Daniel Emanuel Guevarra

The sound of papers shuffling, lockers closing, and students laughing outside the music room felt like the calm before a storm. I sat frozen on the old wooden bench, my hands tapping a restless rhythm on its edge. I was supposed to be leading the Melodia Singers—the choir that had once been the pride of St. Michael’s High. My pride. My safe place. But right now? We were hanging by a thread, on the verge of being disbanded.

And I had no idea how to stop it.

Growing up in a family of singers didn’t make things easier. My siblings all had natural talent. I didn’t. I had to teach myself how to read music, force myself through endless scales, and practice until my throat felt raw. I had to fight for my voice to even be heard. But eventually, it paid off. People started saying I was one of the school’s best tenors. That used to make me proud.

Now? None of it mattered if the choir didn’t survive.

When I first joined as a freshman, the Melodia Singers were unstoppable. We won competitions, performed at big events, and everyone respected us. But every year, members graduate. Others lost interest. Slowly, the numbers dwindled. Now I was a senior, president of a choir with only nine people.

We needed ten members, preferably a bass singer, to complete the group. And if we didn’t find one soon, the school would shut us down—just like they did with the theatre group.

I glanced at the others: Emma, Lucy, and Grace, my reliable sopranos. Maria, Luisa, and Gabrielle, our freshmen altos, are full of potential but still shaky. And my classmates, Noah and Vincent, who only joined after hearing me sing on campus. Nine voices, but not enough.

I brushed my messy brown hair back, staring at the door like I could will someone to walk in. A savior. A bass who could bring us back to life. But the silence pressed in heavier with every second.

The choir room itself didn’t help my mood. The maroon paint was faded, the shelves were stuffed with dusty sheet music, and the air smelled like old wood. The photos of past choirs on the walls almost mocked us, as if asking why we weren’t living up to their legacy.

At the piano, our choral master or maestro, Mr. Lawrence Bocelli, tapped out a sad run of notes. Even he was starting to look defeated, his tired eyes glued to the sheet music.

“I can’t believe no one wants to join,” I muttered under my breath. “We’re so close, just one more person. Why is this so hard?”

“Daniel,” Mr. Bocelli finally said, his voice soft and heavy. “You’ve tried your best. But if no one comes forward by the end of the week…”

He didn’t need to finish. The words hung in the air anyway. It’s over.

I gripped the bench tighter. “We can’t give up now. If we lose the choir, we’re losing more than music. This room…this group… It’s all we have.”

He gave me a warm smile, but it was tired too. “I know how much this means to you. But we need a bass singer. Without one, our sound is incomplete.”

Before I could answer, the door creaked open. My heart jumped, only to sink again when Lucy walked in.

“Any luck?” she asked.

“Nothing,” I sighed. “I’ve asked everyone. No one’s interested.”

Her frown deepened. “This sucks! Aren’t we supposed to perform at the spring concert? How can we if we’re not complete?”

“We already declined,” I muttered. “No bass, no performance. The school won’t let us continue without one.”

Noah came in next, tall and lanky, leaning against the wall. “Maybe we could bribe someone,” he said half-jokingly.

I groaned. “You think I didn’t do that already? I’ve tried that. It didn’t work. I even promised that I’d do all of their homework for the rest of the school year but no one was even grabbing that.”

Mr. Bocelli stood, clapping his hands lightly. “Alright, everyone. Let’s not lose hope just yet. You’ve all done such an incredible job, and we still have some time. Daniel, why don’t you skip practice today? Clear your head for a while; you’ve been occupied for days and you need to cool down for a minute. Sometimes the best ideas come when you’re not stressing about it.”

I wanted to argue, but he was right. I’d been driving myself crazy.

“Fine,” I said, grabbing my bag. “But I’m not giving up.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to,” he said with a smile.

The hallway outside was too quiet. Every step echoed, the silence between them like missing notes in an unfinished song. My chest felt heavy. If we failed, it wouldn’t just be the end of a choir. It would mean losing the only place I felt like I belonged.

I let the evening air guide me, wandering through the city as the sky shifted to purple and gold. The cool breeze brushed against me like a whisper. The noise of cars, voices, and footsteps blurred into the background.

And then I heard it.

A voice.

Deep. Smooth. Soulful.

It wrapped around me like silk, tugging me closer with every note. A baritone, velvety with a rough edge, rich enough to stop me in my tracks. The kind of voice you don’t just hear, you feel it.

Drawn like a moth to flame, I found myself in front of a small café called Sweet Melody. Warm fairy lights glowed inside. And there, on the stage, stood the singer. Tall. Broad shoulders. Black hair shining under the lights. A leather jacket slung casually on his frame. He wasn’t just singing. He was the song, living, breathing it, holding the audience captive.

And when he turned, smirking slightly, my heart stopped.

Alex. Alex Matthews Gonzalez.

Of course, it was him.

The guy who mocked our choir. The one who called us lame. The same Alex who once told me to my face that choir was a waste of time.

And yet… his voice was everything we needed.

When his song ended, the café erupted in applause. I just stood frozen.

Should I ask him? Could I?

Before I lost my nerve, I walked inside. The café smelled of coffee and pastries, soft lights bouncing off the wooden tables.

Alex spotted me right away. His smirk widened.

“Well, well. If it isn’t Mr. Choir President. What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be singing Kumbaya with your little group?”

I clenched my jaw. “Ha-ha, very funny, Gonzalez. I’m here because… I heard you sing.”

“And?” he raised a brow.

“You’re good,” I admitted, even though it hurt my pride to say it, especially to him.

“I know,” he said smugly. “So why does that matter to you?”

I took a breath, reminding myself this was for the choir. “We need one more member. A bass. And…I think you could be that guy.”

For once, Alex looked surprised. Then he laughed. “You’re kidding. You want me in your choir? The one I’ve been mocking?”

“I know it sounds crazy,” I said quickly. “But your voice is what we need. Without a bass, we’ll be removed.”

“Tsk, you kidding, right?” He tilted his head, thinking. “And what’s in it for me?”

I swallowed. “Whatever you want. I will do anything, buy you food every day, do your homework, heck, I’ll even do something embarrassing just for you to audition.”

His grin turned wicked. “Fine, I’ll join your stupid choir, but I have one condition: I want to do it my way. If I join, I can do whatever I want in the group, make snarly comments, and even skip practice if I don’t feel like it. I won’t even take orders from Mr. Bocelli, especially from you, Deal?”

I almost exploded right there. Alex was cocky, insufferable, the last person I’d ever want on my team. But he was also insanely talented. He could save us.

“Fine,” I said through gritted teeth. “As long as you help us save  the choir.”

“Whatever floats your boat, Pres.” His grin widened.

As I walked out of the café, my heart pounded. I didn’t know if I’d just saved the choir… or signed us up for chaos. But one thing was certain: things were about to get a whole lot more complicated.