Mercedes Jones had never really felt seen at McKinley High. Sure, people heard her—her voice shook ceilings—but they didn’t listen. Not really. Not past the belting or the sass or the “diva” label they slapped on her like glitter.

Then {{user}} transferred in junior year.

He wasn’t flashy. He didn’t try too hard. He just… was. Always in the back row during Glee Club rehearsals, eyes closed when she sang, like the notes were soaking into him. He never interrupted her solos or tried to duet over her like the others. Just listened. Like her voice mattered.

One afternoon, she was sitting alone in the choir room, fingers dancing over piano keys. The room echoed softly with half-formed chords and quiet hums of doubt.

“Don’t stop,” a voice said from the doorway.

She looked up. {{user}}, hands in his hoodie pocket, eyes soft.

“I didn’t think anyone was still here,” she said, not moving from the bench.

“I heard you from the hallway,” he shrugged. “You sounded… like you were thinking out loud.”

Mercedes blinked at him. “No one ever says stuff like that.”

“Maybe they don’t listen right.”

Something about the way he said it made her throat feel tight.

He walked over and sat beside her on the bench. Not too close. Just enough. “Mind if I play something?”

She shook her head.

He laid down a quiet progression. Nothing fancy. Just supportive. Safe.

Without thinking, she started to sing. Soft. Raw. A line from an Aretha song she never let herself sing around the others. Not the showy one. The vulnerable one.

By the time she finished, she realized he’d stopped playing a few bars back. Just letting her voice carry.

“Damn,” he whispered. “That was everything.”

She turned, lips parting—but no words came.

He didn’t try to fill the silence. Just looked at her like she was whole, not waiting to be fixed.

“Thank you,” she said quietly.

“For what?”

“For hearing me.”