It's a new semester at Coldwater University, and that means parking is fucked and so is the internet. The college radio station, KKAW "The Crow," is playing the hits to lull freshmen into a false sense of security, and unlicensed marketers with novelty cooler backpacks resembling popular energy drinks are skulking about, giving away free samples and trying to stay one step ahead of Campus Police. The one bright spot is that the fire-and-brimstone street preachers have been crowded out by a bevy of admin-approved activities hosted by Campus Life; they won't be bothering people for Jesus until next week at the earliest.
The question is not whether the day will be stressful, but rather just how badly everyone will regret being on campus.
We begin with the Obligation Phase. Roll your worst attribute.
If you roll Sun, your obligation involves scary people or circumstances, or is physically taxing.
If you roll Moon, your obligation breaks your heart, and drives you to despair.
If you roll Stars, your obligation puts you under social pressure, or sets off your anxiety.
Album 2, Track 1: "Not Back on It, Joe, Still on It"
-
Kaigen
- Site Admin
- Posts: 28
- Joined: Fri Mar 22, 2024 5:50 pm
- Pronouns: They/He
-
Nico Rivera-Park
- Posts: 3
- Joined: Wed Aug 26, 2026 5:57 pm
- Pronouns: He/Him
Re: Album 2, Track 1: "Not Back on It, Joe, Still on It"
The freight elevator of the communications building had been out of service for over a week, which was excellent news for anyone who had ever wondered how many stairs it took to transform a broadcast engineer into a ghost.
Nico emerged from the stairwell backward, hauling one end of an equipment rack whose other end balanced clumsily atop a badly fraying furniture dolly. Coils of XLR cable hung across his chest like a bandolier. His beanie sat crooked over hair that had surrendered hours ago, and the damp patch spreading across the back of his oversized KKAW T-shirt gave testament to how long he’d been at this particular task.
“Good news,” Nico announced to nobody in particular. “I’ve identified the problem.”
The dolly struck the edge of the doorway.
“Walls. Don’t need em. Every building… just… one big room.” Huffing, he gave the rack one more good tug as the dolly scraped some paint off the door jam.
KKAW’s latest media modernization initiative had begun with a zesty little Friday morning email congratulating the station on its forthcoming improvements. It had continued with contractors announcing that two production rooms needed to be completely emptied by the end of day one, start of semester, the following week. Somewhere between those events, the professional movers promised by Campus Facilities had vanished into the same administrative void currently holding the station’s replacement router. There were of course other student volunteers and media majors… most of whom did NOT live two miles from campus and already found themselves eagerly available the weekend before classes began.
That left Nico.
For three days, while other students were lazily meandering back to campus, reuniting with friends, and blissfully ignoring their phones, he had hauled amplifiers, monitors, microphone stands, boxes of records, acoustic panels, and several pieces of equipment old enough to possess tenure. Between loads, he had rewired the temporary booth, produced six station IDs, and helped Priya keep The Crow broadcasting its reassuring mixture of indie hits and start-of-semester lies.
He had slept recently. Probably. There had been a couch involved.
Nico maneuvered the rack into place and crouched beside it, sorting cables with fingers that trembled only slightly from fatigue. His phone buzzed in his pocket, and Nico glanced at the latest addition to an increasingly apocalyptic Media Department student group chat, typing back:
Nico emerged from the stairwell backward, hauling one end of an equipment rack whose other end balanced clumsily atop a badly fraying furniture dolly. Coils of XLR cable hung across his chest like a bandolier. His beanie sat crooked over hair that had surrendered hours ago, and the damp patch spreading across the back of his oversized KKAW T-shirt gave testament to how long he’d been at this particular task.
“Good news,” Nico announced to nobody in particular. “I’ve identified the problem.”
The dolly struck the edge of the doorway.
“Walls. Don’t need em. Every building… just… one big room.” Huffing, he gave the rack one more good tug as the dolly scraped some paint off the door jam.
KKAW’s latest media modernization initiative had begun with a zesty little Friday morning email congratulating the station on its forthcoming improvements. It had continued with contractors announcing that two production rooms needed to be completely emptied by the end of day one, start of semester, the following week. Somewhere between those events, the professional movers promised by Campus Facilities had vanished into the same administrative void currently holding the station’s replacement router. There were of course other student volunteers and media majors… most of whom did NOT live two miles from campus and already found themselves eagerly available the weekend before classes began.
That left Nico.
For three days, while other students were lazily meandering back to campus, reuniting with friends, and blissfully ignoring their phones, he had hauled amplifiers, monitors, microphone stands, boxes of records, acoustic panels, and several pieces of equipment old enough to possess tenure. Between loads, he had rewired the temporary booth, produced six station IDs, and helped Priya keep The Crow broadcasting its reassuring mixture of indie hits and start-of-semester lies.
He had slept recently. Probably. There had been a couch involved.
Nico maneuvered the rack into place and crouched beside it, sorting cables with fingers that trembled only slightly from fatigue. His phone buzzed in his pocket, and Nico glanced at the latest addition to an increasingly apocalyptic Media Department student group chat, typing back:
Then he added:Parking’s fine if you simply abandon all worldly attachments, including your car
His shoulders ached. His palms were scraped, his coffee was cold and forgotten two floors away, and the temporary studio was producing a low electrical hum that seemed specifically designed to unravel what remained of his sanity. Still, when the ON AIR light flickered back to life, Nico smiled. Everything was under control. Totally. Definitely.seriously tho, anybody need a ride later?
-
Jessica Callaghan
- Posts: 3
- Joined: Tue Sep 01, 2026 6:44 pm
- Pronouns: she/her
Re: Album 2, Track 1: "Not Back on It, Joe, Still on It"
”Erin! Oh my god, hi! How was your summer!”
”Ahhhhh, it’s been so long, how was Europe?”
”I missed you, friend! Can I give you a hug? Are we at the hugging stage of our acquaintance? Yay!”
Jessica Callaghan (simultaneously known as Jess, Jessie, J, Jazz, Jazzy, that one girl who won’t shut up, and other names both flattering and not) is very slowly making her way across Coldwater’s campus on this first day of classes. Not because she herself is slow, mind you. In fact, she is the opposite of slow. She is kinetic energy embodied in a small, copper-haired human with a floppy hat, a sparkly purple tank top embroidered with butterflies, knit fingerless gloves and bell bottom jeans with so many patches it looks like she robbed a quilt shop.
