Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The clock on the wall striking 5:00 PM only heightened my anxiety.

I had already been waiting in that stupid waiting room for 2 hours. Don’t judge me, I love every second I spend at Etheria Records, I just don’t like dealing with the overwhelming wave of meetings... Especially since our second studio album is hanging by a thread.

"Adora, if you don’t relax, I swear I’ll kick your leg to make you stop that nervous twitch" Glimmer said in an annoyed tone. She always got grumpy in situations like this; she couldn’t help it; it was her way of coping with nerves.

For the sake of my leg, I had to begrudgingly stay still. Which didn’t work because I involuntarily got up from my chair.

"I’ll go get some coffee; does anyone want some?" I mentioned.

"Adora, you asked us that ten minutes ago" She exclaimed.

"Sorry for trying to be nice".

"Oh, believe me, you don’t seem nice. You look like you’re trying to avoid having a nervous breakdown".

"I do want a cup of coffee" Bow quickly said. I bit my cheek to avoid laughing at the bulging eyes Glimmer shot him. It was a hobby for them to contradict each other, I think it was a habit they developed as kids.

I stepped away from my guitar case and headed straight for the coffee machine at the end of the hall. I had never felt as comfortable in a place as I did in this building, and I don’t mean the big (and boring) conference rooms but the recording studio on the second floor. That’s where the real magic happens.

I still remember the first time I stepped into that booth: It was at that moment I told myself, “This is serious.” I remember the sleepless nights I spent with Entrapta finding the perfect rhythm for our first single. I remember the faces of all the band members during the listening session. I remember the release of our debut album, 'The Princesses of Power'. And I remember the fame that followed.

<< Everything had happened like a domino effect, as if success in music had been foretold by an oracle. No doubt, being 25 and breaking into the music industry with a college band was something that didn’t happen often, not since that English band that became popular in the 70s. >>

Or at least that’s something Glimmer read in a magazine months ago. That’s when I realized I was living in a dream, a dream I never wanted to wake up from.

But like every dreamer, sometimes you have to deal with nightmares. That’s why we were here: Micah (our manager and Glimmer’s father) attended a meeting last week with the label executives to make the service contract official to start recording the second album. Everything fell apart when the executives announced that our producer was busy with another project.

"Entrapta, you promised you would work with us the next time we were in the studio. Just imagine the face I made in front of the executives when I found out someone else hired you" we heard Micah arguing on the phone. On the other end was Entrapta, our music producer… or at least she was months ago.

"37 out of 120 artists prefer to experiment with their musical style with new producers; there was only a 30.83% chance of them hiring me again" Entrapta emphasized on the other line, using a serious tone.

"You’re right. How could I forget?" Micah replied sarcastically.

"Don’t feel bad. Mistakes happen" she responded in an even more serious tone.

We couldn’t finish listening to the rest of the call because Mermista shot like a bolt toward Micah’s phone, yelling things like, “That’s enough, that girl gives me headaches,” or “Give me the phone Micah. I’ll make her see reason.” Which obviously didn’t happen.

From what Micah told us, Entrapta signed a contract to collaborate on a project with an electronic music DJ, a scruffy-looking guy named Hordak who (according to Mermista) is like Steve Aoki but without talent. So the label gave us two options: we hire a new producer, or there’s no album.

I guess you can guess which option we chose. Unfortunately for us, we didn’t know any other producers.

"You’ve been working at this label for 12 years, and you’re telling me you can’t find a producer?" Glimmer reproached her father. And she was wrong, Micah knew hundreds of producers… who worked with country music, not rock.

We had worked with Entrapta since the beginning of the band. She produced the covers we uploaded to the internet from her home studio, and when Glimmer’s father found us a contract with the label, we insisted to the executives that they assign us Entrapta, who at that time was just an intern. She knew our way of working better than anyone.

How would we find her replacement?

After going in circles, we reached out to her for help. We found her in her studio, organizing some electronic equipment for the collaboration with Hordak.

"I know someone who can help you. She’s a girl who graduated with me from the Master’s program in Music Industry" she commented, carrying a console under her arm. A second later, she added "She worked at a label on the other side of the country, but she just moved here two months ago".

"What kind of experience does she have?" Micah asked.

"On graduation day, she received a diploma for best creative direction. Plus, she worked with Fall Out Girl, The Killers, and Chase Pacific".

"Wait- did you say she worked with Fall Out Girl? Are you serious?" Bow asked, surprised.

"Yes. She even produced the promotional single for an animated movie. I don’t remember the name of the movie, but I remember the song is called Immortals"

"SHE PRODUCED IMMORTALS???" We all shouted in unison.

That same night, Entrapta called her colleague to discuss the job proposal. She must have had to get her attention because the next day she sent an email to Micah to arrange a meeting with the label executives.

And here we are. Waiting for a response.

I filled the coffee cup and returned to my friends. Was it just me, or did Bow look paler than usual?

"Coffee for Bow" I handed him the cup. "Is the meeting still not over?"

"No, but someone will open that door sooner or later" Glimmer said bored, playing with her shiny pink hair.

And as if those were the magic words, the door opened.

Micah peeked into the hallway with contagious joy. His lips silently mouthed, “We got it” as he signaled for us to enter the room.

Glimmer and Bow were the first to walk into the room. Well… walk isn’t the right word, they were more like running. They were dying to meet the new producer, just like everyone else.

I grabbed my guitar case and stepped into the room.

The new producer was signing some papers at a desk in the corner of the room, and for a moment, we couldn’t see her face as she was surrounded by the executives.

"They’re signing the administrative contract" Micah whispered excitedly, then raised his voice a little so we could all hear. "Catherine, I’m so happy to introduce you to a small part of The Princesses of Power. They are Glimmer…"

They moved to the center of the room.

"Bow…"

The executives moved away from her, clearing her line of sight.

"...and Adora."

Then I saw her.

I didn’t notice her short hair, nor her sleek, professional suit. No. I noticed her eyes.

Those eyes I saw cry. Those eyes that made me cry. I know those eyes because I’ve gotten lost in them many times in the past. I recognize those irises; I can differentiate THOSE irises. Anyone can say, 'They’re blue and gold', but they’re not. They’re Sea and Earth.

How do I know? I know because she let me name her irises. She allowed me to call them that way.

"Catra". Her name, her real name, slipped from my lips. And I swear, for a moment, the world stopped.

I was lost in the past. “The last one to arrive has to change the guitar strings”…“I bet we’ll be best friends forever”…“You promise? I promise’’…“Seriously, have you never kissed anyone?”… “We were supposed to be on the same side’’…“Catra, please stay. I need you’’…“No you don’t. You Never Have.”

The world stopped, except for the memories and her eyes. Her pupil dilated automatically, like a cat’s pupil when it sees a threat.

I returned to reality thanks to Glimmer.

"Do you two know each other?” she asked ecstatically. Then Catra straightened her posture and moved closer to them.

"Nice to meet you all" she quickly glanced at Micah, who shook her hand. "I’m sure we’ll do great work together".

It was the closest I had come to seeing a ghost. A ghost from my past.

"I hope so. If you have time, we can discuss the start of the recordings" he replied.

"I’d love to, but unfortunately, I’m heading out to pick up a friend from the airport" she glanced at her applewatch. "We can arrange it over email if that’s okay" Catra hurriedly said, with a rushed air.

I don’t remember what Micah responded. I was still in shock. Or so I thought until she headed for the exit.

"And Adora...". She turned around and pointed at my guitar case, especially at a sticker that said 'The Only Exception.' "...I still love Paramore"

She smiled at me. I smiled back.

And then she slipped away. Just like I did eight years ago.

Chapter Text

"Catherine, I need you to-"

"You need me to arrange all the chairs before the students arrive", I said from memory. "I know, Mom"

Of course, I knew. That was my life in a nutshell: arranging chairs before the 3 PM session, printing sheet music, and, of course, being the violin teacher during the kids' schedule.

And she walked straight to her office with a cold attitude. We had argued.

We always argue, about everything and everyone. But I guess this time was different.

We argued because I told her I didn’t want to keep going to orchestra anymore. We argued because I said I wanted to stop playing. Of course, that conversation (like all our conversations) went nowhere.

“I had to give up my opportunities in music for you, and this is how you repay me,” “You’re so ungrateful,” and her favorite blame, “But the violin is what makes you, you.”

Do I like this lifestyle? No, maybe I never have, but it’s something I have to deal with for her. I have a theory that from the day I was born, she had some sort of life plan, where the starting point was the orchestra.

And I loved it, but as I grew up, I realized it put too much pressure on me… Or maybe she just had too many expectations for me.

In my mind, it all ended with a “I’ll carry on your legacy, and you leave me alone on the weekends.”

I tried to ignore my thoughts while I arranged the chairs and music stands in a U-shape. Today is Tuesday, which means there’s advanced youth violin class; that’s where I belong… Yes, a 14-year-old in a class full of 18-year-olds. It’s surprising for everyone, except those who say I have "privileges" for being the director’s daughter. I really wish I could know if practicing (against your will) Paganini's Caprice No. 24 until your fingers bleed is a privilege… I see it more as a curse.

I had almost all the chairs ready when someone knocked on the door.

"Give me 5 minutes" I said in a disinterested tone. After all, I wasn’t in a hurry, there were still 20 minutes until class started.

Then the knocking came again.

"I told you to give me 5 minutes!" I shouted. I pushed the chairs aside and headed to the door, still heated from our argument.

I opened the door abruptly, expecting to see my mother, but to my disappointment, it was just a blonde girl I had never seen before.

"Sorry… I just- someone told me that the violin class was here" she said, her face turning as red as a tomato.

"Sorry, I thought you were someone else". Somehow, I became aware of my own embarrassment. Of course, I could argue with my mom anywhere, except in the academy. "If you’re looking for the youth section, their class ended two hours ago".

I started to close the door until she spoke a little louder.

"I- I'm really here for the advanced youth class" she said, pointing at her case, which made me open the door wider.

I studied her for a minute, or maybe two.

"How come I’ve never seen you before?" I asked.

"I’m new; I just transferred from Mystacor." Now that I looked at her closely, she seemed to be around 14 too. Then she glanced toward the back of the room. "I’m not late, am I?"

I quickly assessed the situation: There’s a new student in my violin class, a student my age, and my mom didn’t tell me.

Great.

I could ignore her and continue being unbearable forever while maintaining a love-hate relationship with the violin.

Or I could be her friend. She mentioned transferring from Mystacor, so I doubt she has many friends.

Also, my mom seeing me talk to someone during practice sessions would give her a few headaches… Yes. I already know what I’m going to do.

"No, of course not. In fact, you’re early" I said, trying to sound nice. "Go ahead. I just need to finish arranging a few things"

She set her stuff down on the floor while I hurried to set up a few last chairs.

I hadn’t realized she was behind me until I heard her lift a few music stands.

"Let me help you".

"Thanks- um… What’s your name?”

"Adora. My name is Adora".

