Broken Chords'

a's

person in the universe. The hall is bigger than I imagined, rows of faces dissolving into shadows beyond the first few seats. My palms are slick, my throat feels like sandpaper, and my heart bea

microphone asks, her voic

ey." My voice trembles, a fragile thing I can barely recognize as my own

weighing on me. One of them, a man with dark hair, lean, composed, meets my eyes for a flicker of a second. Something about his gaze, something steady and almost... familiar,

head judge says, her

gers poised over the keys. The first note spills out, soft and low

e place where I'm not the awkward cashier, the quiet neighbor, the girl who keeps her head down. My voice finds the melody and grows stronger with each bar, rising, breaking, then soaring again. For a moment, I sto

bus ride here in the pouring rain, the disapproving looks from the other contestants, the sheer,

minutes,

back up, of breaking but refusing to stay broken. I could almost feel my chest split open as I sang them, not because I wanted to impress the judges, but because I had to. It was a compulsio

't look away. I hold my ground, even as the stage lights seem to grow hotter, even as I feel the last

from the back, then swelling, growing louder and

out. My heart pounds, a wild, joyful drumbeat, but for once, it's not just from fear. Some

ve. Different. The pale, drawn face I see in the morning is gone, replaced by a radiant glow. For the first time in a long time, I don't

a foolish hope. Maybe this was the beginning of something real. The first

id'

wn brand of practiced desperation, has numbed my senses. Most of them blur together; shaky voices, half-formed stage presence, the occasional spark that dies out befo

er twenty-thr

and her eyes were wide as if the stage itself might swallow her whole. She clutched a worn-out leather satchel to her side, a desperate shield

en she

ake of breath. The other judges paused their scribbling. The nervous energy in the h

ruth. There was grit underneath the silk, a rawness that made you lean forward instead of tuning out. Her eyes, when she f

see it. It's a lang

that kept me from falling apart. When no one believed in me, when I was living on ramen and chasing a

motional beats planned. She came here cracked, unsure, but real. And that's rare. That's the kind of thing you can't manufacture in a studio or coach in

ughtfully, his gaze fixed on the girl on stage. They saw the potential, the

served the applause. Watched how she fled the stage like a thief stealing a chance she thought wasn't hers, her shoulders hunched,

he right guidance, she could shine brighter than anyone else in this hall. I wanted to tell her that every

it holds more than notes-when it carries a story. And she did. Every line she sang felt like it had lived in her, a part of her DNA. There's a d

ould become a legend, a talent that needed

rotective longing. It wasn't attraction, not exactly, maybe not yet. It was... recognition. Like watching a younger ve

page, my hand steadying as I wrote. But when her name

s des

a beg