She is making her way slowly because she seems physically incapable of not bouncing from person to person with a cheerful greeting for almost everyone she sees. She’s like a dollar bill in one of those cash tornado money grab thingies: swirling, fluttering, never staying in one place long enough for you to grab. Even the first-years, who you can always recognize by the vacant stares as they try and find the building their next class is in, get a wave and a thumbs-up of encouragement.
One of them waves back hesitantly, and that’s all it takes for Jessica to strike up a conversation. “Hi, I’m Jess. What’s your name?”
The suddenly bewildered first year (“Alicia?” “Are you guessing, or…?”) doesn’t seem certain whether to be frightened or grateful, but she’s smiling after their brief chat as she continues on toward the science building once Jessica’s attention turns elsewhere.
Satisfied with her progress toward promoting belonging, Jessica half-dances her way toward the student center and her eventual goal of tracking Nico down at the radio station, staccato steps to a Debussy arpeggio that plays from the headphones around her neck, followed by swaying hips as it hits the ritardando into a more pastoral melody.
The ringtone that plays from her pocket breaks the spell, rhythm and melody a discordant counterpoint.
It’s her mother calling.
Jess digs her phone out of her pocket, studies the professional, LinkedIn-approved headshot her mother demands she use for her contact picture for a few seconds, then swipes to accept the call.
“Mom! Hi! Good morning!”
The friends and acquaintances she gabbed with on her way across campus wouldn’t recognize this Jessica Callaghan. The words are there. The enthusiasm is forced.
”Good morning, honey! Happy first day of school! Are you on your way to class? I saw you were walking across campus.”
Jessica closes her eyes, regretting once again ever letting mom bribe her into keeping her location permissions on. ”Yep! First class today.”
”Don’t forget to send me a first day of school picture, okay? Listen, I don’t have long before I have to go into a meeting, I just wanted to call and let you know that I heard from Sundeep at Spotify, and as far as he’s concerned, the summer internship is yours!”
Jessica’s eyes go wide, her features stricken. She swallows visibly.
”Honey? Are you still there?”
”Yeah, mom. I’m still here. That’s great! Great news!”
There’s an uncomfortable pause.
”This is a huge opportunity, honey. You know that, right? It could mean a good-paying job right out of school. I pulled a lot of strings.”
So you’d better start sounding a lot more thankful goes unspoken, but the tone… oh, that tone.
”I know, mom. I’m just… surprised. I’ve been so focused on school starting and getting moved back in and—“ the band and my friends and the song I’m writing and all those things you don’t want me to talk about ”I’m just kinda shocked, you know? Thank you so much. Should I e-mail him or…”
The phone call goes on a little longer, but Jessica’s attention is nowhere near her phone. So much has happened since this time last year. So much that’s real. Beauty and truth and music and friends expected and unexpected. The idea of a summer corporate internship? Well, it’s just good she’s got eight or nine months to not think about it.
Her journey to the student center is just as kinetic as before the chat with mom. The sunshine’s gotten a little muted behind the cloud of maternal (interference) love.
”Ahhhhh, it’s been so long, how was Europe?”
”I missed you, friend! Can I give you a hug? Are we at the hugging stage of our acquaintance? Yay!”
Jessica Callaghan (simultaneously known as Jess, Jessie, J, Jazz, Jazzy, that one girl who won’t shut up, and other names both flattering and not) is very slowly making her way across Coldwater’s campus on this first day of classes. Not because she herself is slow, mind you. In fact, she is the opposite of slow. She is kinetic energy embodied in a small, copper-haired human with a floppy hat, a sparkly purple tank top embroidered with butterflies, knit fingerless gloves and bell bottom jeans with so many patches it looks like she robbed a quilt shop.
She is making her way slowly because she seems physically incapable of not bouncing from person to person with a cheerful greeting for almost everyone she sees. She’s like a dollar bill in one of those cash tornado money grab thingies: swirling, fluttering, never staying in one place long enough for you to grab. Even the first-years, who you can always recognize by the vacant stares as they try and find the building their next class is in, get a wave and a thumbs-up of encouragement.
One of them waves back hesitantly, and that’s all it takes for Jessica to strike up a conversation. “Hi, I’m Jess. What’s your name?”
The suddenly bewildered first year (“Alicia?” “Are you guessing, or…?”) doesn’t seem certain whether to be frightened or grateful, but she’s smiling after their brief chat as she continues on toward the science building once Jessica’s attention turns elsewhere.
Satisfied with her progress toward promoting belonging, Jessica half-dances her way toward the student center and her eventual goal of tracking Nico down at the radio station, staccato steps to a Debussy arpeggio that plays from the headphones around her neck, followed by swaying hips as it hits the ritardando into a more pastoral melody.
The ringtone that plays from her pocket breaks the spell, rhythm and melody a discordant counterpoint.
It’s her mother calling.
Jess digs her phone out of her pocket, studies the professional, LinkedIn-approved headshot her mother demands she use for her contact picture for a few seconds, then swipes to accept the call.
“Mom! Hi! Good morning!”
The friends and acquaintances she gabbed with on her way across campus wouldn’t recognize this Jessica Callaghan. The words are there. The enthusiasm is forced.
”Good morning, honey! Happy first day of school! Are you on your way to class? I saw you were walking across campus.”
Jessica closes her eyes, regretting once again ever letting mom bribe her into keeping her location permissions on. ”Yep! First class today.”
”Don’t forget to send me a first day of school picture, okay? Listen, I don’t have long before I have to go into a meeting, I just wanted to call and let you know that I heard from Sundeep at Spotify, and as far as he’s concerned, the summer internship is yours!”
Jessica’s eyes go wide, her features stricken. She swallows visibly.
”Honey? Are you still there?”
”Yeah, mom. I’m still here. That’s great! Great news!”
There’s an uncomfortable pause.
”This is a huge opportunity, honey. You know that, right? It could mean a good-paying job right out of school. I pulled a lot of strings.”
So you’d better start sounding a lot more thankful goes unspoken, but the tone… oh, that tone.
”I know, mom. I’m just… surprised. I’ve been so focused on school starting and getting moved back in and—“ the band and my friends and the song I’m writing and all those things you don’t want me to talk about ”I’m just kinda shocked, you know? Thank you so much. Should I e-mail him or…”
The phone call goes on a little longer, but Jessica’s attention is nowhere near her phone. So much has happened since this time last year. So much that’s real. Beauty and truth and music and friends expected and unexpected. The idea of a summer corporate internship? Well, it’s just good she’s got eight or nine months to not think about it.