"Adora", I repeated to myself. "You can put those stands on the right".

Once the room was ready, the students started to arrive.

I sat in my usual seat, the closest to the podium. It’s not my favorite spot; it’s the place my mom assigned me.

To my surprise, Adora took her case and sat next to me.

"Sorry, I didn’t ask your name".

At the academy, I’m known as Catherine; it’s not a name but an alter ego created by Director Weaver. Catherine is a serious, disciplined, and quiet person.

However, my real friends (people who have no connection to the academy) know me as Catra. Catra is rebellious, clever, and loud.

I don’t know why, but I didn’t want Adora to get the image that others at the academy had of me.

"My friends call me Catra".

And the lesson began.
________________________________________________________________________

I feel like I am running away from a lion that is about to eat me. But no, I am running away from Adora.

Although for a moment I felt that I contained all the air in the world in my lungs.

I quicken my pace toward the exit. After a hurried “See you later” to the receptionist, I dash to the parking lot while mentally repeating: I am such an idiot.

I finally found my car, and with surprising speed, I opened the driver’s door and got in. I tossed my things into the back seat and rested my head on the steering wheel.

I need to organize my thoughts. No, that sounds selfish; whatever I’m feeling doesn’t compare to what Adora is going through…

What was I thinking when I decided to accept this job offer?

“Hi Adora, I’m your new producer now. Let’s ignore the big fight that ended our friendship eight years ago and work on your band’s new album.” It sounds ridiculous.

I can’t stay in this parking lot any longer. I start the engine and headed toward the highway; I have to pick up Scorpia at the airport.

Scorpia is my partner, or as she likes to call herself: my friend, the one I contacted to help me with the sound engineering.

There’s a little problem, though… Scorpia doesn’t know who we’ll be working with for the next three months. Don’t blame me, I didn’t tell her for the same reason that prevent me back from accepting the offer: because I felt it was a bad idea. I felt like I was stepping into Adora’s perfect world just to cause chaos. Just like I felt I was pouring salt on a wound that never healed.

Without a doubt, Scorpia, just like Adora, is going to be in for a surprise… and not a good one.

I arrive at the airport right on time; her plane just lands, so I wait for her in the arrivals area.

I saw her ten minutes later

"Scorpia, over here!"

"LOOK WHO DECIDED TO SHOW UP!" She says excitedly as she runs toward me. She drops her heavy bags and hugs me.

"Yeah, it’s good to see you too," I try to pull away from her grip. "Okay, that's enough physical contact.".

"Sorry, sorry, sorry!", she lets go of me. She grabs her bags, and we walk to the car.

"How was the flight?"

"It was horrible, there was a lot of turbulence. I must have looked terrible because a flight attendant offered me a bag for vomit three times, and I got into a fight with a boy over the window seat. The good part is that I won, but the bad part is that the boy cried throughout the flight."

"That sounds horrific." But what I am about to say sounds worse...

"Tell me, how was the meeting? Have you already met the band that hired you?"

"Yes. I just left the meeting, but it wasn't that interesting. I signed a lot of papers... and I was even introduced to some members of the band."

"Oh, lovely! What are their names?"

"Glimmer, Bow..." Then I pause, "And Adora. Adora is in the band."

And without warning, she drops her bags. She turns to me and looks at me as if I have three heads.

"Adora. You mean THE Adora, or are you talking about another Adora…"

After a long silence, I reply.

"Scorpia, I am talking about my Adora," I cover my face because I know I will cry. I will cry out of embarrassment for making a bad decision; I will cry for the memories of the past; and I will cry for the discomfort of showing my emotions.

"I am sorry, I just- I never thought that seeing her again would affect me so much"

And I feel Scorpia’s arms around me again. I hate vulnerability, but somehow, I need to talk to someone… because I feel like I am going to explode at any moment.

"Catra, it’s okay," she says, "Look, why don’t you tell me everything in the car?"

I nod. We put her bags in the trunk and get in the car. I tell her absolutely everything, from Entrapta’s call until I left the parking lot.

"And I said: ‘And Adora, I still love Paramore.’ It’s obvious that I still love Paramore, I gave her a CD of that band!" Scorpia starts laughing, "Scorpia, don’t laugh, I'm serious."

"No, no, it’s just funny that you’re rambling, It’s like when we are in high school." That comment makes me laugh too, "Why didn’t you tell me the band is The Princesses of Power?"

"I don't know... Entrapta told me that the record company was pressuring them to make a decision, they were so desperate to find another producer... and somehow I feel like I owe it to Adora, I mean."

"Catra, that’s really nice of you. But you have to admit this is a heavy blow, even for you. Don’t forget how the last time you see each other goes."

"No, I haven't forgotten. The way I yelled at her... I don't think I'll ever forget it, I was so selfish, rude and inconsiderate, I- I didn't even think about her and what she wanted; I only thought about myself and... well, you know who." Her name is not even worth mentioning.

"You should look at this from a new perspective. Don’t get lost in the past; see this as an opportunity for you two to fix things."

"You really think so?"

"It’s not that I think so; it’s that you need it. A producer can’t create art without a musician, and a musician can’t create art without the support of a producer,"

Okay, that comment scared me a little bit.

"So I will help you, or rather, I will encourage you. Ohhh! I love this song!"

She turns up the radio, and I recognize the notes instantly. “Complicated” by Avril Lavigne. Thanks to that song, I realize that music doesn’t revolve around just one instrument.

"Somebody else
'Round everyone else
You're watching your back
Like you can't relax
You try to be cool
You look like a fool to me
Tell me"

This is my chance to fix things. I admire Adora’s success, and I am happy with what I accomplish.

We have different roles, we’ve always found ourselves in different roles. But as Scorpia hinted: A producer can’t create art without a musician, and a musician can’t create art without the support of a producer.

''Oh, here comes the chorus!" Scorpia shouts, and we start singing at the same time.

"Why'd you have to go and make things so complicated?
I see the way you're acting like you're somebody else
Gets me frustrated
Life's like this, you
And you fall, and you crawl, and you break
And you take what you get, and you turn it into
Honesty and promise me I'm never gonna find you faking"

Now I understand what Avril meant. This situation is complicated, or maybe I’m just making things so complicated.

My phone rings.

"Can you answer for me, please" I ask to Scorpia.

" Email from [email protected]," she reads the email out loud: “You have a date for the first meeting. Right?”

As I drive toward my apartment listening to that song from my childhood, I realize that dragging my feet won’t help. I already sign the contract, and there’s no turning back.

"Reply: Next Monday. 9:00 AM. And I need to see the composer an hour earlier".

Yes. I will fix things with Adora.

Chapter Text

"Adora, are you okay?"

This is the tenth time Glimmer has asked me the same question, and honestly… I think she's pretty tired of hearing the same answer.

"Yes, I’m great", I insist with a forceful smile.

"Did you know that you get a wrinkle on your forehead every time you lie?" Bow just walks into the room, bringing a blanket and a big tub of ice cream. He settles in, as usual, next to Glimmer.

It’s been two days since we signed with the new producer, or rather, it’s been two days since I saw Catra after a long time.

"That’s not true…" I start touching my forehead before I even realized it. "I don’t understand why everyone makes such a big deal out of it."

"Adora, you just saw your ex, remember?!" Glimmer yells as if she didn’t already know what was going on in my life.

"Woah, she- SHE’S NOT MY EX".

"Anyway, what matters is that now she works with us. Do you really think we’re going to look her in the eyes and talk like nothing happened? I don’t think so. The idea of sacrificing so many years of friendship just because you decided to think about yourself for the first time...her seems narcissistic to me. Not to mention she made you feel miserable".

"I think you’re overreacting a little".

"No, I don’t. Bow, tell her" she growls as she forcefully took Bow’s ice cream away.

Bow never gave opinions during these kinds of talks; he usually just listened and nodded. When I sense he was about to speak, I knew the conversation would turn serious.

"Adora, you know I hate taking Glimmer’s side, but she’s right. When we met you, it was like your soul had been stolen. You always looked sad-"

"And miserable" Glimmer adds.

"Exactly," Bow looks at me with a sad smile, then looked down as if trying to remember how I looked back then. "When you told us why you felt that way, I understood everything".

Bow is right . My first year at college wasn’t very memorable, maybe because I felt like I was stuck in a maze with no way out: I overthought everything, couldn’t fall asleep at night, and I constantly felt overwhelmed by nostalgia.

I finally found my way out one day when Bow invited Glimmer and me to dinner at his place, which back then he shared with an art student named Sea Hawk. After dinner, we stayed up talking for hours about everything: our childhood, our dreams, our lives. I’m still not sure if it was the trust in the air or the three glasses of wine, but suddenly I told them everything about my time at the academy, everything about Catra… except her name. It might sound depressing, but at that moment, I couldn’t even say her name.

The last time I confided my worries to someone, it didn’t go well. I thought they would laugh at my story, dismiss my feelings, or just ignore it… but they didn’t. They listened and were there when I needed them most.

After that talk, everything started to get better. I started to improve. I can’t really explain how, but I walked into college carrying heavy bricks on my shoulders, really heavy bricks that kept me from moving forward. Bow and Glimmer helped me take that load off, brick by brick, until I finally felt lighter.

From that moment, I knew we’d be friends forever.

But after seeing Catra… I feel like the weight of those bricks has return.

"But Adora, think about it: eight years have passed, and you know Catherine- I mean, Catra. She’s also human. Don’t you believe she should feel guilty? And what if she’s truly sorry?"

I avoid his gaze so she wouldn’t know I was thinking the same thing. And I’m serious when I say I’ve thought about it more times than you can imagine.

"If she felt guilty, she would have talked to Adora eight years ago, not disappear from her life overnight like a damn Irish", Glimmer says.

"You’re right, but I think she just didn’t know how to handle it. I hate putting myself in others’ shoes, but we have to understand that she was Adora’s best friend".

"Exactly, she was."

"She was, Glimmer. But you forget that our whole fight started because I lied to her" I exclaim.

"Adora…"

Glimmer fell silent.

And then continues, "You didn't lie to her, you just didn't tell her the truth".

"It’s the same thing".

At that moment, I remembered one of the many times Catra told me to tell her the truth: ‘’I don’t understand. I’ve told you everything. Why can’t you tell me anything?’’

After a deep breath, I lean back on the bean bag.

We are hanging out at Glimmer’s parents’ house, specifically in her childhood room. She usually to spend more time there than in her own home. I once asked why, and she just said, “I don’t like living alone.”

Back to the real problem.

"I don’t know what’s more ridiculous, my situation with Catra or us talking about this in a room that looks like it’s straight out of Barbie’s dream house" I look up at the ceiling, which is covered in glow-in-the-dark star stickers. "What should I do?"

"We can change producers if you want" Glimmer suggests, "Dad will understand that we don’t want to work with your ex. I don’t think it’s that hard to find someone else".

"She’s not- You know what? Call her whatever you want. And no, I won’t risk the band’s future over something from the past. Plus, finding a new producer on such short notice is impossible".

