The bus hissed to a stop, and I stepped off into a world that smelled like exhaust fumes, bird poop, street food, and ambition. The city air wasn’t fresh, but it was new, and that was enough. I tightened my grip on the guitar case in my hand, the frayed canvas duffel bag slung over my shoulder, the zipper barely holding on. I gripped Dean's hackysack in my pocket like it was a part of my soul.

No one was waiting for me. No one was with me.

It wasn't our plan, but it was my reality.

I walked with no clear direction; just forward, dodging tech bros and spilled coffee, past flickering neon signs that promised everything from sushi to salvation. I didn't think there was any salvation for me. But maybe I could find some solace. I walked block after block until I saw a taqueria. I could only afford one taco, but I knew that was what I had to eat. Dean recommended it.

The buildings felt taller than Dean had described. Glass and metal towers that cast shadows across the length of the streets and blocked the wind. People, so many people. It made me feel even more alone.

I found a cheap in-law, a converted garage, where I could access the free Wi-Fi from a coffee shop I couldn’t afford anything from. I ate from vending machines and instant ramen soon became a dietary staple. Signed up for classes at the community college with shaking fingers at the welcome center computers. Got a job washing dishes under the table at Charlie's Diner, a 24-hour joint where no one asked questions and the playlist still had Savage Garden, Whitney Houston, Mariah Carey, Boyz II Men and the classics on loop.

I’d come here to forget the voices that told me I wasn’t enough, and remember the one that told me I was.

But every time I tried to write or sing something into my phone, I could still hear Mr. Forrest’s indifferent words, the choir teacher that dismissed me when he learned that I couldn't read sheet music.

“Then this isn't the class for you.”

Then, I'd hear Dean, “Forrest doesn't know shit.” His was the one voice I never wanted to forget.

One night, after I finished my evening class, I walked past a flyer for an open mic night, half-ripped, stapled to a corkboard outside the student activities building. I stared at it longer than I meant to. In the distance, voices filtered through the sound of traffic and city life.

A girl: That’s why Buffy is still relevant after all these years. 

A guy: Only to you, Jess. Only to you. 

The girl: Says the guy that watched every season with me three times.

The conversation faded as the sound of music leaked out through the glass doors of the building. Someone with a trembling voice was covering “Chasing Cars.” Not perfect, but heartfelt and honest. The kind of performance I used to dream about giving, that Dean wanted me to give.

I didn’t go inside, not that night. It hurt too much. Dean wasn't there.