Her journey to the student center is just as kinetic as before the chat with mom. The sunshine’s gotten a little muted behind the cloud of maternal (interference) love.
-
Naomi Brooks
- Posts: 2
- Joined: Thu Sep 03, 2026 8:04 pm
- Pronouns: she/her
Re: Album 2, Track 1: "Not Back on It, Joe, Still on It"
Seconds ticked by in the car to the slow, melodic sound of Max Roach tapping on his hi-hat petal like a metronome. The Drum Also Waltzes was just beginning, part of an extended mix of jazz instrumentals that might keep the average person calm while they waited. Naomi's fingers rapped on the steering wheel with all the restraint of a person trying to make it look like they were waiting patiently. The smaller lot was practically off campus, but with everyone deciding to drive on the first day of classes (Naomi included), beggars couldn't be choosers. It was fine. She could wait. She could be patient while the little blonde cheerleader type girl took her time getting her bag in the car, talked to someone on her cellphone with what Naomi imagined was a high...high level of vocal fry that would make her voice sound like nails on a chalkboard. Any time now she would get in her car (finally), start the engine, and pull out. And then Naomi could park and get on with her day.
Another sip from a cheap coffee cup that was dangerously close to being both empty, and dissolving in her hand, and then back to rhythmically drumming her fingers on the dashboard. She made eye contact with the girl, gave her a 'lets get a fucking move on' smile..her best "patient" face, and continued waiting while the girl looked like she scoffed and started sliding into the driver's seat.
Yes, Naomi looked calm and collected and restrained. But that was just because this little cheerleader had no clue that jazz meant Naomi was at her wit's end. Had the car been a cacophony of Grindcore or War Metal, Naomi might have been in a better mood. But three hours of sleep, her first cup of coffee spilling on her nice clean t-shirt causing her to rush back upstairs and throw on whatever she could find - which ended up being a loose crop top she'd made from an old, distressed band t-shirt her dad was going to throw out, baggy industrial jeans and a pair of worn out Chucks, a reminder email that the University was still waiting for the final payment of her financial aid, and her brother deciding not to wait for her to get ready so they could carpool had already soured her mood on this bright, sunny, fucked off day. Little Miss Vocal Fry (probably) wasn't making it any easier.
Because she was just sitting there. In her car. Talking.
Naomi made eye contact with her again. More talking. Another odd scoff at whatever was being said on the other end of the girl's phone.
"And now she's getting out of the car.."
Goddamnit..
The window rolled down with a slow burring sound just as Max Roach switched to a the more contemporary Ulysses Owens Jr's Mo'Betta Blues. Naomi flashed an award winning smile that never quite reached her eyes as they glared up at the girl with the sharpness of a cat that was about to rip out the throat of their prey.
"Can you like.."
Yep..vocal fry.. Naomi winced at the sound of the girl's voice.
"..move your car? My boyfriend is coming and wants to take my spot."
There was a brief moment where Naomi imagined getting out of her car, wrapping Vocal Fry's hair in her fingers and using her head like a drumstick. Vic was rubbing off on her. She needed more coffee. She needed a cigarette. But she told herself that she was going to quit starting this semester. She said the same thing last semester. And the semester before that. It was like a ritual. She was fairly positive the rest of the group had a pool going for how long she would last.
'This was a fucking stupid day to try and quit.' she thought to herself.
"You know that's not a student spot right? Enforcement's gonna tow your guy's car if he parks there.."
"So why are you parking there?" Vocal Fry sniped..
'Got me there..' Naomi sighed. Her hand absently reached for where her cigarette's should be and came up empty. Vocal Fry tensed visibly. It did kind of look like Naomi was reaching for a weapon, she supposed. "Look, you can tell me to move but that's not gonna stop the next car from swooping in behind me. Unless that red Honda coming down the other aisle is your guy, how about you pull out, and if he asks you can say I threatened your life.."
Her eyes narrowed just a bit. Just enough to make the sentence sound more threatening than it was actually meant to be. Naomi hadn't really intended it that way, but she realized just a bit too late how her tired, I'm-having-a-bad-day-and-the-day-has-barely-started face really did look a lot more threatening than she imagined. But the effect was at least to her benefit. Vocal Fry backed down, or backed up was more accurate, and got back in her car. The engine started, and she pulled out of the spot. A few moments later and Naomi was turning off the engine. Then she made the mistake of checking her watch.
"FUCK" She was late. Professor Gilbert loathed tardiness. One of those old fart professors who told you first day of class that if you're five minutes late, you may as well not show up. Naomi rolled her neck slowly, feeling each little pinch and crack of bone as she did while taking deep, calming breaths. She didn't like being late. Or tired. Or detoxing from nicotine withdrawals for the tenth time since she woke up.
Everything was fine. This was going to be a great day.
"Hey bitch that was my parking spot."
The coffee cup left Naomi's hand before she realized, launching from her hand and splattering against the windshield of a mid-sized truck that had no business trying to park in any parking spot ever. Two middle fingers later, Naomi was stomping her way toward the Pysch building, oversized headphones covering her ears as Lee Morgan's "In What Direction Are You Headed?" started to whistle into her eardrums.
She was calm. She was patient. She needed a cigarette...
Another sip from a cheap coffee cup that was dangerously close to being both empty, and dissolving in her hand, and then back to rhythmically drumming her fingers on the dashboard. She made eye contact with the girl, gave her a 'lets get a fucking move on' smile..her best "patient" face, and continued waiting while the girl looked like she scoffed and started sliding into the driver's seat.
Yes, Naomi looked calm and collected and restrained. But that was just because this little cheerleader had no clue that jazz meant Naomi was at her wit's end. Had the car been a cacophony of Grindcore or War Metal, Naomi might have been in a better mood. But three hours of sleep, her first cup of coffee spilling on her nice clean t-shirt causing her to rush back upstairs and throw on whatever she could find - which ended up being a loose crop top she'd made from an old, distressed band t-shirt her dad was going to throw out, baggy industrial jeans and a pair of worn out Chucks, a reminder email that the University was still waiting for the final payment of her financial aid, and her brother deciding not to wait for her to get ready so they could carpool had already soured her mood on this bright, sunny, fucked off day. Little Miss Vocal Fry (probably) wasn't making it any easier.
Because she was just sitting there. In her car. Talking.
Naomi made eye contact with her again. More talking. Another odd scoff at whatever was being said on the other end of the girl's phone.
"And now she's getting out of the car.."
Goddamnit..