"Well, my dad said he knew some country music producers… Maybe we can make a transition".

"NO COUNTRY MUSIC".

"It won’t be that hard" Bow adds.

"It won’t be that hard to make country music?"

"No, I mean it won’t be that hard to work with Catra".

" 'It won’t to be that hard'. Do you even remember how she treated Adora? Do you even remember that when she saw her, she ran away like it was some Hunger Games tribute?!" Glimmer points out.

"Yeah, I remember. I was there. But it won’t be that hard because Adora has us. We’re a band of five, it’s not like Adora has to be alone with Catra".

That made me feel a little better.

Someone knocks on the door.

"Come in" Glimmer says loudly, casually digging into her ice cream.

The door opens. It's Micah.

"I figured you guys would be here. Angella is asking if you’re staying for dinner."

"Of course" I say .

"Yeah" Bow agrees.

"Good for me, I don’t have to cook" Glimmer says.

"Great. Oh, I forgot to tell you, I already talked to Catherine. The recordings start next Monday at 9 a.m. I need you to tell Frosta and Mermista. I talked to Perfuma, and her spiritual retreat ends in a month, so she’ll only record SIDE B."

"That means…" Bow says with an enthusiastic tone.

"It means you’ll be the one playing guitar with Adora on SIDE A" Micah’s phone starts ringing, "It's the cabina technician".

He hurries out of the room to answer, but then came back as if he remembered something important.

"And Catherine needs to talk to the composer an hour before recording starts... sorry, Adora... but I don't plan to send Glimmer to the session pretending to be you. This secret has to end.

And then, after giving me one of those looks only parents can give, he left Glimmer's room

Catherine needs to talk to the composer.
I’m cooked.
No, I’m not cooked. I’m dead.

I didn’t have to turn my head to know the other two people in the room were watching me.

I get up from the bean bag like a spirit rising from its grave at midnight. I walk over to Glimmer and Bow and sit down between them.

The three of us stay silent, still processing what Micah had said.

"Here, take this. You need it more than I do" Glimmer says, handing me her ice cream.

I took it, and my first bite was so big I felt like my brain froze.

However, it didn't work to silence my thoughts.

"What did you say, Bow?" I say sarcastically, " 'It’s not like Adora has to be alone with Catra' ".

I don’t know what scares me more: Seeing Catra an hour before the band or the simple idea of showing her my songs.

Songs I’ve written about her. Songs I’ve written about us.
________________________________________________________________________

"Have a good day, sweetheart".

"Thank you, Mom" I said as I got out of the car.

"Did you forget anything?" she asked, stepping ahead to ask me.

"No, I have everything under control".

"Are you sure you didn’t forget anything?"

" I’m going to be late for class, bye".

I walked toward the academy entrance. Luckily, I only took a few steps when my mom honked the horn on purpose; he often did that, it was her way of troll me.

The good thing is that at this time most students are in class, so no one saw that embarrassing moment.

Finally, I entered the academy. After walking through several hallways, I found Room 5.

I knocked on the door. Someone inside told me to come in, so I did.

"Hey, Adora" said a girl with her back turned while arranging some chairs.

"How do you know it’s me? You haven’t even looked at me".

"Adora, you’re the only student who arrives 20 minutes before class starts. It’s obvious it’s you", she turned around, and her heterochromatic eyes looked at me.

"Oh, my God, now a girl can’t be on time" I said dramatically.

She started laughing, and since her laugh is so contagious, I couldn’t help but laugh too.

"Come on, you know what you have to do".

Then, after saying that, I helped her move some chairs before class started.

It’s been 10 months since I transferred out of the orchestra. And it’s been 10 months since I told my mom that my class started at 3:40 PM (not 4:00 PM).

Why did I lie? Because I wanted to spend more time with Catra. She doesn’t know it, but she’s the first person who’s treated me kindly since I moved to this city. And, her mom is the director of the academy, so the other kids avoid her… I think they’re a little scared of her, I don’t know. But I do know she’s often alone, so I thought maybe we could keep each other company.

And besides, there’s nothing wrong with arriving early to help her set up the room before class, right?

Things have been going really well: I’ve made a new friend, I’ve improved a lot in my violin lessons, and I get to spend more time with my mom (something I couldn’t do because of her job at Mystacor).

Asking for more would be greedy.

"I have a surprise for you" she said excitedly.

"Did you find a new band?" I guessed.

"Yes, but this one’s different. It’ll change your life".

"You said that last time when you recommended Panic! At The Disco".

"No, I said ‘It’ll change your perspective on life' ", she corrected, digging through her purse. "They’re different, Adora. This band will really change your life".

She finally found what she was looking for and handed me something without saying more, like she was giving me a map to a lost treasure.

It was a CD. The cover had a drawing of four people, and everywhere it said the word ‘’Riot!’’

"What is this?" I asked, confused.

"Um, it’s a CD", Catra said, as if it were obvious. "And I thought you were the smarter one of us".

"Catra, I know it’s a CD. I mean the band".

I swear I saw her eyes light up.

" Adora, this is Paramore. 'Riot!' is their second studio album, and many people consider it one of the best pop-punk albums in history", She said it so quickly, like she’d recited those words hundreds of times. "I know punk isn’t really your thing, but there’s pop and even, get ready for it, alternative rock".

She looked at my face for a reaction.

"Alternative rock… Cool..." I whispered.

"It’s like Avril Lavigne and Green Day had a kid. that kid is Paramore".

Now I was starting to get it.

"I guess this is what happens when I’m your friend".

"I’m broadening your horizons. You’ll thank me someday".

That’s how most of our conversations went: about music. She recommended a band every week, and I listened. I liked it, it felt like something ours.

Every week, I discovered a new genre of rock: soft rock, indie rock, hard rock, punk rock, pop rock, folk rock, blues rock, garage rock, and more.

But we never talked about violin lessons themselves. The few times we did, she always tried to change the subject. I don’t mind… She must be tired of talking about notes and sheet music, after all, her mom is her instructor.

"I trust you’ll listen" she said insistently.

"It’s not like I have another choice", I said, slipping the CD into my bag. "Tell me, what should I do if this CD doesn’t change my life?"

"Simple, I’ll pretend I don’t know you, so you’ll have to sit somewhere else", She paused, "Or I’ll kidnap you so you listen to this album over and over again until you love it."

"Whatever you say", I rolled my eyes.

Two hours later, class was over, and I had to head home.

I exchanged a few words with my mom, then locked myself in my room. I found my old CD player and started listening to the album.

The first song is called 'For a pessimist, I’m pretty optimistic'.

Maybe I wasn’t fully prepared, because the guitar and drums caught me off guard at the start.

Yes, the band is loud. It feels like the sound isn’t just entering my ears but also my eyes and mouth.

But it’s a harmonic noise; so harmonic that it’s surprising how well the lead singer’s voice (who I later found out is a girl) blends with the chaos of the instruments.

She’s singing about her disappointment in someone who didn’t meet her expectations. But she sings as if she’s holding back her fiercest anger: The feminine Urge.

It’s powerful to listen to her.

"I never wanted to say this
You never wanted to stay, so did you?
I put my faith in you, so much faith,
And then you just threw it away."

Okay, I’ve only listened to the first track, but I have a feeling I’m going to love this band.

When the album ended, I decided to listen again.

I think I’ve found a new obsession.

I was just about to move on to 'When It Rains' when my mom called from the door.

"You have a call" she announced holding the cordless phone.

"Who is it?" I asked, reaching for the phone.

"A random girl named Hayley Williams" she winked at me and handed it over.

I didn’t need to guess who it was. Just hearing "Hey, Adora" told me it was Catra.

"How do you have my home number?" I asked surprised.

"Don’t forget, my mom has your number saved in the orchestra's files. I wouldn’t call unless it was important, and this is. You’ve heard it- wait, I hear background music".

"Yeah, I’ve heard it twice now".

"That means it DID change your life."

I tried to hide the smile forming on my face.

"Maybe".

"I knew it! Tell me your favorite song".

" 'Crushcrushcrush' " I said without hesitation. "And you?"

"I have two: ’Born for This’ and ‘Misery Business’. But I love them all".

I thought the call was going to end there, but it didn’t.

"Oh, You should’ve heard your mom’s laugh when I told her I was Hayley Williams. She said, ‘Of course, and I’m Steve Nicks' " . She laughed, "When I told her I’m your friend from the orchestra, she told me that you were trying to hide me from her"

"No, I don't" I said quickly.

"Are you hiding me, Adora?"

" No- I swear!"

"You promise?"

"I promise".

"Well, that doesn’t matter. You’re just proving I’m cool enough to be your friend. And it’s not just me saying that, it’s your mom".

"WHAT?!-"

It feels surreal that my mom and Catra talk about me "Catra, please accept my apologies for not being as cool as you"

"I accept your apologies. By the way, I’ll come over tomorrow to lunch. My best friend- I mean, your mom invited me".

What a surprise.

"I gotta go. My mom can’t know I looked into the orchestra's files. See you tomorrow".

"Goodbye-" I couldn’t finish because Catra hung up.

________________________________________________________________________

I wake up in the middle of the night.

It was a dream.

No, it was a memory. A memory disguised as a dream.

I look at the clock on my nightstand. 2:00 AM.

Six hours until I’m in the studio.

Six hours until I see Catra again.

I tried to sleep as much as I could, but insomnia won.

There's nothing I can do... Except one thing.

I get out of bed, grab a pen and paper, and do what I do best: Write a song.

Chapter Text

The first thing I do after waking up is look in the mirror and— SHIT.

I look like shit.

It's scientifically impossible for anyone not to notice my dark circles.

I got these circles from sleepless nights. Why? Overthinking all the different things that could happen today.

I even made a mental list:
1) Adora fires me and hires a new producer.
2) Adora ignores me the whole recording session.
3) Adora orders a tempered glass wall to be installed in the recording booth so I can't make eye contact.
4) The album ends up a disaster, which would ruin the band’s future, giving Adora another reason to hate me.

And there are more, but honestly, I won’t see any point in mentioning them.

I take a deep breath and look in the mirror again.

I tell myself I won’t lose my temper this early in the morning. Besides, a coffee and some good concealer can fix almost anything.

After doing my best to look calm and decent, I head to the kitchen, where to my surprise, Scorpia is waiting with breakfast.

"And this?" I point to the pancakes. " told you I’d make breakfast".

That’s a lie, actually. I was planning to buy some bagels for $3.50 on my way to the recording studio…

"No way, Cat. I’m your guest, the least I can do is help".

"But—"

"No buts. It’s ready" She adds some strawberries and cream to the middle of the table.

This just proves I’m a terrible friend. I mean, I struggled for two hours just to get out of bed, and Scorpia comes in and makes breakfast I could have easily prepared myself. By the way, where did the strawberries come from? My lifestyle is just as unstable as my diet, I only have leftovers from fast food in the fridge.

"Earth calling Catra! The pancakes are going to get cold".

