Jaylen bit the inside of his cheek, the metallic taste of anger blooming in his mouth. He could feel everyone's eyes on him—judging, sneering, assuming. Not just about the piano, but about him.
He thought about walking away. He thought about grabbing his backpack, mumbling an apology, and slipping out the side door before anyone could laugh again. But something inside him, something deep and stubborn, wouldn't let him.
Instead, Jaylen slowly turned around, faced the piano, and without saying a word, slid back onto the bench. His hands hovered over the keys.
"Bro, you don't even know what you're doing," Brandon said, shaking his head in mock pity. "Don't embarrass yourself."
Jaylen didn't look at him. He didn't look at anyone. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and he played.
At first, the room barely noticed. Jaylen's fingers danced lightly over the keys, coaxing out a simple melody—soft, almost unsure. People shifted, murmured, sipped their drinks.
But then something changed. The music deepened. Notes layered over each other like colors blending on a canvas. A rich, swirling sound filled the air, pulling heads up, freezing mid-conversations.
It wasn't a song from the radio. It wasn't something Jaylen had learned off YouTube. It was his: built out of nights spent in a cramped bedroom, out of stolen moments at school when the music room was empty, out of every frustration, every little triumph, every time he felt invisible. All of it poured into his hands, through the keys, and out into the wide-open room.
People who had been laughing just minutes before found themselves staring, drawn in by something they couldn't explain. Brandon's smirk faltered. He nudged Colton, but Colton was too busy frowning at the piano as if trying to figure out what he was hearing. Mrs. Parker stood frozen near the back, her hand over her mouth.