The window rolled down with a slow burring sound just as Max Roach switched to a the more contemporary Ulysses Owens Jr's Mo'Betta Blues. Naomi flashed an award winning smile that never quite reached her eyes as they glared up at the girl with the sharpness of a cat that was about to rip out the throat of their prey.
"Can you like.."
Yep..vocal fry.. Naomi winced at the sound of the girl's voice.
"..move your car? My boyfriend is coming and wants to take my spot."
There was a brief moment where Naomi imagined getting out of her car, wrapping Vocal Fry's hair in her fingers and using her head like a drumstick. Vic was rubbing off on her. She needed more coffee. She needed a cigarette. But she told herself that she was going to quit starting this semester. She said the same thing last semester. And the semester before that. It was like a ritual. She was fairly positive the rest of the group had a pool going for how long she would last.
'This was a fucking stupid day to try and quit.' she thought to herself.
"You know that's not a student spot right? Enforcement's gonna tow your guy's car if he parks there.."
"So why are you parking there?" Vocal Fry sniped..
'Got me there..' Naomi sighed. Her hand absently reached for where her cigarette's should be and came up empty. Vocal Fry tensed visibly. It did kind of look like Naomi was reaching for a weapon, she supposed. "Look, you can tell me to move but that's not gonna stop the next car from swooping in behind me. Unless that red Honda coming down the other aisle is your guy, how about you pull out, and if he asks you can say I threatened your life.."
Her eyes narrowed just a bit. Just enough to make the sentence sound more threatening than it was actually meant to be. Naomi hadn't really intended it that way, but she realized just a bit too late how her tired, I'm-having-a-bad-day-and-the-day-has-barely-started face really did look a lot more threatening than she imagined. But the effect was at least to her benefit. Vocal Fry backed down, or backed up was more accurate, and got back in her car. The engine started, and she pulled out of the spot. A few moments later and Naomi was turning off the engine. Then she made the mistake of checking her watch.
"FUCK" She was late. Professor Gilbert loathed tardiness. One of those old fart professors who told you first day of class that if you're five minutes late, you may as well not show up. Naomi rolled her neck slowly, feeling each little pinch and crack of bone as she did while taking deep, calming breaths. She didn't like being late. Or tired. Or detoxing from nicotine withdrawals for the tenth time since she woke up.
Everything was fine. This was going to be a great day.
"Hey bitch that was my parking spot."
The coffee cup left Naomi's hand before she realized, launching from her hand and splattering against the windshield of a mid-sized truck that had no business trying to park in any parking spot ever. Two middle fingers later, Naomi was stomping her way toward the Pysch building, oversized headphones covering her ears as Lee Morgan's "In What Direction Are You Headed?" started to whistle into her eardrums.
She was calm. She was patient. She needed a cigarette...
-
Veronica Tucker
- Posts: 2
- Joined: Tue Sep 01, 2026 5:13 pm
- Pronouns: She/Her
Re: Album 2, Track 1: "Not Back on It, Joe, Still on It"
While many struggled with the stress of first day parking and last minute preparations, Veronica's day had gone rather smoothly thus far. Easy to beat parking when Daddy's driver can just drop you off on the edge of campus. And physical labor is, like, definitely not in her wheelhouse. Why sweat when you can pay someone to sweat for you? She giggled into her big plastic cup of neon pink boba pearls at the thought of trying to pay a certain sweaty, angry drummer to do anything as she stepped onto the quad.
She took a deep breath, taking in the scents of grass and pavement and the nervous energy from first-years stumbling around trying to find their way. She was home.
If Veronica Tucker was any taller, she'd be a beacon of energy in the sea of bodies milling about, like a bright-pink flame from head to toe, with a fluffy, floppy panda backpack dancing behind her as she bounced from person to person, greeting acquaintances with high-pitched squeals and mortifying strangers with close up selfies from the campus's resident pink fireball.
But she's on a mission. She ensured today was perfect. She wore her favorite hairpins, her dyed hair up in poofy double-buns. She'd donned her lucky strawberry shorts and her campus hoodie (which had been mysteriously been dyed pink, despite that not being one of the school's colors), and she was humming "Cagayake! Girls" to herself because she'd finally caught up on the latest season of K-On! so she could discuss it with her favorite person in the whole wide world!
But as she as prances to the meeting spot she and Sayori had settled on, her excitement turns to disgust in a matter of seconds when she stumbles on a couple making out on the sacred anime bench near the secluded north fountain.
A wholly undignified noise escapes her at the same time as her phone's camera sound clicks (evidence). "Beat it, sickos! You're in my seat," she shouts at them, kicking the bench leg to interrupt their tonsil hockey and making them jump. While first looking indignant at being so rudely interrupted, they soon think better of defending their shaky territorial claim. While a five-foot tall bundle of pink fabrics, stickers and cutesy memorabilia doesn't sound particularly threatening, being face to face with the glare™ of Veronica Tucker tends to be enough to make anyone with a weak constitution think twice about talking back.
So the nameless lovers scoff, trying to save face of course, and wander off to continue their disgusting affection rituals elsewhere, definitely not wondering why someone's bratty child is wandering around campus unsupervised.
Veronica hums contently, glad to have asserted her dominance without a fight (Naomi would be so proud!) she claims her seat on the sacred bench of all things anime/moe and waits for Sayori. And waits.
And waits.
Kicking her feet idly, trying to not be worried, she checks her phone. No messages. No alerts. With a huff, she calls her friend on an equally be-stickered phone and presses it to her ear.
"Sayori, where are you? I've been waiting for, like, ever..." she mumbles into the phone when her friend finally picks up, trying to lay on the guilt thick. But her expression dims and falls as she listens to Sayori explain her situation. "Oh..." she says with finality. "Okay... yeah. Yeah, family stuff is important. I get it."
She most certainly did not get it, since her family has a far more transactional way of affection than Sayori's does, but with her being stuck in Hokkaido after her grandfather fell ill, there wasn't much she could do.
"Why didn't you say anything though? I've been worried," she asks.
"Because I know you, V. You'd have been on the first flight over here the moment you sensed something was wrong, and I've just been too busy to think straight," Sayori sighed patiently. "As much as I want you here, everything is just really hectic right now, and I need to focus. I'll be back to school in, like, a week tops. I promise."
Veronica pouted, even if Sayori couldn't see it through the phone. "Okay... But you better call me every night, okay? If I can't talk about all of this anime I watched with someone, I'm going to explode, and it'll be your fault."