I guess I’ll try to make breakfast myself next time.

"At least let me make the coffee".

While I wait for the water to boil for the coffee, I take a quick bite of the pancakes.

"Nice shirt" she points to my Nirvana shirt, "I have the same one but… with sleeves, you know?"

"I know what you mean. And thanks".

I’ve always believed that there’s something that defines our personality (besides music, of course), and that is our style. That’s why I try to make my look a little unique.

That’s why I cut my clothes however I want, just like I cut my hair as much as I could,

Because, in the end, that’s my style: Before deciding what kind of person I want to be, I have to decide what clothes I’ll wear.

After filtering the coffee, I pour it into two mugs and head back to the table. The only difference is that my mug is four times bigger than Scorpia’s.

"Wow, Cat, be careful or you’ll get a heart attack before even seeing Adora".

"If the universe wants me to have a heart attack before seeing Adora, I hope it’s from caffeine and not nerves".

We finish eating in silence. Honestly, I have no idea who’s more nervous: Scorpia or me.

"We’re still on time to change our identities and escape this chaos".

That comment gives me a small smile.

"No. I want to do it" I say as I finish washing the dishes, "I have to".

Fifteen minutes later, we get in the car and head to Etheria Records.

The day I signed the record deal, I made one thing clear: I decide how I want the studio to be. So, all weekend, I helped move my preferred equipment. There was a lot of back-and-forth with consoles, preamps, MIDI controllers, and more.

"Remind me why we spent the whole weekend moving consoles and speakers?" Scorpia asks on the way, massaging her right shoulder.

"Because Entrapta had that studio packed with modern gear".

"AND???"

"And I want this album to be one of her best works. Why do you think ‘The Princesses of Power became popular in the first place? Because of its originality. I analyzed the band’s hits, and one thing Entrapta missed is that her best songs were recorded in home studios, where talent and instruments are raw and acoustic".

"So basically, you want it to sound like a Tiny Desk concert?"

"Kind of, yeah. I just want the album to reconnect with its roots… And if that means saying goodbye to high-end recording gear, I’ll do it".

Right now, I only understand one word: determination. That feeling where you choose to be part of something so big, knowing that what keeps you going are the excitement and pride of seeing the final result.

I studied Adora’s band inside out: I know she’s the lead singer, I know two members take turns playing rhythm guitar, I know Glimmer is the songwriter, and I also know that a girl named Mermista decided to nickname the band ‘The Princesses of Power’ because one night, they were all so high on magical brownies, they thought they were princesses with magical powers.

I know all this not because I’m some cyber-obsessed psycho stalker, but because it’s my job. I live for this.

I still have some time to talk to Adora, after all, I scheduled the band’s rehearsal an hour after meeting with the songwriter.

Five minutes before the meeting, I leave Scorpia at the studio entrance.

"Go ahead and open the studio for me. Glimmer should arrive any minute" I toss her the keys, "I’ll try to find a parking spot".

I rush as much as I can, circling the lot and parking in the first space I find.

I turn off the engine, take a few deep breaths to calm my nerves, then get out of the car.

Once I cross into the building, I try to act more professional.

Catra stays in the car with her doubts and fears; now, at this moment, I am just Catherine.

I can handle this.

I walk up to the secretary, exchange a few words about the paperwork I need to sign later, and then get into the elevator to go to the second floor.

I press the button for the second floor. As the doors close slowly, I get distracted by elevator music… It’s jazz, of course, but I can’t identify the song. Probably some random Frank Sinatra cover.

I don’t pay much attention, after all, someone pulled me out of my thoughts. Not just anyone, but a particular arm: an arm that blocked the elevator doors just as they were about to close.

"You’re finally here".

And then the person gets on with me. It’s Micah.

"Good morning to you too", Way too early for sarcasm, Catra. "You’re a bit early, and Glimmer?"

The doors close, and as we ascend to the second floor, I notice Micah seems a little nervous.

"About that… I need to confess something, Catra. Something about the contract".

That’s it. I’m getting fired.

Maybe Adora told her friends I treat her badly, and now everyone hates me enough to have Micah fire me. They’re probably so mad they’d rather not record the album than keep me as producer.

Suddenly, I can feel my heartbeat pounding in my temple.

"They don’t want to work with me, right?" I blurt out without thinking.

He looks at me like I just spoke in Mandarin.

"What? What are you talking about? We’re crazy about working with you".

Oh.

"You thought"

"Then what’s going on?" I cut him off.

We arrive at the second floor, and as the doors open, we walk straight into the studio.

"It’s about the songwriter. She’s waiting for you in the studio with the sound engineer".

For all I thought this would be something more important, I’m disappointed.

"If it’s about punctuality, I’ll try to be more responsible next time. Glimmer will understand".

We reach the end of the hallway, and I’m about to open the studio door when Micah blocks my way.

"That’s the thing. She’s not here".

This has to be a joke. It’s got to be a joke.

"Define 'She’s not here' ". Forget what I said; now’s the perfect moment for sarcasm.

"Glimmer is not in the studio".

"And who is in the studio?" I point to the room.

"The band’s songwriter".

"I need you to be more specific".

"Did you sign the confidentiality agreement?"

"I signed like five of those in the last few days".

"Well, this might be a little confusing, but… Glimmer isn’t the real songwriter of the band".

"If you’re trying to pull a fast one, I need you to know I don’t have time for this" I dodge around Micah. "If Glimmer isn’t the songwriter, then who is?"

I turn the doorknob, and there she is: the proof of all my mistakes, the reason I lose sleep, and the only person I’ve fallen for not so long ago…

Adora.

"Hey, Catra" she says with a guilty smile, like she’s been trying to prolong this moment.

First, I look at Scorpia, who looks scared, like she’s bracing for an apocalypse. Then I turn my gaze to Micah, who looks on the verge of collapse.

No matter what happens, I won’t run. Not this time.

"I’ll explain everything-"

"No. You won’t explain anything. She will" I say, fixing my eyes on Adora, and for the first time in years, I really look at her.

I can’t believe I spent all this time studying Glimmer’s songwriting only to find out Adora wrote all those songs.

And I hear all this on the day recording is supposed to start.

"Catherine—"

"She’s right. She has the right to ask me for explanations. After all, I’m the real songwriter" Adora says.

I’d imagined many scenarios for today, but I would have never guessed this one, not in a million years.

"Give us a moment alone… Please".

I shoot a quick glance at Scorpia, and in seconds, she’s dragging Micah down the hall.

When the door closes behind them, I turn with all the courage I can muster.

If I started this fight, I’ll be the one to end it.

But before I do, I stare at Adora for a long time, and it hurts to see how much she’s changed: her hair is longer, she has more freckles, and she looks different.

But some things stay the same: her height, that mysterious glow in her blue eyes.

"You stole my line".

"What do yo mean?"

I can smell her nerves from a mile away.

"I said: You stole my line. I’m the one who says “Hey” first".

Then she laughs, like she just remembered all the times I greeted her with a simple ‘Hey’.

I feel like I’m fourteen again.

She’s sitting on a sofa, so I settle into the chair in front of the mixing console.

"So... Adora, will you tell me the long story or the short story?" I encourage her to share.

Winning Adora’s trust is like earning a cat’s trust—slow and steady.

"The short story. Honestly, I’ve always felt kind of embarrassed to say I wrote all those songs. Don’t look at me like that, I…" She looks away, as if trying to hide something "I write about experiences, about very personal things. For some reason, I decided to give Glimmer the rights to my songs".

That comment hits me like a truck. Her look, her words… everything demolishes me.

I don’t know what to say.

"So?"

"So you know what the first question in interviews is? 'What’s the story behind the song?' I just didn’t want to share those little stories, because once everyone knows them… they lose their personal meaning. And you know how much I hate attention".

Believe me, nobody knows that better than I do.

"And what will you do if this comes out someday?"

Her shoulders slump.

"I’ve never really thought about it".

"If you haven’t thought about it, then I won’t either. But it should’ve been in the contract".

"I know, I know… But it was supposed to be a secret, even from the executives".

"And they won’t find out, because I’ll keep the secret".

"You better, or you’ll face a lawsuit for thousands of dollars for breaching confidentiality"

I smile.

"Damn contracts. If you had told me I’d have to sign all this paperwork, I’d have turned down the job".

She laughs too, but then a new silence settles over the studio. It’s a comfortable silence.

"By the way, are we okay?"

I know what she means.

"No, we’re not— I mean, clearly, you’re not okay, and that makes me feel not okay." I don’t know what happened, but I was talking too fast, I couldn’t even meet her gaze, so I close my eyes. "And I know I don’t have the right to feel this way because I treated you so badly, I know I can’t justify my mistakes, but I’m really sorry"

I can’t stop.

"I hate that you have to see me every day at the studio, I hate that you even tolerate my presence, and I hate that-"

"Catra, stop." she says calmly.

"Just listen: I’m sorry for everything".

I force myself to open my eyes, and to my surprise… her face is the very picture of shock.

"I-I didn’t think you’d say all that…"

I ruined everything.
I screwed everything.

"…And that was a long time ago. Maybe I’ll never get over it, but Catra, look at me, I don’t hold a grudge… We were just kids".

"Yeah, but that doesn’t mean..."

"It’s in the past".

What she doesn’t know is that if I leave the past behind, I also leave the pain behind… And that pain was the only thing that kept us connected.

"Let’s do this, start fresh. New you, new me" She steps closer and offers her hand. "Nice to meet you. I’m Adora, the band’s songwriter. I’m really excited to work with you on the new album".

I stand up from the chair and stare at her hand, like my whole life depends on it.

"Are you sure you want to start over?"

"Just do it"

I shake her hand.

"Hey, Adora, my name is Catherine, and—"

"Are you sure you want me to call you Catherine?" She raises an eyebrow challengingly.

I roll my eyes as usual.

"My name is Catra, and I’ll be your new music producer".

"Anything else you want to say?".

I tighten my grip, as if we were closing an important deal.

"Just that I’ll do my best to make your album the most successful musical work of all time".

Chapter Text

"So, this is how the schedule for the recording sessions will look: Monday to Friday, from 2 PM to 7 PM. I know there will be days when the recording will run longer, so I’ve contacted the executives to ask for permission to control the keys’’.

She hands me a list of activities, along with a calendar that has the weekdays crossed out from May to August.

Working from May to August… That’s way too long.

I glance from the calendar and then at her, and it felt totally strange.

All of this feels so unreal… Seeing her, talking to her, planning a damn schedule with her.

“What's wrong? Did you notice an error in the schedule?”

“Yeah… Catra, why aren’t we recording on weekends?” I ask as I return the schedule to her.

“We’re not recording on weekends because you have a LIFE, Adora” she says, as if it were obvious.

“In case you didn't know: Music is my life.”

“I don't think the rest of the band members feel the same way. And I don’t need you to stay in the studio listening to the same song over and over during editing, I remind you that's my job” she says with a short laugh.

“But with Entrapta, we recorded on weekends,” I point out.

