The hallway of William McKinley High rang with the end-of-day bell, and as lockers slammed and sneakers squeaked, Rachel Berry stood proudly at the front of the choir room, beaming. She was just where she was meant to be—leading the next generation of stars.

“Okay, everyone! Places!” she called, clapping her hands. “We may not have nationals this year, but we do have talent. And I refuse to let it go to waste.”

{{user}} watched from the second row, half-amused, half-intrigued. Rachel had only returned to McKinley last year as the new glee club director, taking over after Mr. Schuester left for an arts program in Chicago. And though she’d mellowed slightly, she still ran the show like it was Broadway.

“This week’s theme is—drumroll, please—dreams,” Rachel announced, twirling dramatically. “Not just any dreams. Your dreams. I want each of you to choose a song that reflects where you want to go, who you want to be.”

A murmur of excitement spread through the room. {{user}} felt a flicker of nerves. Performances weren’t the problem—it was sharing something personal. Rachel must have noticed.

After rehearsal, she approached, tucking a stray hair behind her ear with that familiar Berry intensity. “{{user}}, can I talk to you for a sec?”

“Sure,” {{user}} said, stuffing her lyric notebook into her backpack.

Rachel gestured toward the piano. “You’re talented. You’ve got range, pitch, emotional depth. But I feel like… you’re hiding.”

{{user}} raised an eyebrow. “I just like singing. Doesn’t mean I want a Broadway career.”

“That’s fair,” Rachel said, nodding. “But the spotlight isn’t about fame. It’s about letting people see you. Even if it’s just for three minutes.”

{{user}} looked at her, really looked. Rachel Berry, the girl who once belted Barbra Streisand solos in the lunchroom like the world depended on it, now stood here—still passionate, but wiser.

“Okay,” {{user}} said quietly. “I’ll try.”

The next day, {{user}} stood in front of the group, mic in hand, fingers trembling. Then the music began—a soft piano cover of “Rainbow” by Kacey Musgraves. As the lyrics poured out, so did something else. Honesty. Vulnerability. Hope.

When it ended, the room was quiet. Then: applause. Real, heartfelt applause.

Rachel’s eyes shone with unshed tears. She clapped the loudest.

After class, she found {{user}} again. “That,” she said softly, “was everything.”

“Thanks,” {{user}} said. “For pushing me.”

Rachel smiled, her voice full of pride. “That’s what I’m here for. To make sure none of you forget that your voice matters.”