Nico 

The math classroom was stuffy, thick with end-of-day fatigue and the stale scent of old textbooks and floor polish. The flickering 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 lyrics. Slanted words. 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 paused, chewing absently on the back of his pencil. His wide brown eyes were unfocused, lashes long enough to cast delicate shadows against his cheeks. This was how it always started; fragments of emotion 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, shrill and abrupt, 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,” someone said.

He glanced up to see Theo looming over his desk, a smile playing on his lips. Theo was tall and lanky in that unfinished teenage way, with rumpled light hair and green eyes that always seemed to be laughing at something. His T-shirt was plain grey, slightly rumpled from the day, and his jeans looked like they'd survived a skateboard crash or two. 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.

Nico felt a familiar warmth spread through him. Theo had that effect, a gravity that pulled people in, made them feel seen even when they weren’t trying to be. Nico never had to explain himself around him.
“You nervous?” Theo asked, nodding toward the notebook.

Nico shut it, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips. He stood, reaching down for his backpack, the weight settling comfortably against his shoulder. “A little. Mostly excited, though.”

“First proper gig,” Theo said, slinging his backpack over one shoulder with a dramatic sigh. “Man, that’s wild.”

“I mean, it’s just The Rookery, but… it’s not the school cafeteria or the corner by the pizza place. It’s an actual stage,” Nico said with a grin. “With actual people.” He didn’t say it, but the thought was loud in his chest: A real chance to be heard. Not just seen. Heard.

The Rookery was a tiny bar wedged between a flickering laundromat and a pawn shop with barred windows. Dark wood, vinyl booths, low lighting. The kind of place that smelled like beer and old smoke. Still, it had a mic, a stage, and people who weren’t classmates or parents. That counted for something.

“The Rookery’s a real step up,” Theo said as they moved into the hallway. “It’s like… not even crawling distance from a dive 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,” he said, with some regret threading through his voice.

“Babysitting?” Nico asked, spinning 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.”

“Please. I’d be honored.”

Theo clapped him on the shoulder with mock solemnity. “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. 

Nico 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. The sky was streaked with the first signs of sunset, warm and open. He breathed in, deep and slow.

Performing at The Rookery wasn’t a big deal, not 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 whisper of a voice that, just maybe, someone else might finally hear. 

A stage. A mic. A bar full of strangers. 

And for now, that was more than enough.

Nico reached his home, and the door creaked open with a groan that carried down the quiet street. He stepped inside, kicking off his scuffed sneakers in the narrow entryway. The soft thud of his backpack hit the floor behind him, headphones still tangled around his neck, the muffled bass of a demo track thumping against his chest. 

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

“I'm home!” 

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 walls were thin, the floors always cold, and 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 didn’t stop. He darted down the hall, past the laundry basket balanced on a chair, and ducked into his room, pushing the door closed behind him with his foot.

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 mic stands, pedals, and milk crates of handwritten lyrics and demo CDs he never gave anyone.

On his way to grab one of the guitars, Nico paused in front of the small mirror above his dresser. His curls were a mess. He ran his fingers through them, then gave up halfway.

His heart pounded.

A stage.

Nico 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. 

Still, his stomach was tight with nerves.

A soft knock sounded at the door. His mother peeked in, already dressed in her uniform, probably heading out for a double shift. “Mi amor,” she said, her voice kind. “You’re going to be amazing tonight.” Her eyes were tired but lit with pride.

Nico smiled, though the anxiety still curled tight in his gut. His voice came out low. “You think people will like me?”

“I know they will,” she replied, her English laced with her Spanish accent. “How could they not? You are a star.”

Something in her certainty made his chest ache. He looked down at the guitar in his lap, eyes stinging, and let out a slow breath. His thumb brushed the strings again, softer this time. A chord hummed out, steady and clear.

“I’ll be back late,” his mother 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.

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Author's Note: 

Thank you for reading the first chapter! 

This story means a lot to me and I’m excited (and a little nervous) to finally share it. 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 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!