Her face changes, like I’d just insulted her.

She gets up so quickly from the furniture we're sitting on.

Oh no

I shouldn’t have said that.

“Get up. Now.” she says in a serious tone.

I get up.

Ok... so , I am in front of her.

Maybe we are a meter and a half apart, but even if I try to ignore it, I can hear her breathing.

And don’t even get me started on her eyes… If she hadn’t begged me for forgiveness just a few minutes ago, I’d still believe she secretly hates me. Maybe she still does… maybe a little.

“Look at me.” Great, another excuse to focus on her again. “Do you think I’m like Entrapta?”

What kind of question is that?

“No?”

“Exactly! I’m not. And because I’m not, I won’t make you work on weekends. You’re rock stars. I need you to go out and cause a scene for the press, not spend all your days for the week recording songs.”

“Yeah but if you want, I can stay and work as long as needed—”

She shakes her head from side to side, signaling disapproval.

“No, no, no. You, less. You’re the ‘composer,’” she emphasizes the word, and I wouldn’t care less if she hadn’t smiled that Cheshire smile. “If I keep you in the studio for too long, I might squeeze all the inspiration out of you, and I definitely don’t want you to suffer from writer’s block.”

I get her point, but I’m still not convinced.

“I just think four months is too long to record an album.”

“And the deluxe version”

“What?”

Catra sat back down on the furniture.

“I guess I’m not the only one who signs contracts without reading the small print,” she says, and after flipping through some papers, she passes me one of the contracts. “They extended the recording time because we’re also doing a deluxe version.”

I quickly read the contract. The most important part catches my eye: THE PRODUCER agrees to create, produce, and deliver to THE RECORD LABEL a musical album and an expanded version called ‘deluxe,’ which will include additional exclusive material, remixes, alternative versions, or special content, as agreed by the parties.

Exclusive material? Alternative versions? Special content?

”Oh, Adora… I know that look.”

I hurry out of the studio, with Catra right behind me. As soon as I see Micah in the hallway, I wave the contract in front of his face.

”I find out about this from the producer? Seriously?... Sometimes I wish I had a more organized manager’’.

He’s sitting next to the coffee machine, munching on a glazed donut. He looks at me with a confused expression, like he has no idea what I'm talking about.

”We've never recorded a deluxe album before” I add.

”About that— See, the band is more popular than ever”, he says with a reassuring tone. “The executives are demanding a deluxe version. It’s the trend. People want something exclusive, something that makes them feel like they have the best’’.

”You don’t get it, I haven’t written that many songs for an album! Just a few extra tracks, and that’s it”.

He leans a bit toward me, setting the donut aside and smiling confidently.

“Adora, believe it or not, you’re the best songwriter I’ve known in my 30 years at this label. Just write 3 or 4 more tracks, and the executives will be happy’’.

I take a deep breath, trying to push aside my frustration.

”But I’ve never—”

”Just remember that sometimes people want to feel like they're getting something special, and you have that spark. You just need to find a way to show it in those few clues. And about the never that you've never written or recorded so many songs before, there’s always a first time for everything, right Catra?”

I look back at Catra, who is leaning against the doorframe.

“Yes, Adora. There’s always a first time for everything.”

A minute later Catra and I went back to the studio.

3 or 4 bonus tracks. It sounds tough but not impossible.

“So… Are we will not record on weekends?” I ask Catra.

“We will not record on weekends” she confirms.
________________________________________________________________________

"Remind me, what are you doing?" my mom asked as she took a tray of chocolate chip cookies out of the oven.

Catra and I were on the kitchen counter, eating the leftover cookie dough.

"We're trying to catch salmonella," Catra blurted out, so I nudged her in the shoulder.

"Actually, we're trying to save money”

"Uhhh, what are you planning to buy? As long as it’s not alcohol or drugs—"

"Mom-"

"I was just asking," she said, setting the tray down so the cookies could cold.

Catra tried to grab one, but my mom was faster and gave her a slight blow on the hand.

''Don't touch anything until it cools down! Now, tell me, what are you planning to spend the money on?''

"We’re saving up to buy a guitar," Catra said.

"But Adora already has a guitar. Why do you need another one?"

"She means an electric guitar," I clarified.

Last summer, we listened to Paramore’s albums over and over until we practically pretended to play guitar during Taylor York’s solos. It sounded so epic the way that instrument played that one thing led to another, and now Catra and I are thinking about buying an electric guitar to learn to play several songs, not only by Paramore but also by Avril Lavigne, The Cure, and Panic! at the Disco.

Do we actually know how to play electric guitar? No. But as Catra said, “We both play violin, cello, and guitar, so I don’t think learning to play electric guitar would be that hard.”

“I see,” she nodded. “And I suppose the cookies are for selling?”

“Yes. We’re going to sell them at the academy fair. The goal is to attract new musicians to the orchestra, but it is also an opportunity for several people to sell products and earn profits.”

“Sounds good. I guess your mom knows about this?”

Catra tensed up.

My mom didn’t notice because she was behind her, but I did.

“Of course she knows. Adora, help me pack the cookies” Catra said, and my mom left the kitchen.

It had been about a year since we met, and these kinds of things always happened: whenever the topic of her mom came up, she’d dodge it, just like she avoided talking too much about the academy.

I try to tell myself that’s normal, some teenagers don’t have a close relationship with their parents… Sure, I can’t say I fully understand, because I love my mom as much as I love myself. But Catra’s situation is different. Sometimes, I’d find her upset before violin class, and when I asked why, she’d just say “Mom stuff” or “Mother-daughter things.”

I still believe it’s normal. After all, her mom is the very definition of “strict.” But putting that aside, am I a bad friend for ignoring it? I didn't know what was happening inside her head, just as I didn't know exactly what problems were occurring in her house.

I pushed those thoughts away as I started packing the cookies.

Suddenly, I heard a song blasting at full volume. I looked at Catra to see what she was up to, but she was just packing cookies alongside me.

“It’s not me” she raised her hands innocently.

The volume doubled, and the whole house was filled with music.

“I hope that when you sell all these cookies, you can buy the guitar and learn every chord of this song. It’s my favorite!” my mom yelled from the other end of the house.

Catra and I laughed, and she immediately started humming along.

”Oh, my life is changing every day
In every possible way’’

“Do you recognize that song?” I asked.

“Of course, it’s ‘Dreams’ by The Cranberries,” she said.

”And oh, my dreams
It’s never quite as it seems
Never quite as it seems’’

We kept packing cookies, she singing and I listening to her and trying to mentally repeat: Live this memory, store it deep inside you, and never forget it.

”I know I felt this way before,
But now I feel it even more,
Because it came from you.
Then I open up and see
The person falling here is me
A different way to be.’’

My mom came back into the kitchen dancing, holding a CD with a cover showing four people sitting against a black background.

She handed it to Catra in her hands.

“All yours” she said.

“No. I can’t accept that,” Catra tried to give her the CD back.

“Keep it, Catra. Seriously.”

She looked at me as if asking for permission, so I nodded, and she took the CD.

“I’ll give it back to you,” she said.

“Why would you give it back? I have another one.”

She looked at my mom with admiration and respect, with a smile full of joy and proud.

“Thank you, Ms. Smith… really.”

“I'll accept your apologies when both grant me a pass to the VIP area at your first concert. And please, I am Mara for you.”

Then she left the kitchen again.

When we said goodbye that afternoon, the last thing Catra told me was: “Do you think your mom could adopt me?”

________________________________________________________________________

We heard some knocks on the studio door.

"Come in," says Catra.

It's already 9:00 AM, which means the rest of the band members are the ones at the other side of the door.

I was right as soon as I saw Glimmer and Bow walking into the studio. Behind them, Mermista and Frosta came in too.

"Hello," says Catra. "Looks like some new faces then—" she turns to Mermista and Frosta, "My name's Catherine, and as you can probably tell, I’m your new producer."

She shakes hands with each of them. And as surprising as it might be, she ignored the critical look Mermista shot her, or she didn’t care bending down to be at Frosta’s level.

"I’ve heard a lot about you," Frosta says with a accusing tone.

I doubt Glimmer told her anything...

"Hopefully, good things," Catra replies.

"You are the ex of—" Frosta starts to ask, but she doesn’t finish because Glimmer suddenly lunges at her and covers her mouth with her hand, pretty aggressively.

Please.

Kill me now.

"Kids, they don't know what they're saying," Glimmer interrupts, pulling Frosta back.

If looks could kill, my stare would have wiped out the entire Glimmer family tree.

"Alright," Catra laughs, trying to forget that awkward moment. "Like I was saying, my friend Frosting—"

"It’s Frosta," Glimmer corrects.

"Whatever, Glitter."

"I'm Glimmer—"

"So, I'm the producer. Before that, I got a degree in business administration. I graduated alongside Entrapta when completed my master’s in the music industry. However, I had known the world of music for many years before since I belong to a family of musicians. My academic training has allowed me to acquire a strategic and business approach, in addition to deeply understanding the functioning of the music sector, from production to project management and marketing.

I have worked as a music producer in various genres, helping artists define their sound, record, produce and release their music effectively. My past projects include—"

"Fall Out Girl, The 1875, and Chase Pacific. We stalked you on the internet" Mermista says flatly.

I had already told Glimmer to keep Mermista and Frosta in check... and now this?

I swear, Catra’s jaw was on the floor. No, better yet, in the subfloor.

"Oh—um, I’ll skip the formalities. Please, have a seat. I’ll need you to clarify the vision for the album so I can plan the recording sessions."

Everyone crowded onto the couch, except Catra, who’s sitting in the console chair with a notebook and pencil in hand.

"I know you’re probably not very familiar with what a music producer or sound engineer does, but anyone can notice anything different about the studio?" Catra asks.

"Obviously, the recording equipment looks prehistoric," Mermista rolls her eyes.

"True. It’s the same gear we used when we started doing covers in Entrapta’s home studio," Bow adds.

"That’s right," Catra agrees with Bow. "I’ve spent the past few days getting familiar with your songs, and I realized that your style fits perfectly with an acoustic format. It’s a way to present your music more intimately and directly, highlighting the nuances of each instrument. It’s like going back—"

"To our roots," Bow and I finish her sentence.

"We’re understanding each other," she nods. "That’s just a concept for the format. I also plan to make some minimal adjustments to the sound, just enough so that there’s no difference between your studio recordings and your live performances."

"Are you sure about that? Because the first album was a huge success just the way we did it," Micah says as he walks into the studio.

“I know the band’s success stats inside out, and I’ve studied your audience too. It seems most fans are really drawn to the covers you did in Entrapta’s home studio, which, if you notice, already has an acoustic vibe."

Then he looks at her for a long moment, as if he were organizing his thoughts.

"You know I trust you completely, but I’d still like to have some proof of it." He says.

"Let's see it" she challenges, standing up and giving two taps to the mirror in the booth before signaling for Scorpia, who was adjusting some surface microphones inside.

