The door opened and our interviewer, Hope, blew out a breath. "There! Can you imagine if we had a live audience today?"

Hope propped the door open with a wooden doorstopper. Gülay, her mother, I, and one other person tentatively stepped inside the room. The soft carpet muffled our footsteps. I could still hear air blowing through the vents above me, but it didn't grate my ears and the room's lighting was more forgiving.

The interview room filled with quaint furniture pieces the R4E staff had spent the last half-hour moving and re-arranging. Red curtains draped over one wall which would act as our backdrop. A black-and-white sign of the R4E radio logo hung in front of the curtains. On the small coffee table was a bowl and some carefully chosen book titles pertaining to today's interview's topic: the intersectionality between performance, passion and neurodivergence.

Sweat started to break through the minimal makeup I had halfheartedly put on myself. My hand floated to my pocket where I've tucked away my jade necklace. It feels cool through the pant fabric.

Gülay beelined for a rocking chair. Her mother accepted a spare chair and sat behind the cameras, tilting her head at the setup. I opted for a stool with chenille fabric. The other person, Emiel, chose an ottoman with old floral and filigree print. Hope meanwhile positioned the camera and lighting equipment. Gülay and Emiel reached into the bowl of magnetic pronoun pins. I did the same and fastened it to my shirt.

Before long, Phiona filed in along with who must be Ishwinder. Phiona gave me a polite smile which I instinctively mirrored. Gülay sat up to readjust the folds of her dress. Emiel and Ishwinder, who have known each other beforehand, chatted amongst themselves.

"How many live viewers are there?" Phiona asked Hope.

"Around five hundred," Hope replied, arranging a chair while another person adjusted the cameras and gave Hope a thumbs-up. "Sorry if we disappointed you with a lack of a live audience. It doesn't mean people aren't interested. If anything, you attracted more attention with recent events." I ignored everyone's glances at me. "But some of our staff had to take sick calls and the like. We prefer to be more consistent with R4E's activities, but what can you do?"

Gülay typed into her phone. "Have you prepared for what to say?"

"I practised with my older sister and scripted out as much as I could think of," I whispered. "Do we count as diverse? We're both cis-straight."

Gülay drummed a manicured hand before replying. "They wouldn't have invited us if they didn't want us here."

Our chattering ceased as Hope sat in the interview chair. "Remember, you can pass on any questions. I give extra time to respond, so don't feel pressured to fill the silence for the sake of."

Ishwinder asked Gülay something, diverting her attention. Later I'd learn she and Phiona had connected with Ishwinder and Emiel weeks in advance. Who knew you were supposed to do that? I had only done preliminary research on them.

"And, start! Welcome to Radio For Equality's monthly episode of Cutting Through the Noise. Today's highly anticipated topic is the intersections between music, passion and neurodivergence. We've listened to your surveys and compiled the top questions asked by listeners in this interview. Let's get to know the lovely people joining us today."

We did our introductions along with brief icebreakers. Emiel was an older man who played drums and the steel pan. He talked with deliberate hand gestures, echoing his experience as a teacher and conductor. Ishwinder's speciality was in electronic instrumentation. They also played a variety of instruments in several concert bands.

Hope wasted no time in cutting to the chase. "What do you wish you knew when you started your music career?"

Ishwinder answered. They wore soft fuzzy pajamas patterned with wintery blues and whites to match the cold spring weather outside. According to what I've read, Ishwinder wanted to make a statement about classical music being fun and not stiflingly serious. "I used to sign up for opportunities to rack up rewards and recognition. It's fine as a hobby but if you want to make a profession out of music, there has to be a bigger purpose to it. That's what shapes your story and reminds you why you do what you do in tough times."

The camera lens were black unseeing voids. I adjusted my plain shirt, wishing I had put more thought into choosing my outfit earlier that day instead of overthinking.

Gülay rocked in her chair, the ends of her lavender hijab swaying back and forth. She'd draped the cloth in such a way to resemble pigtails. Paired with her magenta dress, the character she was cosplaying itched at the back of my mind. "I wished I knew how to appreciate the effort that goes in maintaining relationships. People put in more effort than it seems."

Emiel snapped his fingers. "What if it's not possible? What about the weeks or months when I don't have the energy or physical capability to show up to events?" He got up from his ottoman and walked around. I glanced at Hope and the camera crew, expecting discouragement.

"Folks move on ahead if they don't have the patience to match your pace," Emiel continued. "To my younger self, I'd tell him, 'Take care of yourself first. Nothing's more precious than your health.'"

"It's sad to think about," I said.

Everyone's attention spiked. I gripped the jade compass in my pocket, willing it to lend me the strength to unlock my jaw. "I mean--For me. I pour in time, sweat and tears because I love music. I have to. But there's less in return. I wonder how much more I could have accomplished without certain aspects of myself."

