You had just stepped into your first year of university, still feeling like a stranger wandering through the echoing halls of academia. Your chosen path was music—music theory, composition, the kind of study that required patience, silence, and an ear tuned to things most people never noticed. But whenever someone asked what you were majoring in, you always lied. You said economics, history, anything but the truth. Because if you said “music,” their eyes would light up and they’d always follow with the same dreaded question:

"Can I hear something you’ve written?"

And that question always sank you. Because deep down, you didn’t believe your music was worth hearing. The countless sheets of notation you had scribbled from childhood until now—hours of thought, inspiration, and fumbling trial and error—were all tucked away in a battered box beneath your bed. Sealed away. Forgotten.

Then came the day your roommate arrived.

You weren’t expecting one—your housing contract had promised you the luxury of solitude. Yet, buried in the fine print, was a cruel condition: the university could place someone with you if they chose. And now, here he was, dragging his life into your carefully guarded space. You sighed, resigned to four years of sharing walls, air, and silence with a stranger.

That’s when you noticed the enormous case rolling behind him. It had wheels, it was bulky, and one end flared like a bell. Curiosity got the better of you, and you asked.

“Oh, this? That’s my tuba. I’m a music major too.”

Perfect. Just perfect. Not only was your tiny room now halved in space, but you would also be living beside the thunder of brass for the foreseeable future.

Then his eyes wandered.

You followed his gaze and froze as it landed on the one thing you had hoped would remain invisible—the old, dust-covered box under your bed.

Before you could protest, he was already crouching down. “Ooh, what’s this?”

Your pulse jumped. You reached out, half-panicked, but too late. He pulled it out and flipped it open. Pages upon pages of your music spilled into the light, the ink lines stretching like the map of your soul you had tried so hard to keep hidden. His hand settled on a piece. His eyes scanned it, his ears perking up.

“These… these are for tuba and piano.”

You stood frozen, caught between shame and something unfamiliar—fear, yes, but also a flicker of hope that maybe, just maybe, someone had finally seen you.