Scorpia steps out of the booth, and Catra asks to her loudly,

"If I ask you think about the song 'American Idiot,' who comes to mind?"

Scorpia stops and looks at us.

Her face says it all.

"The cover of The Princesses of Power," she replies.

Catra turns to Micah.

"Is that the proof you needed?" she asks, deliberately playing with fire.

We weren’t expecting that...I didn't expect that.

If she studied our audience, what else could she have known?

“You’re the producer. I just want the best for my guys” Micah says calmly.

"And you’ll get it. Remember:You’re not working with just anyone," she responds.

Scorpia returned to the inside of the cabin, just as Catra sat back down in the console chair.

She quickly writes a few sentences in the notebook while she says: Besides, I already promised someone that I would do my best.

After an hour, we start talking about songwriting.

"I was honestly surprised to find out who the real songwriter was," she says, looking directly at me. "But I want to tell you all that songwriting isn’t just something Adora does alone. From now on, it’s a team effort, including me. If you have a song, reach out to me and we can work on it until it’s perfect. There are no bad songs, just ones that need polishing."

We all nod.

"From today, we’re a team. Don’t forget that..." she says, then turns to me. "Adora, please tell me you have a few song drafts lying around."

The drafts.

Of course, I have drafts, but they’re of songs I can’t let her see.

”A few…" I admit.

"We have time to fix that. It’s clear we’re not recording anything today; I just wanted to get to know you all better and clarify the album’s vision. By the way, you should already have a clear idea of what the album will look like, right?"

Silence.

"Don’t tell me you were planning to record an album without a clear vision?"

"We’re used to improvising," Glimmer mumbles softly.

Catra’s eyes nearly pop out of her head.

"I don’t improvise, and neither should you. There is a reason why strategy and planning exists… Here’s what we’re going to do: no one leaves this studio until we have a solid vision for the album," she says firmly.

A vision for the album? I’d never really thought about it. We’ve never tried to define a clear concept or idea.

Our goal was just to share our music with the world.

"Can someone say something, anything?"

Glimmer raises her hand.

"We could do something related to the princesses."

"Okay, princesses and… a prince," she points to Bow. "What idea do you want to give your audience about this album?"

"We want to share the idea that we play good rock pop music?'' Frosta says excitedly.

''Perfect, but I want something deeper, a story behind it''.

That we’re fighting against alien robots trying to invade our planet while playing good rock music," Frosta says excitedly.

"Um—no, we’re not doing that," Mermista replies.

"No, no, it's... different. The Princesses of Power are facing something, but what?" Catra presses.

"Alien robots—"

"A real problem."

I keep turning it over in my mind.

"The Princesses of Power are facing... their past?" I say.

Everyone looks at me.

"It's yours, go ahead." Catra prompts.

"When we started, many of us didn’t even know if we’d record a second album’’. I pause. "Remember, music was our escape and our way to face our fears. This album could be a tribute to that fighting spirit that pushed us forward… even when we had no producer or a clear path ahead."

I look at each of them, even Micah.

"The princesses created a resistance" Bow says.

''No, resistance just means opposing something, plain and simple. And when we think about our past, we truly resist it day after day… That’s why resistance always falls eventually''.

''And you guys want to make noise, want to rebel and fight... That sounds more like a rebellion'' Catra says.

Her eyes light up as she repeats, "The Rebellion."

''Sounds perfect'' Micah says

All the band agrees that it's a cool vision for the album, even Mermista.

"I think we’ve got a name for the new album," I admit.

And the only thing that truly captures my attention is Catra’s proud, beaming smile.

Oh God. I really missed her smiles.

Chapter Text

So this was how I felt as a kid every time I stood in front of a toy store.

The only difference is that every time I went into those shops, even if I cried or stomped my feet, I never came out with a new toy... except today.

Adora and I had been standing outside Razz&Bass, a music store across town, for about thirty minutes. To be fair, we hadn’t gone in yet because we were hypnotized by all the different instruments on display in the window.

“Look at that Fender Telecaster,” I said.

“I thought you didn’t know how to play guitar,” Adora replied, eyeing a Gibson Les Paul Standard.

“Just because I don’t know how to play doesn’t mean I don’t know about guitar brands.”

“Touche.”

After selling all our cookies at the school fair, we were pretty sure we had saved enough money to buy an electric guitar… not realizing we didn’t even have a quarter of the amount we needed.

It didn’t surprise me that guitars aren’t as cheap as I’d thought, so Adora and I had to do other jobs to save up: running errands, selling lemonade, walking dogs, mowing lawns, babysitting (which I don’t recommend), and more.

Finally, we saved enough money… or at least, we thought we did.

So we waited until Friday (the day we got out of orchestra earlier than usual) to go into the store and buy the guitar.

Now we’re here, outside the shop with exactly $450, imagining the cheers our fans will give during our concerts, the fame that’ll come with reaching number one on the Billboard charts, the world tours, and—

Our dreams were interrupted by a bell, footsteps, and a very high-pitched voice.

“I can swear you little girls have been outside for over an hour, staring at those instruments with sad puppy dog eyes. Can I help you with something?” a friendly older woman asked from the store entrance.

It was none other than Mrs. Razz, the owner of the music shop and a former member of Girls&Blues, a jazz band that was pretty famous around here back in the '70s.

Honestly, I wasn’t sure what surprised me more: that a jazz legend now ran a music store instead of living on the outskirts of this small town, or that she always wore lots of costume jewelry every day.

“If you can,” Adora said, “we’re looking to buy a guitar.”

“Then you’re in the right place. Come on in,” she gestured us to enter.

Inside, the store was even more amazing than it looked from outside, much bigger, with sunlight filtering through the windows, making it feel cozy. The wallpaper looked like piano keys, and the ceiling was decorated with hanging notes shaped like musical symbols.

To me, it was like stepping into heaven.

It was divided into four sections: one for wind instruments, another for string instruments, one for percussion, and a last for microphones and speakers.

“So, you’re looking for a guitar?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“Electric or acoustic?”

“Electric,” Adora answered.

She led us to a corner past the string instruments, where a wall displayed about eight different types of guitars and basses.

“This store has all sorts, from Fender Telecasters to Epiphone Les Pauls. Whose guitar are you buying?”

“We’re buying for both of us,” Adora said. I didn’t reply, still mesmerized by all the instruments.

Mrs. Razz chuckled when she heard us.

“Are you sure you want to share one guitar?”

“Why not? We’re best friends, so we share everything,” I said.

She gave us a look that seemed to hide more than just teasing.

“Well, well, I won’t interfere. Which model do you want?”

“Um… well…” Adora hesitated.

“You’re beginners, aren’t you?” Razz said with a laugh.

“Is it illegal to want to learn a new instrument now?” I joked.

“It’s not, but—” she paused, then put on glasses that were sitting on her head, fixing her gaze on me. “Sorry, do I know you from somewhere?”

No way.

“You’re Weaver’s daughter, right? The director of Horde Classical Academy?”

I froze. My mom isn’t supposed to find out about this.

Last week, I told her I wanted to quit playing the violin and try learning guitar. She didn’t take it well at all. As punishment, she confiscated all my CDs, including the one Adora’s mom gave me, and my music player. Furthermore, she extended our private lessons, so now I have lessons not just on Mondays but also Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays.

I wish I could explain how those lessons are, but just thinking about them gives me a headache. To sum it up: they’re full of yelling, humiliation, scolding, and often the phrase, “Again, I need it to sound perfect.”

As time goes on, I feel like her pressure and those private lessons are eating me up more and more each day.

How will I get out of this? I don’t know yet, but I hope it’s soon.

“Wow, this town is so small that everyone knows everyone,” Adora jumped in. “Back to the guitars, what would you recommend?”

It was obvious she suspected something, but I wasn’t ready to tell her because I was afraid she’d think it’s just a silly and stupid problem.

“If you’re beginners, I recommend a Squier Fender Telecaster. It’s very lightweight compared to the others,” she said, reaching for a white guitar from the shelf and handing it to Adora.

“Go ahead, try it,” she encouraged.

Adora looked at me nervously; she clearly didn’t know what she was doing.

“So you REALLY are beginners,” Razz said, laughing.

If you think I was laughing along with her… you’re right.

And no, I wasn’t laughing at the situation; I was laughing at Adora’s embarrassed face. She looked like she’d just been scolded in kindergarten and made to sit in the corner as punishment.

“Listen, you’re gonna do this,” she said, holding Adora’s hands and guiding her to the neck of the guitar. “First, see this thick string? That’s the sixth string. When you play it, you need to press the string against the fret, which is that little metal line on the neck. That makes the string shorter and gives you a higher pitch.”

I was paying full attention, too.

“See this knob here?” she pointed to a small control. “That adjusts the volume. Don’t worry about it now; we’re just testing if the guitar makes sound when you strum.”

Carefully, she showed Adora how to position her fingers on the string, explaining she should press firmly but not too hard. Then she told her to strum the string with the pick or her fingers while the other hand rested on the body of the guitar.

“Now, when you strum with the pick or fingers, it should make a sound. Want to try?” she asked, encouraging her.

Adora hesitated a moment before picking up the pick and softly strumming. The guitar vibrated, maybe a little out of tune, but promising.

“That’s it!” Razz said, smiling. “You just need to practice more to make it sound better.”

“Can she try again?” I asked excitedly.

She nodded, so Adora played the same chords again.

“We’re buying it,” I said simply.

Luckily, the price was reduced by 10%, so we ended up paying exactly $450.

‘’I'm sorry to tell you that your mom isn't that familiar with electric instruments in case you decide to ask her for help playing it’’ Razz says while finishing printing the receipt.

"I wasn't planning on asking her to teach me."

"Then how do you think you're going to learn? Because learning with instructions is for assholes."

"Maybe you could teach us." Adora suggested

“I’m too old for that, little girls. Even my memory’s not what it used to be.”

“We could pay you,” I offered.

A mischievous smile spread across her face.

“Actually, I don’t think my short-term memory is a problem. I like that idea, but I don’t want money in exchange.”

I knew where this was headed.

“I’ve needed a lot of help around the store lately, and I’m pretty much on my own. Here’s the deal: You help me with customers on weekend mornings, and in return, I’ll teach you how to play guitar on those same days in the afternoons.”

It was perfect. On weekends, I’m free from my mom and school responsibilities. I could manage my homework, but mainly, it was a win-win: everyone benefits.

I looked at Adora to see what she thought, but I didn’t need to ask: Her nod told me she was in, too.

“When do we start?” I asked.

“Tomorrow at 9 a.m.,” she replied. “And I’ll bring a used guitar so you can learn together at the same time. Any other questions?”

“Yeah, um… my mom is kind of paranoid about guitar playing. She’ll probably think I want a piercing or to get ‘Metallica’ tattooed on my forehead. So, what do you say we keep this a little secret?” Adora said with an angelic smile.

“All right” Razz said, a little puzzled. “Tomorrow. Don’t be late.”

We left the store happy.