Emiel waved a hand. "I don't like pity."

Phiona let go of a curly strand of hair, letting it spring back in place. A contrast to her usual demeanor. "You should be proud of yourself."

"But is self-respect equal to always putting a positive spin on a real downside?" I straightened and tore my gaze off the carpet. "Respecting a disability while staying practical about how it affects your life isn't mutually exclusive." Suddenly I wished I had chosen a seat with proper back support. I crossed my arms. "As musicians in the public eye, I feel the pressure to only show the good because the negative hurts. But it can make real experiences invisible."

Hope nodded and leaned forward. "How do you achieve that balance?"

I took a deep breath. "I have to speak up first. I can say what I want about my experience, because it's mine. I can love it or hate or feel neutral. No one else can claim my truth."

The interview moved on in a blur. Gülay went on a side tangent about pollinator insect species. Emiel enjoyed retelling tales of past collaborations that had good and bad ends. Ishwinder and Phiona debated over the latest fashion trends and how an artist visually presented themself in an online space.

As Gülay correctly predicted, Hope did ask her questions pertaining to Hidden Stars. She kept her answers brief. Nothing earth-shatteringly revealing. I eyed Phiona but couldn't gauge her reaction. Ishwinder and Emiel didn't seem to have strong opinions, though they were quiet too.

This was...nice.

"...need to learn to tune it out," Phiona was saying. She twirled a coil of hair around her finger. Hope must have asked another question. "The parasocial relationship is real. You think the audience 'deserves' something for their loyalty, for 'thanking' them."

I blinked, refocusing on the discussion, and was grateful Hope didn't seem to mind me taking a proverbial backseat.

"That's how you keep them engaged," Ishwinder countered. "You're respecting the following you've built."

Emiel shook his head. "Your audience is not entitled to the things they think you said."

"It's inflexibility," Gülay surmised. "Once an audience is conditioned to expect something from you, it creates a baseline, a new normal. It locks you in a box."

"It happened to me, when I switched from online content to in-person performances!" Phiona exclaimed. "Suddenly I'm expected to start a tour to reach every corner of my audience."

I dipped my chin, thinking over the events of the past few weeks.

"Parasocial relationships are a part of the music industry," Hope agreed with a wry smile. The camera crew gave nods to each other. I straightened, hoping it meant the interview was drawing to a close. "The question is, to what degree. It's fascinating to analyse it across different cultures. I do have a topic for a later interview specifically about parasocial relationships...But that's for another time! Last question--What does 'independence' mean to you?"

Unease rippled through the room. Everyone had some sort of grimace.

"It's not so much a choice as it is a reality," Phiona said.

"Independence as defined through a Western lens?" Ishwinder wondered.

Gülay shook her head. "Then that term is irrelevant. I'm not a female lead who strikes out on their own by choice and single-handedly saves the world. Pushing away help isn't equivalent to strength." She glanced in her mother's direction off-screen, and her expression mirrored her mother's, softening ever so slightly. "Strength lies in community. Family."

"To add onto what Gülay said," I said, smoothing the tremors in my voice, "You don't need to be independent to be an adult. Adulthood means having agency over how you want to shape your life. It means knowing when to ask for help, and that can be a lifelong journey."

---

A couple weeks later, I was in my apartment, enjoying a bowl of purple sticky rice sprinkled with coconut shavings when the TV caught my attention.

"In an exclusive interview hosted by Radio For Equality, the singer DeFye has opened a legal challenge against Charu Dubashi, claiming they had allegedly stolen multiple melodies and creative ideas from her during and beyond her years at Hidden Stars."

Monty had set the channel to Entertainment Tonight while he sat at the foot of the couch, quietly re-organizing some of his deleted hard drive files. I moved away from the kitchen island, bowl in hand. He glanced up at me and then at the screen. Monty paid acute attention to my music career and has heard of Phiona. Rice lodged in my throat.

"'This was a hard decision to make. I don't mean to drag Charu's name through the dirt. They were a good friend of mine. I want to do this with dignity. Yet at the same time, I also respect myself. I'll be raising a kid, you know? When my nephew grows up I want him to see that his aunt will stand up for him the same way she stood up for herself. And that means taking back what rightfully belongs to me.'"

I replayed each interaction with Charu, someone many people looked up to. The picture-perfect example of success. The inspiration of so many other musicians, including myself.

If I hadn't personally known Phiona, if I didn't have the respect and faith I did in her, would I have believed this?

"When asked for further details regarding the lawsuit's nature, this is DeFye's response:

"'Out of respect for Charu, I want to keep their business between us as much as possible.'"

My brow furrowed. My hand twitched towards my pocket but I couldn't pull out my phone.

Only Charu was involved. But it occurred under the management of Hidden Stars. In the back of my head, I had imagined Phiona chasing after Hidden Stars itself. Uprooting the problem from its seeds. That's how society worked; institutional corruption. Nothing was black and white.