Her friend just laughed on the other end. "Love you too, V. I'll keep in touch. Just don't do anything drastic or stupid. Bye-bye."
The line ended, and Veronica holds the phone to her ear a little while longer, like it might keep the warmth of Sayori's voice just a little closer for a little longer.
"Bye-bye..."
She took a deep breath, taking in the scents of grass and pavement and the nervous energy from first-years stumbling around trying to find their way. She was home.
If Veronica Tucker was any taller, she'd be a beacon of energy in the sea of bodies milling about, like a bright-pink flame from head to toe, with a fluffy, floppy panda backpack dancing behind her as she bounced from person to person, greeting acquaintances with high-pitched squeals and mortifying strangers with close up selfies from the campus's resident pink fireball.
But she's on a mission. She ensured today was perfect. She wore her favorite hairpins, her dyed hair up in poofy double-buns. She'd donned her lucky strawberry shorts and her campus hoodie (which had been mysteriously been dyed pink, despite that not being one of the school's colors), and she was humming "Cagayake! Girls" to herself because she'd finally caught up on the latest season of K-On! so she could discuss it with her favorite person in the whole wide world!
But as she as prances to the meeting spot she and Sayori had settled on, her excitement turns to disgust in a matter of seconds when she stumbles on a couple making out on the sacred anime bench near the secluded north fountain.
A wholly undignified noise escapes her at the same time as her phone's camera sound clicks (evidence). "Beat it, sickos! You're in my seat," she shouts at them, kicking the bench leg to interrupt their tonsil hockey and making them jump. While first looking indignant at being so rudely interrupted, they soon think better of defending their shaky territorial claim. While a five-foot tall bundle of pink fabrics, stickers and cutesy memorabilia doesn't sound particularly threatening, being face to face with the glare™ of Veronica Tucker tends to be enough to make anyone with a weak constitution think twice about talking back.
So the nameless lovers scoff, trying to save face of course, and wander off to continue their disgusting affection rituals elsewhere, definitely not wondering why someone's bratty child is wandering around campus unsupervised.
Veronica hums contently, glad to have asserted her dominance without a fight (Naomi would be so proud!) she claims her seat on the sacred bench of all things anime/moe and waits for Sayori. And waits.
And waits.
Kicking her feet idly, trying to not be worried, she checks her phone. No messages. No alerts. With a huff, she calls her friend on an equally be-stickered phone and presses it to her ear.
"Sayori, where are you? I've been waiting for, like, ever..." she mumbles into the phone when her friend finally picks up, trying to lay on the guilt thick. But her expression dims and falls as she listens to Sayori explain her situation. "Oh..." she says with finality. "Okay... yeah. Yeah, family stuff is important. I get it."
She most certainly did not get it, since her family has a far more transactional way of affection than Sayori's does, but with her being stuck in Hokkaido after her grandfather fell ill, there wasn't much she could do.
"Why didn't you say anything though? I've been worried," she asks.
"Because I know you, V. You'd have been on the first flight over here the moment you sensed something was wrong, and I've just been too busy to think straight," Sayori sighed patiently. "As much as I want you here, everything is just really hectic right now, and I need to focus. I'll be back to school in, like, a week tops. I promise."
Veronica pouted, even if Sayori couldn't see it through the phone. "Okay... But you better call me every night, okay? If I can't talk about all of this anime I watched with someone, I'm going to explode, and it'll be your fault."
Her friend just laughed on the other end. "Love you too, V. I'll keep in touch. Just don't do anything drastic or stupid. Bye-bye."
The line ended, and Veronica holds the phone to her ear a little while longer, like it might keep the warmth of Sayori's voice just a little closer for a little longer.
"Bye-bye..."
-
Sophie Michaud
- Posts: 3
- Joined: Mon Sep 07, 2026 4:09 pm
- Pronouns: she/her
Re: Album 2, Track 1: "Not Back on It, Joe, Still on It"
Why did I ever think I could do this, Sophie thinks, as she slams her car door and heads towards the music building a full hour after she planned to arrive.
She woke up early, with a new song in her mind - crashing, triumphant, glorious, with the kind of rhythm that Naomi would attack with glee. It's the first one she's thought of in weeks.
She sang it into her phone to record the melody, but that wasn't enough - it wasn't the harmonies, the structure, the crunchy chords that would make Jess grin the moment she found them, the way it would fit together with everyone playing. She had to get to campus. If she got there early enough, she'd have her pick of the practice rooms, and she'd have hours before her first class to sit at the piano, unraveling the mysteries of chord progressions and counterpoints to make this song work. Lyrics would come later; she had to get the music.
With the melody echoing endlessly through her mind, the orchestration unfolding within her, Sophie raced to get dressed and out of the house -
- only to run into her mother in the kitchen.
Fifteen minutes later, she fled, ears ringing with her mother's cutting words and tears wavering in her eyes. She pulled out her phone to put that melody back in her mind - but the screen was full with a cacophony of notifications instead.
A missed call from a collaborator she'd tried to work with last summer, who'd ghosted her after she switched bands.
Two automatic notifications from the registrar telling her that the room number for her music theory seminar had changed, and then changed again.
And a text from Dane.
Sophie's heart stuttered and missed a beat. She flung the phone onto the passenger seat and slammed her foot on the gas so hard that she nearly skidded.
She didn't dare look at her phone again, not even to try to listen to her own recording. She had nothing in her mind's ear but silence and her mother's voice.
(and behind that, something else. Something like a heartbeat, like an emptiness, like pressure drawing outward, pulsing…)
And then when she got to campus, she had to drive endlessly around looking for parking, stuck behind U-Hauls and trapped at red lights, waiting for massive flocks of aimlessly wandering first-years to find their way across intersections. Through it all, her fingers tapped desperately on the steering wheel in the rhythm that she heard in her mind - no, not that rhythm! Where is it? She can't find it!
The door slams to mark the cadence. She's already exhausted.
The heat has melted her artfully-arranged tendrils of dark hair into straggly strands clinging to the sides of her face and back of her neck, and her soft floaty black chiffon dress is not far behind, as she trudges across the parking lot to begin the half-mile walk to the music building.
If she can just get to the piano, everything will be fine.
She can find her way back to that melody, the one that made her smile, the one that she knows will make all of her new bandmates smile, too.
After that, she can lose herself in scales, etudes, patterns, Bach, Mozart, Chopin - predictable repeating things, things that she knows will turn out the way she plans, that will not be disrupted by any visions or premonitions or her mother or her ex. She can be in a quiet room that shuts out the sounds of the outside world, the buzz-vibrate of notification after notification that shake her phone that she still can't bring herself to look at.
