Chapter 7: Under Pressure
Kael's breath fogged in the chilly night air as he left PulseVibe Studio, the city's neon glow casting long shadows across the pavement. The weight of the guitar case on his back felt heavier now, not from its bulk but from the session with Lex and Juno. Their words—"You're holding back"—clung to him like damp clothes, uncomfortable and impossible to ignore. His fingers, still tender from playing, twitched with the ghost of the riff they'd jammed, a sound that had felt so alive in the moment but now seemed distant, fragile.
The street was alive with Friday night energy: laughter spilling from a bar, the clink of glasses, a street performer's violin weaving through the noise. The air smelled of rain-soaked concrete and charred meat from a taco truck. Kael's stomach growled—he hadn't eaten since breakfast—but he kept walking, his thoughts louder than the city. Lex had invited him back tomorrow, this time to record something real, not just jam. "Bring your best," he'd said, his tone casual but piercing. Kael wasn't sure what his best even was.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. A new SoundSphere notification: Ghost Notes had crossed three hundred listens, and the comments were a mix of fire emojis and critiques—"Love the vibe, but clean up the vocals." Another from Mira: "You're killing it. Don't overthink tomorrow. Just be you." Kael's lips twitched into a half-smile, but it faded fast. Being himself was the problem. Who was that, exactly? The kid who aced tests without trying? The slacker who let dreams die? Or this new version, fumbling toward something he couldn't quite grasp?
He stopped at a crosswalk, the red light pulsing like a heartbeat. A memory surfaced, unbidden: his father, years ago, tossing Kael's sketchbook onto the couch with a sigh. "You're too smart to waste time on this, Kael. Focus on something real." The words had cut deeper than Kael admitted then, planting a seed of doubt that bloomed every time he tried something new. Music was different, he told himself. But was it?
Home was quiet when he slipped inside, the faint hum of the fridge the only sound. His mom was still at work, her nursing shift stretching into the night. A plate of leftovers sat on the counter, covered in foil, a sticky note attached: "Eat, please. Love, Mom." Kael's chest tightened. He hadn't told her about the studio, Lex, any of it. She'd been supportive in her quiet way, but he could still see the worry in her eyes, the fear he'd burn out again. He peeled off the foil, the smell of lasagna grounding him, and ate standing up, the silence of the apartment pressing in.
Upstairs, he dropped his bag and pulled out his guitar, the wood cool against his palms. He didn't plug in his amp, just played softly, the unamplified strings whispering in the dark. The riff from the studio came back, but slower, sadder, like it was mourning something. Lyrics formed, jagged and unpolished:
"I'm running blind, I'm breaking glass / Chasing echoes that don't last…"
His voice cracked, and he stopped, frustrated. Lex wanted him to let go, but how? Every note felt like exposing a wound, and the thought of recording tomorrow—of his voice being captured, judged—made his pulse race. He set the guitar down, his hands shaking, and grabbed his phone, scrolling through SoundSphere. A new comment on Ghost Notes: "This feels like me. Thanks for this." Kael stared, the words a small anchor in the storm of his thoughts. Someone out there got it. That was enough to keep going.
He opened his notebook, flipping past pages of crossed-out chords and half-formed ideas. He wrote, not lyrics but a question: What am I afraid of? The pen hovered, then scratched out an answer: Failing. Being seen. Being nothing. The honesty stung, but it cleared his head. He wasn't just scared of messing up tomorrow—he was scared of what it meant to try, to want something so badly it could break him.
A text from Lex popped up: "Yo, bring that fire tomorrow. 7pm. We're laying down a track." Kael's stomach lurched, but he typed back, "I'm in." No hesitation, no excuses. He'd deleted enough chances in his life—emails, applications, dreams. Not this time.
He stood, pacing the room, the floorboards creaking under his weight. Outside, the city hummed, its rhythm seeping into his bones. He thought of the street performer's violin, the taco truck's sizzle, the stranger's comment on his song. The world was loud, messy, alive—and for the first time, Kael wanted to add his voice to it, cracks and all.
He picked up the guitar again, his fingers finding the strings. This time, he didn't think about Lex or the studio or his father's voice. He played for himself, the notes raw and unsteady but true. Tomorrow, he'd walk into that studio and give everything he had. Not because he was ready, but because he was done hiding.
To be continued…
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