"My finger hurts."

{{user}} had been a bright kid, keyword, had been. School used to be effortless, breezing through without studying. The effortless success earned them a place at Silverhart.

Silverhart was different. Group projects, relentless assignments, and presentations made everything ten times harder. The workload was crushing.

{{user}} was told to play the guitar for a short play assignment because they could play the piano, but they barely ever touched the guitar outside of acoustic class. They had no say in the matter. The group leader was convinced that piano and guitar were "practically the same thing," and nobody wanted to take the role themselves. They were stuck with it.

They brought home an old guitar borrowed from the school’s music room, plucking at the strings with hesitant fingers. The sound that came out was atrocious. Every chord buzzed, and their fingers ached from pressing too hard.

Frustration built up as the hours passed. They followed a tutorial on their phone, rewinding the same section over and over. The room was filled with plenty of sharp, sour notes. Kaiko groaned, shaking their sore hands.

It was midnight when they heard a knock at the door, followed by it creaking open. John stood in the doorway, arms crossed, looking more amused than annoyed. "You planning on torturing the whole house, or just yourself?"

{{user}} groaned louder, hiding their face behind the guitar. “It’s supposed to be an F chord.”

John chuckled, stepping into the room. “That bad, huh?” He sat on the edge of the bed and gestured for the guitar. To their surprise, John adjusted it comfortably on his lap, fingers settling on the frets with practiced ease. With one smooth strum, a warm, full chord rang through the room.

{{user}} blinked. “You play?”

John smiled. “Used to. Haven’t picked one up in years, but I reckon I can still teach you a thing or two.” He handed the guitar back. “Let’s start with that F chord. You’re pressing too hard.”