Broken Chords'

of burnt coffee from the convenience store pot that's older than me. I clock in at 5:57 a.m. sharp, just to prove to mys

ives me time to breathe before the rush of commuters start their day with sugar, caffeine, and cigarettes. I hu

ulars begin to a

d too many years of smoking. He always buys the newspaper and a pack of gum. I've n

adlines today," I say, holdi

leaves. It's our daily rout

ouple of years older than me, with her hair tied up in a messy bun and streaks of pollen dus

ed," she says

" I answer,

is you're chasing," she teases, though

doesn't get it.

my little notebook between customers; lyrics, half-formed ideas, fragments of songs that might never be

nd glance, already on the phone with his supplier. I pull

endors, artists, and noise. The city feels alive in a way my old hometown never did. Back there, the walls

il lingers in the fabric no matter how many times I wash it. I pull on jeans, a soft T-shirt, and grab my guitar fr

etimes I lose myself in melodies I've written but never shared.

ng, alway

hadow in t

sic pulls

only thing th

stop, shake my head, and scrib

kind of exhaustion that comes from wanting more than you have. I make myse

time, i

ncing the phone betwee

ating enough? You sound thi

ating. Just had

r father's here t

, then my dad's

y,

s, like it's the most i

e. Pays t

sigh drifts down the lin

lip. "Stil

ant you to be realistic, sweetheart. You're t

I mean to. "I know you want what's b

love you, Vera. J

ow they do. But they'll never understand why I'd rather scrape by for a chance

taught me

before it settles. No u

y best friend, my biggest supporter, the one person who knows how hard I'v

s," she says, h

croll on their phones. My hands tremble as I step onto the tiny stage, adjustin

e, or the daughter who disappoints her parents, or the shadow of wh

ing wild, nothing earth-shattering. But Naom

moment, th

e I make every night: One day, it'll be mor

ve to kee

the only thing

gh