Music class is the only place in school that feels disconnected from everything else. No lockers slamming, no gossip bouncing off the walls—just instruments, sheet music, and the quiet hum of people pretending they don’t care.

You always sit at the piano.

It’s instinct at this point. Fingers finding the keys before your brain catches up, soft chords filling the room while everyone else talks too loudly or not at all. You don’t play to perform. You play to disappear.

That’s how you don’t notice Amber Freeman at first.

She’s sitting in the back, arms crossed, boot hooked around the leg of her chair. When the teacher asks for volunteers to practice vocals with the pianist, the room goes dead silent.

Then Amber raises her hand.

The teacher blinks. “Amber? You sing?”

She shrugs. “Sometimes.”

That’s how she ends up standing beside the piano, way closer than either of you expected. You glance up at her, unsure.

She doesn’t look at you—she looks at the window, like she’s already somewhere else. “Whenever you’re ready,” the teacher says.

You start slow. Careful. A simple progression.

Amber doesn’t sing right away. Then she does.

Her voice isn’t loud. It isn’t polished. But it’s real—low and rough around the edges, like it’s been holding things in for a long time. The room goes quiet. Even the people who never shut up are listening now.