You were a pianist. the pianist, the best in the school, by a long shot. Your performances were talked about for weeks, your talent show pieces often the highlight of the year. But this time... something felt off. A week before the big show, and you were stuck. No inspiration, no fire—just the hollow sound of notes falling flat.

You were about to call it a night, the dim light of the music room casting shadows over your scattered sheet music, when the door creaked open.

A guy stepped in—glasses perched on his nose, tall, with a bookish, keep-to-himself energy. He paused when he saw you.

"Oh... uh, sorry. Didn't think anyone would be here this late. Mind if I practice?"

You looked up, mid-sigh. "It's cool. I was just leaving anyway."

As you started packing up, tucking away your music with the same lackluster energy you'd played with all evening, you heard it: the hum of strings being tuned, the soft pick of a chord... and then, like lightning splitting the air, his guitar came alive.

It wasn’t just music—it was raw, untamed magic. He wasn’t playing; he was shredding, his fingers moving like they were possessed, coaxing sounds out of the guitar that didn’t even seem possible. The melody climbed and twisted, soulful and electrifying all at once, filling the empty room with something you couldn’t describe but felt in your chest.

Your hands froze on your bag. You turned, watching him with wide eyes as he played like some mythical creature summoned to jam. The forgotten ache of your creative block melted away, replaced with something new, something electric.

“Holy shit,” you breathed, not realizing you’d said it out loud.

He stopped abruptly, glancing up at you like he’d just remembered you were there. “Oh. Uh... sorry. Was that too loud?”

You shook your head, stunned. “No. That was... that was perfect.”