To most people, a new instrument is just a new object. But for us musicians, a new instrument feels like getting a new toy.

We hadn’t walked two blocks when I reached out to tap Adora’s hand so she’d turn around and look at me.

“Thanks… for what you said to Razz about your mom, her paranoia and all that.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said with a wink, then kept walking. “And about calling us ‘best friends’… does that mean I took that sacred title away from my mom?”

“I swear, I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I said, pretending to be innocent.

“C’mon, the last one to arrive has to change the guitar strings!” She shouted, and we both ran to her house

Chapter Text

I rummaged through every one of my diaries until I found a halfway decent song, but still, I didn’t find anything worth keeping.

I close the cardboard boxes that I struggled to get out of the pile of trash I have squeezed into my closet, and I set them aside in the room.

I'll find the right moment to organize it all someday...

“I know, maybe I’ll find a draft among my college diaries,” I think.

“Adora, all that junk was taken by your mom when you moved out,” Glimmer says.

“You’re right,” I grab my phone as quickly as I can. “Siri, call ''Mom''—”

Bow snatches the phone and ends the call before the first ring.

“For the love of Grayskull. Adora, your mom lives 18 hours away.”

“So?”

“It’s not like she’s going to travel 18 hours just to give you a crappy diary with half-finished songs.”

“It's obvious that you don’t know my mom,” I reply.

“It’s obvious that you look like you’re having a psychotic break,” Bow says.

I press my lips together and leave my room.

I head to the kitchen and pour myself a fifth coffee of the day-or rather, the morning-since I haven’t slept in the last 24 hours trying to find the right song to start recording.

Actually, the recordings started TWO WEEKS ago, but I haven’t contributed anything... Maybe because I’m so blocked by my stupid childhood crush that I haven’t been able to write a single song that isn’t about love, lies, hate, complicated relationships, betrayal, lies, sadness, depression, more lies.

You’re probably wondering: what have we been doing in the last sessions? Nothing .

I showed her six rough drafts of songs meant for the first album, but after the final edit, they were all discarded.

She didn’t like any of them.

The next day, I showed her more drafts, and she didn’t even read them—she just rejected them automatically.

“But they’re good lyrics,” I said.

“I’m not saying they’re bad, it’s just that you’re no longer in that stage of your life,” she replied.

“But you said you wanted us to go back to our roots. Well, these were my first lyrics for the band,”

“I didn’t mean it literally. I don’t want you to get stuck in the past. I want you to write about how you feel now, about who you are NOW, thanks to that past,” she explained.

I tried, I really did, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t. I’ve spent the last eight years running from and forgetting the past, and now she’s asking me to write about it.

So here I am, digging through my old work just to give her something today. Which, as you can guess, was pointless.

Glimmer appears again in my line of sight.

“Can I ask what your problem is?” she asks firmly.

“My problem is I have to be at the studio in 30 minutes and I don’t have a single song to show Catra,” I start massaging my neck, trying to find calm amid all this stress.

“No. That’s not your real problem,” she says.

“What else could it be?”

“The problem is you’re not making an effort to give her a song. And I don’t mean your drafts,”

“I’m doing my best,” I insist.

“You’re not, Adora. You wrote hundreds of songs before signing the contract. And when you found out we had to work with her, you haven’t written anything since?” she challenges.

“You-” I start, realizing she’s right. “Fine, you win. I have thousands of songs, but I won’t show her any because they’re all about her. Happy?!”

And now I’m crying again. How stupid of me.

“I thought you wanted to leave the past behind,” she says softly.

“Yes, I do, but it’s not that simple when they ask you to write a song about how you feel about it,” I admit, lowering my head for a minute or two. I knew this was a terrible idea—taking the initiative, facing the problem. But despite that, the fear is still there. Fear that everything might happen all over again. Fear that this might be the last chance to fix things.

All those fears were silenced for a second when Glimmer takes my shoulders without a word.

“You are Adora Smith. You’re one of the best singers, songwriters, and friends the world has given me. You’re determined, loyal, strong (yes, also clumsy and stubborn) but that’s not a flaw; it’s one of your virtues that makes you you. I promised I wouldn’t leave you alone in these situations, and I won’t,” she says.

She wipes my tears with the sleeve of her pink sweater.

“I know you don’t give up that easily… but if you can’t write a song, and the producer isn’t excited about old songs, then tell her face to face that you can’t get a song out of your head—at least for now. She shouldn’t pressure you in these moments,” she advises.

I laugh a little at that.

“And sorry for saying you’re not trying hard enough. I know you’re going through a lot… but I didn’t think it would be that much. All of this is out of your hands,” she adds.

“I guess it’s creative block,” I say with a sad smile.

“Yes… Catra will understand; many songwriters go through this. You know I’m terrible at writing songs, but I’ll do my best to put in the effort too. We shouldn’t leave all the hard work to you,” she encourages.

I was about to say something, but Bow interrupts.

“Glimmer, it’s time for the reservation,” he says.

Now I’m grabbing her shoulders.

“Reservation? Time? Did I miss something?” I hurry to ask her with all the curiosity in the world.

There's always been this strange vibe between Bow and Glimmer. Even though she tries to fool herself into thinking that they act that way just because they've been best friends forever, I know deep down she wishes they were more than that (just like me, or actually, like everyone in the band).

It's the little things that could mean a lot: going out on dates (which she insists are just friendly hangouts), showing affection in public (which she says is something friends do), and inside jokes that are pretty flirty and almost romantic (which definitely aren't just friend stuff, because if they were, I’d get them too).

I feel like they’re both pretending not to see what's really going on so they don't have to deal with it. So for now, I’m just waiting for the day when they finally put their egos aside and tell each other how they really feel.

“Bow booked one of those brunches on a fancy rooftop uptown. I think it’s ridiculous, honestly, but he was so excited I decided to come along. Do you want us to leave you at the studio?” Glimmer says

“No, walking will do me good. Hope you guys have fun,”

They grab their keys, which they left on the nightstand by the door, and after a quick goodbye, they leave.

And I’m alone again.

So I go back to my room, change my clothes: ripped jeans, an oversized olive-green sweater, and my favorite cap. I probably look like a junkie, but at least I feel comfortable.

Comfortable enough to tell Catra we’re drifting with this work.

So I head downstairs toward the studio.

That’s why I decided to move into this apartment—to be closer to the studio, closer to the gym, and closer to my friends.

But even with all those reasons, it’s still a very spacious place that makes me feel lonely and isolated. I’m still thinking about what to do about it. Should I remodel? I have the means to do so, but what should I do? Change the wallpaper? Buy more furniture? Or fill it with plants? I still don’t know… I’ve always wanted a pet, but I don’t think I have enough time to take care of one. And if I did, what kind would I get? A dog? a cat? a fish? I’m not sure.

So many options to think about, and my mind wants to do it NOW.

What a nightmare.

I still have to cross two streets to get to the studio when my stomach growls loudly, reminding me I haven’t eaten anything since yesterday. Luckily, there’s a bakery across from the studio. They don’t sell the best bread in the world, but it’s good enough for a quick bite.

It must be my lucky day, because for the first time, it’s not crowded—so I head to the counter.

“Can I get a Subway sandwich, please?”

“Two, actually. No onions, and a coffee- wait, you want coffee?” A girl behind me asks me, and she gets ahead of me at the counter.

When I heard her voice, I knew it was Catra. Lately, almost everything is about Catra…

“No, just a coffee and an orange juice,” I finally say.

Maybe I shouldn't take my anger out on her, or better yet, on everyone else. I've already had enough after my talk with Glimmer in the apartment. So, I decide to do a kind thing and take out my wallet to pay.

But she steps in front.

“Today’s on me,” she says, handing me a $20 bill.

“Is it for here or to go?” the bakery worker asks.

“To eat here,” / “To go,” we say at the same time.

The poor guy behind the counter pauses to let us decide.

“Not like we’re in a rush, or…?”

I haven’t slept for 24 hours and have no songs up my sleeve... I'll take the easy way out, the option I know will make her happy for at least 15 minutes: Give her the reason.

“Whatever you say, Catra,” I say, heading to the nearest seating area—either located at the entrance of the place to run to the studio or back home… In the event that things go wrong

________________________________________________________________________

"Clean the shelf once more," Razz ordered.

"But I've already cleaned it three times today," I argued.

"And how do you think the display shelves look so shiny? Do they clean themselves? Come on."

I did my best to keep from rolling my eyes.

When Mrs. Razz suggested this job, I thought it would be something easy like watching the customers and moving the instruments around, not cleaning the same section three times… unless it was the guitar section, but no… it was the drum section.

At least Catra has it easier: she works at the counter, so she just has to do some quick calculations on a calculator and pack instruments.

The good thing is, our shift is almost over at 5 p.m.

Razz told us there’s another shift, the “night shift,” if you can call it that, since it’s only from 5 to 7 p.m. But her grandson Kyle, who’s about our age, handles that. She teaches us guitar, and he finishes supervising the store.

"Make sure everything’s ready for the next shift, girl. My grandson should arrive any minute," Razz told Catra.

And she was right, about five minutes later, a scrawny, pale, awkward, and scruffy kid showed up. Is that the grandson of a legendary jazz star?

How does this stuff happen?

"Hi," he barely whispered, almost a squeak. First, he looked at me, then at Catra. When he looked at her, he seemed even more nervous and disheveled… he almost tripped over a row of flutes.

I admit I felt a little sorry for him. He looked so ridiculous.

"I'm—" he started, or at least I think that’s what he said. Honestly, he looked so pathetic I wasn’t sure if he was actually talking to Catra.

"Enough chatting, time for class," Razz said, so I waved goodbye to Kyle and went with Catra to the storage room upstairs.

It looked more like a cozy lounge than a storage room—very clean and lived-in. There was a small table with flowers and snacks, some benches, and even music stands.

The room was lit by lights that looked like chandeliers and had a big window with a great view of the main street of the small town.

"This isn’t my first time teaching music," I said. "Once, I taught at the Horde Classical Academy."

Catra burst out laughing with her crazy laugh.

"No way, I would’ve seen you around the hallways at the academy," she said.

"Girl, that was decades ago. And I’ve definitely taught some big legends."

"Like who?" I asked.

"Director Weaver," she revealed.

"No, my mom—she learned to play violin up north," Catra said, surprised.

"She finished her studies up north, but before that, she learned here, at the Horde," she explained.

"And… did you teach her to play violin?"

"Yes, but only the basics. Then your mom got a scholarship to the Brightmoon Classical Academy in the north, so she moved there to improve her skills."

This was the first time I learned anything about Catra’s family, and what’s crazy is I didn’t find out from her. I don’t blame her—it's notable that she didn’t even know her mom learned to play violin from the same person who’s now teaching her to play the electric guitar.

Life is full of surprising parallels, but this really caught me off guard.

Catra kept bombarding the lady Razz with questions while she prepared everything for the lesson.

"Was this place still a music store back then?"

