Waking up from my dreams had become an insufferable effort since then. They held much more positive events than those that happened in reality.

How wonderful it would be if the process of love were as simple as in the movies and books that I've seen, in which a person falls love with someone who loves them back. But this is the real world where not everything happens as you want them to, where people are bound to get hurt when they fall in love.

And it made me mad. Not at the idea of love. Not at Michael. But at myself, at my expectations.

I thought I could read Michael as he did to me, but his motives and desires were always hidden. He was a riddle, so I was uncertain if he'd always known that I had feelings for him and if he had turned me down in a roundabout manner. But what about those late-night texts? Those expressive glances? Those after-school adventures? Him serenading me once? Him holding my hand for no reason? What was all that about? I had to wonder whether everything with Michael had been just an illusion and whether my naivety made those moments special and romantic when they actually meant nothing at all.

I shouldn't have let my guard down. A tiny voice in my head had been warning me that I was engaging myself in something dangerous. That being emotionally attached to him would be like running into the middle of a gunfight. But I had ignored that voice. I got myself shot.

It would have been the best time for me to confide in my sister again. Clover seemed to know what she was talking about even though her real-life experience with love was limited. At least she was older and wiser than I was. Her advice, her scolding, and her telling me that I would be fine would have made me feel better somehow. But I had shrunk back into my shell of comfort, afraid to talk. If emotions and unspoken thoughts could be kept inside a bottle, they would have crowded my shelf by then.

Michael and I would hardly speak to each other when we were surrounded by friends, but with enough civility that made us appear normal to others. When there were only the two of us, though, only our eyes would communicate. I knew that both of us could taste the words in the back of our throats, but neither of us could conjure the strength to start talking. Words were screeching in agony, pleading to me to be heard, but they died before they could escape my lips.

It went like that for a while. No hellos. Just radio silence.

──────

On a Friday night, Nate drove the group to the auditorium where the band competition would take place. The town rarely held events like this, so this one was a big grace and entertainment for the residents. All the seats were taken, and many people had to stand or sit on the stairs. It was like sardines in a can, and the clamors could probably be heard ten miles off.

Luckily, we didn't have trouble finding a space to stay because Michael had gone ahead of us to the venue and saved us seats near the stage. As he led us the way, I noticed he was walking beside me, and I felt aloof.

"Welcome to the hodgepodge of good music, mediocre music, bad music, and really bad music," he said loudly with a grin. His face changed color due to the lights. Violet. Blue. White. "Prepare your ear protectors because they will surely rattle your bones."

I smiled back but scarcely leveled my eyes to his. The music was probably keeping him in high spirits and making him forget everything he'd said to me that fateful night.

"Fascinating. You should be the host of this show," I said dryly.

Several minutes after we settled into our seats, a young man in a suit came to us and introduced himself as Chad Harper, one of the directors of the event. He asked if we were the band called Poetic Skyline, and we nodded our heads in confusion.

He snapped his fingers in evident delight and expressed his sentiments about our disqualification in the audition. He explained that it hadn't been because the band's performance had not been good enough—"Your mashup was unique, crisp, and well-executed. We liked it. We loved it. Great job," he said—but because we didn't read the rules thoroughly. The audition files should be audio recordings of two original songs, not 'cover' of other bands' songs.

We were all dumbfounded to hear the news. What a reckless and laughable mistake.

"So... what he's trying to say is that we passed musicianship and voice talent, but we screwed up big time in originality?" Nate asked when the director left us.

"Wow, this is rich. We're all idiots," said Clover.

"Don't stress out about it," Clint said. "It's over."

"Yeah. The important thing is that they personally told us that they liked our submission," Rose said with a nod. "That means we have what it takes. We're not losers."

"More like undercover winners, huh?" Nate chuckled.

"If we had known about it, you could've written a song for us," Michael whispered to me when no one was watching, his face only inches from my ear. He was sitting on my right, and I couldn't relax.

"I don't know. I've never written a song before. I doubt they'd make the cut," I said, keeping my eyes on the stage.

"Your writing skills are great, so they would. Trust me."

"Should I?"

The moment the words left my mouth, I bit my tongue in regret, and the heat rose in my cheeks.

Michael looked at me in shock and indignity. Before he could have a chance to squeak a word, I turned my head to our friends and forced myself to be interested in their talk. Despite my deeply rooted anger and grief, I should've been sensible to his compliment on my skill. Words can make a lot of difference in the way a person feels about you. I couldn't take back what I had said, and I dreaded the consequence that might come.

Not being able to handle the guilt, I turned to him again. I was about to say that I'd just been being sarcastic until I realized that it was like trying to save the Titanic from sinking. I closed my mouth and pretended to be dead for two minutes.