"DeFye has received criticism for tackling this issue years later after the event. In fact, some of her claims could be rendered null under Canadian law, which states copyright infringement must be reported in 2-3 years. Critics are quick to point at an interview from 2015 where she explicitly denied any wrongdoings from Hidden Stars. No doubt the odds and evidence are stacked against her. It's not clear what she intends to do, and if her claims have any legal basis." 

I forced myself to breathe. Stealing your own creative work. I recalled the nights of arguing with the Google Team, wrestling with DMCA takedowns of shady websites that reposted my art and music without permission. The occasions where I had no choice but to take down my music in fear of future plagiarism or infringement.

What made theft in the creative industry devastating wasn't the transgression itself. It was the disrespect to your art.

"Her fans are divided. Some are upset, calling her out for her hypocrisy. However the majority of her fans are supporting and rallying her. Several hashtags including #SpeakYourTruth and #DeFyeTheLies have been trending on social media thanks to them.

"Charu has declined to comment by the time of airing. After the break, we'll be sitting down with our forensic musicologist to see if..."

Monty voiced what I was thinking. "People will ask for your opinion."

I set my bowl on the coffee table and grabbed the remote. The television screen went black. "I won't answer them."

"You might need to, in a way that shows you're supporting your former manager. Not that she needs it, she--You know what I mean."

My phone sat heavy in my pocket. Asides from text messages from family and friends worrying over the state of my online inactivity--which was very unusual for me, and was equivalent to a flat line on an ECG--I hadn't ventured onto the online web.

"I--I don't know. They'll just twist my words." Staying silent about an issue I had next to negligible information about seemed to be the best course of action. I glanced at his laptop screen drowning in a proliferation of open tabs. "I'm sorry for the deleted files. Have you been able to recover any of them?"

Monty ran a hand through his hair, the screen display reflecting off his glasses. He blew out a huff. "I have the skeletal rough drafts. Technology happens. It's happened for bigger, more stressful projects. I'll deal with it." A tight smile. "Some of it was garbage anyway."

We took a minute in silence to commiserate about our work not reaching our standards. I scraped out my bowl, ensuring no grain of rice was left behind.

"What about your laptop? You downloaded my most recent update."

My shoulders slumped. "I lost your game files on my laptop too." I rubbed a fisted hand over my chest. "I'm really sorry." Instead of relaxing and celebrating the end of school, here he was losing sleep over it.

He shook his head. "First your Instagram and now your hard drive. Better invest in an anti-virus product next time." He paused. "I could check out your laptop, if you'd like. Salvage what I can."

"That'd be nice."

I ignored his side eye as I circled around the kitchen island and washed my bowl. True to form, my father's handiwork ensured no more leaking underneath.

The pieces weren't clicking together. He didn't have concrete evidence to prove it, and superstitions were nothing but outdated methods of parental control. But whatever inkling he had, it was enough to stop him from blaming Shan. He had sworn over and over that he didn't mess with the laptop.

Monty came up next to me. Cold air wafted over my shoulder as he took stock of our fridge contents. "I'll be picking up Shan from Raj's yoga place."

One of my magnets pinned this week's grocery list. I had been pretty proud of the design; Toronto's grid patterns melting away into music notes. "Okay."

Monty shut the fridge door. "Look, your songs aren't as good as you want them to be. But they're way better than you think they are."

I dried my hands with a fluffy towel, unsure of how to receive this. Using the magnetic whiteboard on our fridge, I scrawled out my thoughts in thick marker. "There was this one time, in high school, when I couldn't compose a single song. Nothing more than a line. That lasted for three years. My love for music...disappeared."

"You could make music outside of the public's gaze," Monty offered. We both knew it didn't mean much coming from him. "Or, do something else."

"Like my dioramas?"

"Draw. Busk. Other hobbies. Sing your songs and keep them to yourself. Or share what you feel like sharing, to people you trust." Temporarily switching to sign language, he reached at his shoulders and brought his hands forward as fists. Like grasping for courage. "You were brave. Don't let people's shittalking get to your head."

I turned to look at him and switched back to signing. "Thanks for being there with me and driving me home."

Monty shrugged, twirling a pen in his hand. "You have decent parents."

He said 'decent.' Not 'great' or 'amazing.' The bite that typically came when the subject of my parents cropped up was absent. I leaned on the kitchen island, surveying our apartment. How in some parts, like our dishrack, coat hanger, and storage bins, our belongings blended together despite our best efforts. My parents helped me rent this apartment, but the life I built inside of it was completely mine.

"They're good to me. Wasn't so much to my brother. You're a good older brother, Monty."

He leaned back slightly but recovered from the initial shock. I could see question marks pop up over his head. He laughed a little and shook his head, smiling. "You show up and try. That's all you can do."