And maybe, she'll feel safe.
She woke up early, with a new song in her mind - crashing, triumphant, glorious, with the kind of rhythm that Naomi would attack with glee. It's the first one she's thought of in weeks.
She sang it into her phone to record the melody, but that wasn't enough - it wasn't the harmonies, the structure, the crunchy chords that would make Jess grin the moment she found them, the way it would fit together with everyone playing. She had to get to campus. If she got there early enough, she'd have her pick of the practice rooms, and she'd have hours before her first class to sit at the piano, unraveling the mysteries of chord progressions and counterpoints to make this song work. Lyrics would come later; she had to get the music.
With the melody echoing endlessly through her mind, the orchestration unfolding within her, Sophie raced to get dressed and out of the house -
- only to run into her mother in the kitchen.
Fifteen minutes later, she fled, ears ringing with her mother's cutting words and tears wavering in her eyes. She pulled out her phone to put that melody back in her mind - but the screen was full with a cacophony of notifications instead.
A missed call from a collaborator she'd tried to work with last summer, who'd ghosted her after she switched bands.
Two automatic notifications from the registrar telling her that the room number for her music theory seminar had changed, and then changed again.
And a text from Dane.
Sophie's heart stuttered and missed a beat. She flung the phone onto the passenger seat and slammed her foot on the gas so hard that she nearly skidded.
She didn't dare look at her phone again, not even to try to listen to her own recording. She had nothing in her mind's ear but silence and her mother's voice.
(and behind that, something else. Something like a heartbeat, like an emptiness, like pressure drawing outward, pulsing…)
And then when she got to campus, she had to drive endlessly around looking for parking, stuck behind U-Hauls and trapped at red lights, waiting for massive flocks of aimlessly wandering first-years to find their way across intersections. Through it all, her fingers tapped desperately on the steering wheel in the rhythm that she heard in her mind - no, not that rhythm! Where is it? She can't find it!
The door slams to mark the cadence. She's already exhausted.
The heat has melted her artfully-arranged tendrils of dark hair into straggly strands clinging to the sides of her face and back of her neck, and her soft floaty black chiffon dress is not far behind, as she trudges across the parking lot to begin the half-mile walk to the music building.
If she can just get to the piano, everything will be fine.
She can find her way back to that melody, the one that made her smile, the one that she knows will make all of her new bandmates smile, too.
After that, she can lose herself in scales, etudes, patterns, Bach, Mozart, Chopin - predictable repeating things, things that she knows will turn out the way she plans, that will not be disrupted by any visions or premonitions or her mother or her ex. She can be in a quiet room that shuts out the sounds of the outside world, the buzz-vibrate of notification after notification that shake her phone that she still can't bring herself to look at.
And maybe, she'll feel safe.
-
Kaigen
- Site Admin
- Posts: 28
- Joined: Fri Mar 22, 2024 5:50 pm
- Pronouns: They/He
Re: Album 2, Track 1: "Not Back on It, Joe, Still on It"
Nico:
"Our streaming numbers are dogshit!" A husky voice shouts from the station control center. Inside, Priyah Shah stands, hands on her hips, chewing on a toothpick, surrounded by no less than three one-to-two-thirds-empty mugs containing multifarious beverages in varying states of decay. On the wall behind her are visible three notices, one saying "Don't let Priyah perseverate over the dashboard," another saying "No smoking (including Priyah)," and a third which states "Don't commandeer the broadcast." Two out of three isn't terrible performance for the station.
That degrades to one out of three as Priyah flips on the mic to override the programmed playlist. "Ka-kaw you sweet summer children. Everyone's listening to Spotify or Shovelrithm or some other streaming slurry slop, so screw it. Here's 2bit_Natty with 'Possum Party Patrol from Pluto,' and then you can suck on Stephen Spencer with 'Daaaaaandeloooosha!'" She flips off the mic with one hand while she inserts the new tracks with the other, then steps back and gives the screen both middle fingers. Chaotic, distorted synths fill the room.
"Hey," comes a voice somewhere down and to the left of Jessica's shoulder. A stocky guy with short brown hair who could almost blend in if it weren't for the giant, can-shaped cooler backpack he's carrying. He holds up a can of "Jitters" a tiny twin to the backpack dripping with condensation. Brown eyes glancing from side to side with the exaggerated, clandestine air of a soap opera drug pusher, he says "Need a hit? That looked like a mini-crash if I've ever seen one. Day's just getting started."
Meanwhile, a text comes in from Claire:
A Campus Police officer in a high-vis vest is putting out a "LOT FULL" sign at the entrance to the parking lot to a chorus of horns, jeers, and expletives even as Naomi beats a path through the crowd of clueless students. No one seems to know where they're going and everyone seems to think the best place to stop and stare at their phone to figure it out is the middle of the sidewalk, which forces either a zig-zag path or some expertly thrown elbows to navigate.
All of which Naomi can handle well enough until a butch haircut and jean-jacket clad asshole turns and makes a beeline for her. They both know who the other is, but neither place much of a premium on politeness. "You're one of those amateurs Sophie joined up with, right? Loose Bolt? Poison Pie? Some shit like that." Emily Dane shouts at Naomi to make sure she's heard over Naomi's headphones. She exaggerates her lip movements. "Where the fuck is Sophie? She's not reading my texts."
"Are you lost, did you lose your parents?" A tall guy stands at a respectful distance from Veronica while leaning to the side to try to get a better look at her face. Then he suddenly recoils as recognition dawns. "Oh shit, I'm sorry, you're one of Naomi's friends—er, bandmates—right? I thought you were, well nevermind. I'm Curtis. Naomi's brother—well, one of them." There's an awkward pause as he tries to recalibrate while still looking at Veronica. "Are you okay?"
When Sophie gets to the practice rooms, all too many have their lights on and door locks turned to "Occupied." One has its lights off, but once Sophie gets close, passing by a goateed guitarist, a high-strung flautist, and a woman sobbing into her arms over a piano, she finds it, too is occupied. Very occupied, given the furtive movements in the dark.
Down the hall, an analogue clock ticks, silently asking how long she thinks she has to wait for a room to open up.