The night was chiefly spent listening to the songs each band performed. It was enjoyable. The audience clapped their hands to the rhythm of the songs. Every single participant seemed to have prepared well for the event, so it would be a tough choice for the judges and the audience to choose the winners.

At some point, Michael slipped out of his seat and punched through the crowd to the back portion of the auditorium. The tightness of the area seemed to be starting to get to him—he'd been drumming his fingers on his lap and breathing through his mouth—and he needed some space to relax. Even though I was worried about him, I fought the urge to follow him.

The energy of the crowd shot through the roof when the Junkyard Chaos went up on stage. It was as if the band's presence jolted everyone's adrenaline. I closed my eyes to rest them from the blinding lights, then I opened them the minute I heard the microphone screech.

Finn was in the center, his bass guitar strapped across his body. The spotlight was shining down on him, and he was smiling at the crowd before him. It had been a long time since I'd seen his genuine boyish smile. It eased me up.

"Hey," he said into the microphone. The girls screamed. "I gotta thank you all for coming tonight. I hope you'll like our performance and vote for us. Love you all."

The female screams became like battle cries, but they seemed to have zero impact on him.

Finn dropped his gaze to the floor as his smile diminished a little. "These songs that we're about to play are a slight departure from our usual style, but... they're special to me. And, uh, despite everything, I'm still hoping that the person whom all of my songs are dedicated to will like it."

The screams turned into expressions of sympathy. Clover shot me a bewildered look, and I sank into my seat, praying to melt into the leather cover of the chair. With my cheeks overspread with the richest blush, I watched Finn proceed to the back and nod at Claire, who wore a fashionable grunge-rock outfit. She stepped to the center and removed the microphone from the stand.

Their first song was gentle, a rock ballad. Claire's singing and beauty remained sensational, managing to capture the hearts of the audience. I heard several people behind me mutter, "Wow" as she took control of the stage. My eyes scanned the surrounding area, trying to see if Michael was watching from somewhere. Surely, he didn't want to miss her show, but he was nowhere to be seen. More than ten minutes had passed since he had gone out.

The last note of the first song matched the first note of the second song, creating a seamless transition to tell a story. Love found. Lost chances. Things we all felt, the doubts we all had.

Then came the ending. The apex of their performance.

Finn took a step closer to the microphone and sang the lyrics he had always murmured in biology class. No loud accompaniment on this part. Just the soft, sweet strums of the acoustic guitar. The crowd had somehow quieted down along with the tune, but I could feel them anticipating the explosive part of the song.

Then it came. The chorus came. The one that Finn had struggled to compose. Drums banged. Piano keys were pushed. Guitar strumming became intense. The crowd roared, and all the hair on my skin stood up. He had changed half of the songs. It was supposed to be a recollection of the happy times, but now it was all about rejection, blame, pain, longing, regret. I observed the scrunching of his eyebrows, the tightness of his jaw, the sweat rolling down his neck, and the glistening in his eyes. I felt the words rise from the depths of his soul and seep through his pores, and a tsunami of emotion overcame me, and I was almost tearing up.

"That kid is going places," Clover praised while bobbing her head to the beat.

"I'm sure he is," I said. I hoped he would.

Claire sang the second half of the song, and Finn joined her in the second chorus. Her angelic voice, mixed with his powerful tenor range, created a bittersweet and symphonic clash. My heartbeat went faster as their singing intensified. The coda came, and he was the one left singing.

"You are the reason why it rains."

The memory of that afternoon was as clear as day in my head. The two of us alone in that classroom. The grayness of the weather outside. His helpless look. My aching chest. A drizzle had poured for a few hours after we had parted. I supposed that was what had inspired him to write that particular line.

The song ended on a slow and soft melancholic chord, and for one second—one second—everything was silent.

Then—the response was explosive. Cheers. Thunderous clapping. Shouting and whistling.

With a bright smile, Claire waved her hand above her head, saying that it was a pleasure to play in front of us. Finn swept his eyes over the crowd until his gaze met mine. In that space between time, I felt like I was disconnected from reality, and I was back in that quiet classroom. The clapping noises returned to my ears when he looked away and went after his bandmates backstage.

Clover squeezed my clammy hand on the arm of my seat, glancing at me as if to check my reaction. Even though his songs had created a storm in me, I smiled at her as my response.

After a moment, Michael slipped into his seat. He seemed fine now based on the look on his face. He didn't tell us what he'd been doing out there; instead, he just asked, "What did I miss?" which Clint answered.

