The park was crowded that night, just like every weekend. Long strands of globe lights hung from the tree limbs, casting a soft orange glow on our faces, and the park benches decked out with brightly striped throw pillows were occupied by college kids deep in conversation or staring at their phones. Others who had brought their guitars and box drums were scattered throughout the park. Their music clashed softly, mixing with laughter and loud chatter. I recognized some faces from my college, but I'd never introduced myself. Too awkward, too shy. I'd rather blend in than stand out, and once I introduced myself, I would stand out. It was terrifying. So, nine weeks into my freshman year, I was still friendless. For me, coming to the park was less about being sociable and more about getting myself out of my dorm. As my mom said, I couldn't just live off of Netflix, weighted blankets and Pop-Tarts every weekend of the semester. My college experience needed to include human interaction.

I had arrived earlier in the night when only a handful of people had walked onto the premises, but now it was chaos and my head hurt from all the noise. Most nights I usually left by now. With no friends to keep me, I had no reason to stay. I would have left in this instance too, but then I saw you.

You were sitting on one of the park benches, hands propping a guitar up on your knee. You stared down at it, playing it slowly, hesitantly, tongue peeking out at the corner of your mouth, brow furrowed. I recognized that look. It was the same one I used to wear when I sat in my room with my own guitar, trying to curl my fingers around a G chord for the first time.

We had met earlier that night before the chaotic crowd showed up, otherwise I wouldn't have found myself walking to where you were playing. What was your name? I'd forgotten. I should have remembered, but I didn't. And here I was, standing in front of you, choking back the urge to turn around and run into the crowd of students when you looked up at me.

"Oh, hey," you said.

"Hi." I waved. Awkward. "You didn't tell me you played guitar."

As if music had ever come up in our earlier conversation.

You shrugged. "I'm sort of a newbie. And bad at names too. What was yours again?"

"Finley."

"Right. I'm Jasper."

"I remember," I lied. I didn't have a reason to lie except that forgetting things made me anxious. People knowing I forgot things made me even more anxious. "I used to play guitar."

You raised your eyebrows. "Yeah?"

"Yeah, but I quit after a while."

"Why?"

I smirked. "Because I hated cutting my nails so short." I showed you one of my hands and when you saw my long fingernails, you chuckled and so did I. "I know, I'm such a wimp."

"Nah." You shook your head and smiled, but said nothing else. Just went back to strumming.

"Know any pop songs?"

"Yeah, some." Your hands slid up the fretboard, which made that soft squeaking noise that used to be so familiar. I'd forgotten how much I'd missed playing. "You like American Authors?"

I grinned and nodded, and you said "cool" and started playing the intro to Neighborhood. I took a seat on the grass in front of you. The urge to run had temporarily subsided.

"Do you sing?" you asked all of a sudden.

At that, I laughed. "Not if anyone can hear me."

"Aw, c'mon."

"My voice is terrible." OK, it wasn't that bad, but I rarely sang with people around, so I never really knew if my voice was as good as I thought or if the music was always too loud for me to evaluate my singing skills. Ignorance was indeed bliss. It spared my feelings.

"I'm sure it's not," you replied. "Here, I'll start. And I know my voice is trash, so..."

Then you were playing and singing, and I smiled. The lyrics were familiar, but the voice was new. A little cracked in some places but no less emotional. You didn't seem to care. You just sang. I wished I had that courage. How much easier life would be if I didn't worry so much about what people might think of me. When you reached the chorus, I expected you to keep singing. But you stopped, fingers still strumming.

"You gonna join in?"

"Umm..."

You smiled. "No pressure."

No pressure. No pressure. No pressure.

I took a deep breath. Finley, what are you doing? WHAT ARE YOU DOING?

In spite of my nerves, I started to sing. And I wasn't nervous. OK, maybe a little. But I wasn't panicking, which was odd. Then you were singing again too, a soft smile turning up the corners of your mouth. I smiled too, getting used to the sound of my voice mixing with yours. I didn't feel so out of place in this crowded park anymore.

People started to gather. A few formed a circle, sitting beside me. Some stood around us. Voices started lifting up—soprano, alto, bass, tenor, some harmony, some melody, some loud and powerful, some soft and shy.