"Our streaming numbers are dogshit!" A husky voice shouts from the station control center. Inside, Priyah Shah stands, hands on her hips, chewing on a toothpick, surrounded by no less than three one-to-two-thirds-empty mugs containing multifarious beverages in varying states of decay. On the wall behind her are visible three notices, one saying "Don't let Priyah perseverate over the dashboard," another saying "No smoking (including Priyah)," and a third which states "Don't commandeer the broadcast." Two out of three isn't terrible performance for the station.
That degrades to one out of three as Priyah flips on the mic to override the programmed playlist. "Ka-kaw you sweet summer children. Everyone's listening to Spotify or Shovelrithm or some other streaming slurry slop, so screw it. Here's 2bit_Natty with 'Possum Party Patrol from Pluto,' and then you can suck on Stephen Spencer with 'Daaaaaandeloooosha!'" She flips off the mic with one hand while she inserts the new tracks with the other, then steps back and gives the screen both middle fingers. Chaotic, distorted synths fill the room.
* * *
Jessica:"Hey," comes a voice somewhere down and to the left of Jessica's shoulder. A stocky guy with short brown hair who could almost blend in if it weren't for the giant, can-shaped cooler backpack he's carrying. He holds up a can of "Jitters" a tiny twin to the backpack dripping with condensation. Brown eyes glancing from side to side with the exaggerated, clandestine air of a soap opera drug pusher, he says "Need a hit? That looked like a mini-crash if I've ever seen one. Day's just getting started."
Meanwhile, a text comes in from Claire:
"Happy first day of school!!! How many new second-besties have you already made?"
* * *
Naomi:A Campus Police officer in a high-vis vest is putting out a "LOT FULL" sign at the entrance to the parking lot to a chorus of horns, jeers, and expletives even as Naomi beats a path through the crowd of clueless students. No one seems to know where they're going and everyone seems to think the best place to stop and stare at their phone to figure it out is the middle of the sidewalk, which forces either a zig-zag path or some expertly thrown elbows to navigate.
All of which Naomi can handle well enough until a butch haircut and jean-jacket clad asshole turns and makes a beeline for her. They both know who the other is, but neither place much of a premium on politeness. "You're one of those amateurs Sophie joined up with, right? Loose Bolt? Poison Pie? Some shit like that." Emily Dane shouts at Naomi to make sure she's heard over Naomi's headphones. She exaggerates her lip movements. "Where the fuck is Sophie? She's not reading my texts."
* * *
Veronica:"Are you lost, did you lose your parents?" A tall guy stands at a respectful distance from Veronica while leaning to the side to try to get a better look at her face. Then he suddenly recoils as recognition dawns. "Oh shit, I'm sorry, you're one of Naomi's friends—er, bandmates—right? I thought you were, well nevermind. I'm Curtis. Naomi's brother—well, one of them." There's an awkward pause as he tries to recalibrate while still looking at Veronica. "Are you okay?"
* * *
Sophie:When Sophie gets to the practice rooms, all too many have their lights on and door locks turned to "Occupied." One has its lights off, but once Sophie gets close, passing by a goateed guitarist, a high-strung flautist, and a woman sobbing into her arms over a piano, she finds it, too is occupied. Very occupied, given the furtive movements in the dark.
Down the hall, an analogue clock ticks, silently asking how long she thinks she has to wait for a room to open up.
-
Veronica Tucker
- Posts: 2
- Joined: Tue Sep 01, 2026 5:13 pm
- Pronouns: She/Her
Re: Album 2, Track 1: "Not Back on It, Joe, Still on It"
Veronica's heart nearly drops to her stomach in that moment, her already big eyes widening with burgeoning outrage as she clutches her phone to her chest like a lifeline. She is most certainly not a child. She is petite and she'll bite the ankles of anyone who says otherwise."Are you lost, did you lose your parents?" A tall guy stands at a respectful distance from Veronica while leaning to the side to try to get a better look at her face. Then he suddenly recoils as recognition dawns. "Oh shit, I'm sorry, you're one of Naomi's friends—er, bandmates—right? I thought you were, well nevermind. I'm Curtis. Naomi's brother—well, one of them." There's an awkward pause as he tries to recalibrate while still looking at Veronica. "Are you okay?"
But as the well-meaning do-gooder continues to speak, her shoulders loosen a bit. "Oh... Curtis," she repeats. The name sounds familiar. Even the face. He's been at practice a few times when the he and his sister were sharing a ride.
"Vic," she confirms, nodding and leaning back a bit on the bench so she doesn't look quite so defeated by her call with Sayuri."I'm fine, just... you know. Bad news always likes to come when you're having a great day. It's fine though, I'm fine," she tells him quickly, trying to put on that stupid, bubbly mask again that's always hard to find when she's in a bad mood.
She sits her phone down, shaking her hands out like shes trying to fling the nervous energy off of herself as she pops up off of the bench. "So, what's up? Looking for Naomi?" she inquires, tucking her hands (and retrieved phone) into her shorts pockets as she looks up at the much taller man.
"I haven't seen her yet, but if I know her, we'll just need to listen for the inevitable ambulance sirens." Her grin broadens as she giggles. "Or she'll find you. She's sneaky like that." That's it, just keep talking and the bubbles come, Vic...
-
Nico Rivera-Park
- Posts: 3
- Joined: Wed Aug 26, 2026 5:57 pm
- Pronouns: He/Him
Re: Album 2, Track 1: "Not Back on It, Joe, Still on It"
Nico waited for the light to shut off before straightening up, checking that the door was secured behind him. It was almost pointless to bother, given the total lack of soundproofing their temporary setup had, but a missing tote of acoustic foam panels was hardly enough to break one of the habitual behaviors of live radio operation. His eyes tiredly scanned the state of the makeshift booth, feeling a mixture of pride at what they'd cobbled together and mild horror at how many things could potentially be going wrong at any moment. The unsecured, open mugs of... something, weren't surprising, but they could probably do the be a little further from the sensitive and expensive equipment, particularly when Priyah was in a mood.
"Just gonna assume none of those have water in them." Nico looked around for a moment before spotting his discarded duffel bag sitting in the corner, and he walked over to it, rummaging around for a moment before producing an unopened bottle of water. Carefully stepping over some loose wires, Nico unconsciously bobbed his head to the springy, layered rhythm of the song in spite of himself, one lone spool of XLR cable still waving loosely around his neck like an avant-garde feather boa. Reaching up, he offered the bottle to Priyah. "Gotta keep those vocal cords fresh Boss. If we lose those velvet pipes, there won't be anyone left to tell the freshmen about the latest and greatest music on Soundcloud and Insta. He smiled wryly, doing his best to keep his blinks from desynchronizing as he returned his attention to the board.