Five minutes elapsed before the hard part of the night came. All of the bands performed well. The tension in the air increased when the host came back on the stage. In his hand was the card that determined which one of the seven bands would move to the final round and perform on the main stage at the first-ever Youth Jam Festival next year spring.

I wiped my sweaty palms on my lap as the host announced the second-prize winner. All the hair on my skin stood up when the words Junkyard Chaos left his mouth. My eardrums nearly broke because of the noises that followed. Yells. Howls. Some complaints. Rose and Clover clapping fanatically in their seats. Nate exclaiming profanities. Michael shook his head as he watched Claire receive the certificate. He looked proud and pleased despite them not winning the first prize.

"Holy shit, they were so close," Clint said over the clamor.

"They deviated from the mainstream style of the contest, so that must've made them lose a few points," Clover observed. "But seriously, I was expecting them to win. Come on!"

By the time the event ended past 10 PM, I was unbelievably exhausted. It took a long time for everyone to flood out of the venue. The atmosphere was hot and sticky, and I struggled to stop myself from gagging at the rancid smell. When my friends and I finally got out, I swallowed a mouthful of the cool night air. I didn't think I could attend something like that again soon.

Nate raised his hand and asked the group if we wanted to swing by a 24-hour convenience store and grab some snacks, to which Rose and Clint approved. I wanted nothing more but to wash up and hit the sack, but I didn't bring it up to everyone as it might dampen their mood. However, Clover recognized that I was worn out, so she asked if he could drop us off at home first. I was definitely the baby in our group.

"Hey, where's Michael, by the way?" Nate asked.

We looked around and saw him talking to two men next to the entrance doors. One was wearing a suit, which indicated that he was part of the contest committee, and the other one was a buffed elderly man in casual clothing.

Clint narrowed his eyes at them. "Isn't that his old boss? Frank?"

"Which one?" I asked.

"That one with the 'stache." He nodded at the elderly man. "He's the boss of the pub where Michael used to work."

"He looks scary," I said.

Clint cracked up. "Yeah. But he's a nice dude—"

"Guys!" Rose called our attention. The rest of us turned to her. "There's Claire and Ryan. Let's go congratulate them."

Nate crinkled his nose as he threw a spiteful glance at the Junkyard Chaos across the parking lot. They were putting their instruments in the back of a van and talking to each other.

"Yeaaahhh, naaah." Nate shook his head adamantly, taking steps toward his truck. "No need to. They just got second place, anyway. And to be honest, I don't think they deserve to get into the top three. Their first song was kinda wack."

"Holy shit, dude," Clint said.

"Oh my gosh, that is so vindictive of you. It's disgusting," Rose spat. She grabbed Nate's beefy arm and hauled him with what strength her tiny body could muster.

"Hey, what are you doing?" Nate protested, but he didn't try to yank away from her.

"Whatever fight has been going on between you and Ryan, it has to end now. It's childish. You're eighteen now, for God's sake."

"Okay, Mom. Jeez."

Clint, Clover, and I exchanged looks before we followed them across the lot. All the while, my stomach was flipping because it meant I would have to deal with Finn. We might be lab partners, but neither of us batted an eye at the other. When we needed to talk, it would only be about our coursework. He and I were left without closure, and that hadn't stopped bugging me.

So, while Nate, Ryan, and everyone else were engaged in a separate conversation, I steeled myself and walked up to him. Sweat was dripping from the side of his forehead as he towed some black boxes into the van.

"Uh... do you need help with that?" I asked.

Finn flicked his eyes up at me. "No. I got this," he said, then grunted as he pulled up the last box, the veins in his arms jutting as he did so.

There was a touch of coldness in his tone and gesture, a sign that he was hesitant to talk to me, but I barreled on.

"That was an amazing performance, by the way," I said.

To ensure that the box was not going anywhere, he gave it a hard pat before pulling himself out of the van and facing me. No smile or frown was visible on his face; he appeared completely neutral until he heaved in a deep breath.

"Thanks," he said. "Too bad we didn't win, though."

"But it was an experience, was it?"

He stared into my eyes. "It was. I learned a lot."

Behind him, Ryan and Nate seemed to have finally reconciled as they clasped each other's hands while the others cheered. The once-feuding groups broke away from each other with a smile and prepared to go on separate ways.

I returned my attention to Finn and said hurriedly, "Um—could we, maybe, talk some other time? I haven't told you some things or at least not clearly, so... I'd like to talk to you somewhere if it's okay with you."

"Okay," he said without a second thought, his lips bending up to one side. "There's something I'd like to say to you, too."

I smiled. It was the first genuine smile I had made since the night at the lake. I nodded and left Finn with a sincere thank you.