"Who, who are you? Who are you really anymore?"
I said, "Who, who am I? I don't know what I'm heading for"
I said, "Oh no, oh no, I'm leaving again"
I said "Goodbye, so long" to my, my neighborhood
And I know, I know I'll see you again
'Cause I'll always, always come back to my neighborhood
To my neighborhood

When that song ended, you played another. And another. And another. Some of the students called out requests, and you would make a sheepish face and fumble your hands up and down the fretboard until you remembered enough of the chords. Everyone would cheer and the singing would start again. You gained quite a crowd, and I didn't feel quite so awkward as I sang along, my voice drowned out by their voices. By yours. I liked how you smiled after every song, those two dimples dotting your cheeks.

After some time, I requested a song. You said you didn't know it.

"Sing it for me?"

I clammed up. It was different when no one was around, just you and me and your guitar. But now, at least twenty people were standing or sitting on the grass near us. People who would notice me. People who would judge.

But you just watched me, eyebrows raised. It was so quiet. My heart clawed at my chest, begging for me to shrug my shoulders and say "never mind" and let someone else make a request. But instead, I heard myself singing again. Just a few lines of the chorus. Then I was quiet again. Whispers sifted through the crowd.

"Did you hear that?"

"Her voice..."

"Yeah..."

Oh, no. I'd done it. I'd stopped blending in. They'd heard my voice. My voice, singing alone into the night air. How awful had I sounded?

"I'm sorry," you said. "I don't think I've heard that one."

I gritted my teeth and didn't sing again. After you played the last song of the night, I was the first to leave. If I left quick enough, I could get back to my dorm in time to binge a few episodes of The Crown before turning in. Maybe I could drown out my embarrassment just enough to sleep.

"Hey, Finley!"

I turned around before I could think better. You were huffing up to me, your guitar case slung across your back. You stopped short beside me. Caught your breath.

"Yes?"

"You...huff...kinda...huff...left."

"Oh." I bit my lip. I was used to disappearing, leaving and avoiding awkward goodbyes. "Sorry."

You waved me off. "Nah, I just wanted to say..." The guitar case started to slide off your shoulder and you paused to readjust it before it fell. My heart pounded against my ribs. WHAT DID YOU WANT TO SAY?

"You're quirky. In the worst way possible."

"Do you want to meet up for coffee sometime? You can get a smoothie since you're so jittery."

"Can we agree to never speak to each other again?"

"Can I buy your guitar off of you? I'll give it a good home where it won't collect dust in your parents' basement."

"Run. Run away and never return."

I stuffed my shaking hands in my pockets. Why was I so incredibly, unreasonably nervous? Why was I so awkward? Why had I walked over to that bench in the first place? Why, why, why...

You looked up at me again. You smiled. "I just wanted to say that you have a beautiful voice."

"O-oh."

Beautiful? That was the last thing I'd expected you'd to say.

"We should do this again," you continued. "So fun! Do you want to come back tomorrow night?"

"T-tomorrow?"

You have a beautiful voice.

Your brow furrowed. "Is that a bad time? What would work best for you?"

You gonna join in?

No pressure.

You waited for my reply. I stood there, trying to think. Trying to breathe.

Do you want to come back?

Tomorrow night?

We should do this again.

"Tomorrow—" I stammered.

You have a beautiful voice.

Few people outside of my family had ever asked me to come back again. Fewer still had ever used the word beautiful to describe something about me. It felt comforting. It felt...freeing. I had been myself, and I was okay.

I squared my shoulders and smiled. "Tomorrow night would be great."

You nodded and shot a thumbs-up, and the guitar case started to slide off your shoulder again. "Awesome! Can't wait." Then you held out a slip of paper to me. "My contact info, in case you can't find me. Easy to get lost in this crowd, you know?"

Too easy. Crowds were good for slipping away unnoticed. Except, somehow, you noticed. That had never happened before.

I took the note. "Thanks."

"Goodnight, Finley!"

You gave a little wave, then turned and walked away, the guitar case thumping lightly with every step. You were softly humming the chorus to Neighborhood as you left. Then the crowd swallowed you up and I couldn't see or hear you anymore.

"Goodnight, Jasper," I murmured.

A friend.

Nine weeks into my freshman year, I had a friend.