Gingerly sliding two of the cups toward the far end of the neighboring table, the boy plopped down onto a stool and rubbed fatigue from one of his eyes as he watched the Program meter flicker back and forth. The outgoing signal from the room was stable at least. Beyond that, Nico was still figuring out.
"If it makes you feel any better, the evasive attention span of the student body probably isn't rejecting us on purpose. Our signal’s been dropping packets since Facilities made us move the encoder. Maybe the network port can’t handle the stream, or the cable got damaged somewhere between here and the new closet.” He shrugged, giving the monitor with their broadcasting software open on it a cursory glance. "Or its aliens. Either way, our numbers might only be MOSTLY dogshit. Some of the dogshit is probably infrastructure.”
Nico swiveled toward her with a bright, reassuring smile that gave no indication he had been awake long enough to consider the distinction philosophically important.
“Good news is we can fix infrastructure. Eventually. Probably before you declare total war on Spotify.” His eyes travel from Priyah to the toothpick, to the three mugs, and finally to the posted prohibition against letting her perseverate over the dashboard. “Quick systems check first. You eaten today? Something you, like, have to chew? Other than toothpicks."
As he hung on that though, "No smoking (including Priyah)" caught his eye again.
"... need me to get you more toothpicks?"
"Just gonna assume none of those have water in them." Nico looked around for a moment before spotting his discarded duffel bag sitting in the corner, and he walked over to it, rummaging around for a moment before producing an unopened bottle of water. Carefully stepping over some loose wires, Nico unconsciously bobbed his head to the springy, layered rhythm of the song in spite of himself, one lone spool of XLR cable still waving loosely around his neck like an avant-garde feather boa. Reaching up, he offered the bottle to Priyah. "Gotta keep those vocal cords fresh Boss. If we lose those velvet pipes, there won't be anyone left to tell the freshmen about the latest and greatest music on Soundcloud and Insta. He smiled wryly, doing his best to keep his blinks from desynchronizing as he returned his attention to the board.
Gingerly sliding two of the cups toward the far end of the neighboring table, the boy plopped down onto a stool and rubbed fatigue from one of his eyes as he watched the Program meter flicker back and forth. The outgoing signal from the room was stable at least. Beyond that, Nico was still figuring out.
"If it makes you feel any better, the evasive attention span of the student body probably isn't rejecting us on purpose. Our signal’s been dropping packets since Facilities made us move the encoder. Maybe the network port can’t handle the stream, or the cable got damaged somewhere between here and the new closet.” He shrugged, giving the monitor with their broadcasting software open on it a cursory glance. "Or its aliens. Either way, our numbers might only be MOSTLY dogshit. Some of the dogshit is probably infrastructure.”
Nico swiveled toward her with a bright, reassuring smile that gave no indication he had been awake long enough to consider the distinction philosophically important.
“Good news is we can fix infrastructure. Eventually. Probably before you declare total war on Spotify.” His eyes travel from Priyah to the toothpick, to the three mugs, and finally to the posted prohibition against letting her perseverate over the dashboard. “Quick systems check first. You eaten today? Something you, like, have to chew? Other than toothpicks."
As he hung on that though, "No smoking (including Priyah)" caught his eye again.
"... need me to get you more toothpicks?"
-
Sophie Michaud
- Posts: 3
- Joined: Mon Sep 07, 2026 4:09 pm
- Pronouns: she/her
Re: Album 2, Track 1: "Not Back on It, Joe, Still on It"
The string of lit-up windows stretches out before Sophie, taunting with their brightness while the song clamors in her mind, louder and louder. Her fingertips tap the rhythm on her palm as a new line of counterpoint spools itself out - oh, she _needs_ to get this onto the page…
Wait, no, they're not all occupied! There's one on the end!
She hurries towards it, eyes lighting with desperate hope. Maybe her lateness won't be a problem, maybe something will go right for her, maybe she will be able to get this song out into the world where it needs to be…
…and then she hears the noises from inside.
Sophie snatches her hand away as if the door handle was on fire. But it's her face that burns, flushed hot with embarrassment.
She flees down the corridor without even looking - and the beautiful counterpoint evaporates into nothingness, along with her focus.
Once she's caught her breath and her composure, Sophie takes another, slower walk down the row of practice cubicles to see if anyone is packing up, or at least familiar enough to her that she can ask if they'll be done soon. The guitarist - she doesn't know him, and wouldn't begin to know whether she could ask. The flautist - oh, her. She was in Sophie's intro music theory class in their first year. She'll be hours.
And the next - oh no. Her face is hidden, and the soundproofing blocks any of those sobs from escaping, so Sophie can't even begin to identify who the pianist is. But she can see the shaking of the woman's shoulders, and her heart twists with pained compassion. How many times has she wanted to do that herself? How many times has she done that, far away from her mother or manager or anyone else?
She hovers, framed in the light of the doorway, one hand half-stretched towards the door handle and the other still curled up with fingers tap-tap-tapping that rhythm that fills her mind, while she debates whether to knock, to help, to move.
Wait, no, they're not all occupied! There's one on the end!
She hurries towards it, eyes lighting with desperate hope. Maybe her lateness won't be a problem, maybe something will go right for her, maybe she will be able to get this song out into the world where it needs to be…
…and then she hears the noises from inside.
Sophie snatches her hand away as if the door handle was on fire. But it's her face that burns, flushed hot with embarrassment.
She flees down the corridor without even looking - and the beautiful counterpoint evaporates into nothingness, along with her focus.
Once she's caught her breath and her composure, Sophie takes another, slower walk down the row of practice cubicles to see if anyone is packing up, or at least familiar enough to her that she can ask if they'll be done soon. The guitarist - she doesn't know him, and wouldn't begin to know whether she could ask. The flautist - oh, her. She was in Sophie's intro music theory class in their first year. She'll be hours.
And the next - oh no. Her face is hidden, and the soundproofing blocks any of those sobs from escaping, so Sophie can't even begin to identify who the pianist is. But she can see the shaking of the woman's shoulders, and her heart twists with pained compassion. How many times has she wanted to do that herself? How many times has she done that, far away from her mother or manager or anyone else?
She hovers, framed in the light of the doorway, one hand half-stretched towards the door handle and the other still curled up with fingers tap-tap-tapping that rhythm that fills her mind, while she debates whether to knock, to help, to move.
Who is online
Users browsing this forum: No registered users and 9 guests