I was four and wanted to play for fun, but now it's like a chore or homework.

I clenched my fists and wanted to lash out, but all I could do was cry every time I saw that cold glare on his face. I knew I was powerless to stop him, so I sighed and obeyed him without questioning. He never told me where my mom went or what happened. I quickly shook my head and reminded myself that I'm here with him and that I have to deal with all the consequences.

I looked up at him and I saw that stupid, smug look, wishing my mother was here to see what he had done to me. I'm sure my mother would always say follow my heart, but with my father, it was like I was trapped inside a prison cell.

Later that night, I slipped away and went to the bathroom while my father's snores rattled down the hallway like low thunder. The moment the bathroom door clicked shut, I pressed my back against it and slid to the cold tile floor. The air was damp from earlier showers, clinging to my skin like the weight of the day.

I didn't turn on the light. I didn't need to. The moonlight spilling through the frosted window was enough to see the glint of the faucet, the curve of the porcelain sink...enough to feel like I was exhausted.

I opened my mouth, and at first, nothing came out. Just took a breath. Then another. Then sound...soft and cracked, like the first notes of the vinyl just started to play. My voice wavered, unsure, then found its footing in the melody I hadn't known was inside me.

It wasn't any song I'd heard before. It was mine. Words poured out like they'd been waiting...about freedom, about choosing your own life, about wanting to be more than someone else's reflection. I called it "Be Who You Want to Be." Not because I could yet...but because I wanted to.

And in that dim little bathroom, I let myself fall apart...not loudly, not in shouts, just in the kind of trembling, aching way where the tears don't ask permission. The music caught them. Held them. Transformed them.

It was the first time I realized music could protect me...even from him.

I blinked, pulled from the memory as the last chord from the sound booth settled into silence. My fingers hovered above the piano keys...steady now, practiced...but my chest still carried the echo of that old, bone-deep ache.

On the console beside me sat a picture frame. I hadn't noticed it before. Glossy, worn, and slightly tilted...like it had been handled a few hundred times too many. My hand moved before I could stop it.

It was a photo of my father.

Not the man from the hospital bed, pale and shrinking at the end. This was before. Stronger. Smirking, one hand resting on the same piano I was now playing, which looked brand new.

A bitter laugh caught in my throat. Of all the ghosts to show up in my studio.

I stared at it for a long moment, emotions shifting like keys modulating beneath his skin--rage, sorrow, confusion... and something quieter. Not forgiveness. Not yet. But maybe the seed of it.

Because the truth was, without the man in that picture, I might've never touched a piano again. Might've never learned how to bleed without leaving a mark. Might've become anything at all.

I set the frame down...face down.

Then I took a deep breath, placed my hands back on the keys, and began to play.

I paused, the final chord dissolving into the dim hush of the studio. I stared at the piano, letting the silence settle in my chest like dust on old strings.

"I haven't told anyone that before," I said softly.

The faint sound of breathing answered me...steady, listening.

Across the room, Amelia sat in the shadow of the booth's glass wall. Her eyes didn't look away, didn't flinch. Just waited.

She hadn't said a word while I played. Hadn't needed to. But now, I saw it...the understanding. The way her gaze held not sympathy, but recognition.

I ran a hand through my hair and offered a half-smile, one that didn't quite reach my eye. "Guess I should've warned you. I'm not just a mess...I'm the whole composition."

Amelia stepped forward then, slow and certain, crossing the distance between silence and something else.

"You don't have to warn me," she said. "You just have to keep playing."

Today, I am 21, and here I am in the studio about to record a new song for my hit single.