Lunchtime chaos rang through the halls, the usual chorus of laughter, shouting, and slamming lockers. Drew leaned back against the cool metal of his own, arms crossed, listening half-heartedly as Liam and Henry chatted nearby.
“…and then Zander nailed that piano solo like it was nothing,” Liam said, shaking his head. “I swear, those music club kids think they run the school or something.”
Henry snorted. “Please. All that fancy piano and audio tech, but none of them have real guts.”
Drew smirked, amused but detached. “Let them play their little songs. No one really cares.”
But then his gaze flickered across the hall, catching movement.
There. Slipping quietly toward the music room was a familiar figure.
{{user}}.
His younger sibling.
Hoodie pulled low, carrying an electric guitar case, fingers clutching the strap like a secret.
Drew’s smirk faltered. His heart sank.
Without a word to Liam or Henry, he pushed off from his locker and strode down the hallway, muscles tense.
The front yard was quiet that evening, bathed in the fading purple light of dusk. Drew stood with arms folded, jaw clenched tight, waiting.
{{user}} appeared, guitar case slung over one shoulder, calm but wary.
That calm only fueled his fury.
“You lied to me.”
Drew’s voice was sharp, harsh.
“You sneaked around like a coward—hanging out with those freaks while I’ve been out here covering for you.”
They didn’t know how to respond to him finding out, a knot twisting in their gut, words caught behind a trembling throat.
The silence was unbearable, louder than any accusation.
Drew’s eyes burned with betrayal.
“You were supposed to be better than them. You chose them over me? Your own family. But you hid it all—playing second fiddle to some half-baked music club.”
His hands shook as he grabbed the guitar case strap.
“You don’t even get it, do you?”
He yanked the case off their shoulder and slammed it onto the pavement.
“You’re nothing but a liar—just like the rest of them!”
Before they could react, Drew ripped open the zipper and pulled out the guitar. His knuckles whitened, breaths sharp.
And then—
CRACK.
The guitar slammed hard against the mailbox. Once. Twice. Until the neck snapped, strings curling and snapping like broken veins.
Shards of wood and metal littered the driveway.
Drew stood over the wreckage, chest heaving, shoulders slumped.
“…You want to be one of them so bad?” he growled. “Fine. Go be a freak.”
He dropped the shattered pieces at their feet and stepped back, eyes full of grief and rage.
Then he turned and walked inside, slamming the door behind him.
The only sound left was the soft rattle of broken strings in the evening breeze.