"Twenty years ago? I wish!" Razz handed us some acoustic guitars. "This was just my house, then I saved enough to open the music store."

We both took the guitars.

"Alright, now show me what little you know," Razz said.

We spent the afternoon doing a basic guitar lesson, which proved to Razz that we had enough experience to start practicing electric guitar the next week.

"I just want to make sure you’re familiar with string instruments," she said.

"But we’re good with the violin," Catra replied.

"Playing the violin isn’t the same as playing the guitar. There are lots of differences, for example, the guitar is bigger, and its strings produce deeper sounds compared to the violin. You just need patience and discipline. Remember, all the rock stars started with this instrument."

We continued practicing, playing simple notes: some C’s and D’s, as well as E and F.

Even though my body was in the lesson, my mind was somewhere else… the sequence of strings I played the day before.

For some reason, I had a feeling Catra was thinking the same thing.

________________________________________________________________________

The moment is really nice, I’ll admit it. The table I chose looks a lot like one of those bakeries you find in Paris, and for the first time, the food tasted way better than usual.

Catra drops her sunglasses so she could finally talk to me.

“I forgot to tell you that you look terrible,” she sips her coffee. “Please tell me you stayed out partying and you're not like this because of the song.”

I take another bite of my sandwich to avoid answering.

“So you are like this because of the song.”

I take a small drink of my orange juice and then say: “I don’t get what you want from me. I try to show you a song, and you automatically dismiss it.”

“But it’s not because I don’t want to. I do it because I’m sure you can write something better. You can write something right now.”

“I was going to tell you at the studio, but if you want me to say it now, fine: I can't write anything. I’m in a creative block.”

She keeps eating as if she didn’t hear me.

“Did you hear me? I can’t write anything.”

“And I have both eyes blue.”

“I’m serious.”

“And I am too. I’ve been wearing contact lenses my whole life to lie about my eye color,” she teases me.

“Why are you doing this?”

“Because I want people to say: Wow, that girl is so different, her irises are different colors and—”

“Catra.”

She lets out a long sigh after knowing that I wouldn't follow her game

“Because I know you’re not in a creative block.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I just know. I just know you. You don’t give up that easily.” she takes another bite of her sandwich

Apparently, today everyone decided to tell me that. Maybe if I talk to the guy at the counter again, he’ll ask: Do you want French bread or don’t give up that easily?

“But if you can’t write a song, then that’s a shame. I can talk to the executives and ask for an extension, so we can take a break from the studio.”

That comment sets off all my alarms.

“No way, we have a deadline for the release.”

“We do, but if you can’t write anything, it’s not worth wasting more time in the studio. Remember what I told you in the first session? I’m not going to pressure you to work.” After saying that, she drops a card with her contact info out of her bag and leaves it on the table. “Call me if you come up with something.”

I take the card, and quickly read her number. It's not the same one she had when she was in high school... that explains why she never got to read my messages when I moved to the city.

She finishes the last bite of her sandwich, puts on her glasses and her bag, and heads toward the studio—or at least that’s what I think she does until she veers toward the parking lot.

Is that it? That’s all? She’s just going to leave like nothing happened, just like when we were 18?

I don’t think so.

I leave my sandwich half-eaten; the anger took my appetite. I cross the street and follow her to the parking lot.

I catch her just opening the driver's door

“Can I know what you’re trying to do?”

She doesn’t answer, doesn’t react, just stays there waiting for me to say something so she can get in her car.

“You’re not going to talk to the executives, and I’m not going to call you if I come up with something because, in case you don’t know, every second counts.”

“Look, why don’t we talk about—”

I’m already starting to get upset.

“No, I don’t want to talk to you anymore. All these little games about not liking my songs just because you think I can write better ones are bullshit. Just accept any song and be done with it.”

Remember that moment when I said I would take the easy way out, the option that would make her happy for at least 15 minutes? Well, those 15 minutes are already over. It's time to make a impulsive choice—the one that will at least make me feel better for the remaining minutes of this conversation: to disagree with her.

And I’m not doing this because I want to be mean, but because I never had the chance to disagree with her when I actually wanted to.

So, I go ahead and close her car door. If this conversation starts here, that means it will end here too.

I’m expecting the worst, but the worst doesn’t come when she speaks softly and firmly

“I won’t do it.”

“Why? It’s not that complicated.”

“I won’t accept just any song because I see a lot of potential in you, Adora, and I want to make the most of it. Seriously.”

“Can you see it? Because I’m waiting for the fucking right time to take that potential and advantage of it too. I can’t just write a song and be done with it. You’re the producer; you should help me with this.”

Her posture shifts, as if she’s had a brilliant idea. She pulls out her phone and starts typing random sentences.

“Are you texting the executives? Cause I guess this could be worse.”

“No, I’m… helping you,” she says.

Now I’m confused.

She opens her car door again, which makes me think she’s about to leave, but instead, she grabs a piano case from the back seat, then turns around the car to get a small suitcase from the trunk and hands it to me.

“Help me carry this for me to the studio. I came up with something.”

We head up to the studio. When Catra opens the door I notice that Scorpia is not in the cabin; she proceeds to connect the piano to the sound system, using the cables from the suitcase I helped her carry.

“Sit on the couch while I finish this,” she says.

I make a sour face for a long moment. I feel useless just doing nothing… At least one of us can write a song.

My little immature scene must be evident, because Catra notices it when I barely cross my arms.

“Just waste your time on the couch for ten minutes, you’ll see.” She encourages me.

During those ten minutes, she takes notes from her phone into a notebook, then starts playing some notes on the piano.

That’s new.

At first, the notes sound a bit chaotic, but then they start to harmonize, and the melody is sweet—just enough to be a rock song.

“One of a producer's jobs, besides making a song, is to understand how the singer you're working with is feeling and how they’re feeling it. So, I’d like to know what's going through your mind right now.” she says while still playing with the piano.

I take off my cap and ruffle my blonde hair.

“ Annoying? Obviously. You were about to complain to the executives just because I can't write any songs.”

“I wasn’t going to do that. I was going to ask them for an extension—”

“It’s the same thing, Catra,” I cut her off.

She shrugs while her fingers keep moving over the keys.

“Since when do you play the piano?”

“Not until you answer me.”

“I know you’ll laugh at me.”

“Of course I will,” she says.

That makes me laugh. It’s obvious she would.

“I’m just stressed. Do you know what it’s like to pressure yourself to write and not be able to?”

“But you’ve written several songs,”

“I haven’t,” I try to deny.

“And why do you show me only half of your work? Don’t you think the rest is good enough?”

The rest of the work…

“The truth is that I haven't written as many songs as you think,” I say.

“So why do you act like a mad with that no one but you can read that notebook.”

“This is not Austin&Ally, and I don't act like a mad.”

“Please, you barely let me touch that diary, and you repeated to me hundreds of times: don't turn the page, that song is not finished.”

“And what's the problem? It is normal that certain songs are not finished.”

“I don't think that out of thirty songs in your notebook, only five are finished”

Her words generated a silence as I tried to find the words to defend myself. But when you feel exposed, it's not so easy to continue a fight.

”What if I think that my songs is not good enough for you to give it the go-ahead?” I confess.

Her fingers froze on the piano keys.

“Adora, there are no bad songs”

“Just ones that need polishing.” I complete to end the conversation.

She keeps playing with the notes.

“And the piano…”

“Razz taught me. I had a lot of free time after high school… which was amazing because they required us to know five instruments to get the master’s degree,” she explains.

“So it was Razz.”

“Yeah, I lived with her the rest of the school year. As you will imagine, she made me work twice as much in the store.” she says, jotting down some more in her journal.

I lived. I knew this would happen sooner or later… I even thought I’d be there when it did, but apparently, the universe didn’t want it that way.

And now I feel guilty because we had a backup plan for when that happened, and we didn’t follow through because I wasn’t there for her.

I feel guilty because I’m probably the reason she left her home.

“Think it’s okay. Try singing this to the rhythm of the piano. You’ll start when I tell you.”

She plays her sweet notes again, now sounding better—clearer, smoother. I can even distinguish some keys: G, B, A, G, and B again.

“Now,” she says.

“Every second counts.
I don’t wanna talk to you anymore, and—”

I don’t finish saying “and” because I take a moment to look at her, trying to see if she’s messing with me again, but I realize she’s focused on the piano.

“Keep going,” she whispers.

“All these little games
You can call me by the name I gave you
yesterday.”

I won’t say it sounds like something I’d write because I literally said it fifteen minutes ago.

“Every minute counts.
I don’t wanna watch TV anymore, yeah.
Can you figure me out?
Just doin' to waste more time on the couch.”

“Speed up the chorus a bit,” she suggests.

“Can you see me? I’m waiting for the right time.
I can't read you, but if you want, the pleasure's all mine.
Can you see me using everything to hold back?
I guess this could be worse...

She doesn’t write anything else. Something’s missing.

“Repeat it once more,” she instructs.

“Can you see me? I’m waiting for the right time.
I can't read you, but if you want, the pleasure's all mine.
Can you see me using everything to hold back?
I guess this could be worse..

“Walking out the door with your bags,” I finish.

She hands me her pen, and our fingers brush for a second, quick but electrifying.

I finish writing the song lyrics in the journal.

A song she wrote about me and my impulsive moment.

“It’s good, very good… We can give it an alternative vibe with guitar and drums.”

“Without ignoring the bass. I still need to finish the rest of the song, but—”

“I’ll do it. I’ll finish the song,”

“Are you sure? I thought your creative block meant you couldn’t write anything,” She raises an eyebrow in the form of mockery.

“I don’t have any creative block, you said so yourself,” I reply.

She nods, sets the piano aside, and leans back on the couch next to me.

“You still have,” she checks her watch, “one day and twenty-two hours to finish that song. I’ll call the guys next week to do a quick instrument test so we can start recording,” she tilts her head toward me, making the situation feel more intimate, “but I’ll only do it if you ask me to.”

I quickly reread the lyrics again.

“Do you see potential in this song?” I ask Catra.

“I can definitely see something promising. What about you, Adora?”

“I see the beginning of something great” I reply.

And our eyes eclipse.

It's been years since I felt this way. I actually missed feeling this.

And before you think otherwise (yes, you), I'm not talking about THAT feeling that complicated things between us after that weird party back in our teenage years. No.

I'm talking about that pure, genuine sense of connection: you think of something, and the other person just knows what you're thinking about. I'm talking about that connection you believe you'll only ever have with one person in your entire life, and somehow, it is true.

She breaks eye contact to looks away at her phone.

So I figure the moment pass.

“Scorpia, I’ll need the booth ready by next week. We’ve got a song,” she sends a voice message.

She puts her phone down.

“What do you have in mind for the second verse?” she asks, once again playing with the piano.

Chapter Text

”Pardon my emotions
I should probably keep it all to myself
Know you'd make fun of me.’’

I should focus on the guitar, the bass, or even the piano, but my attention is only on the drums and the gain setting.

Adora hadn’t even finished saying “You’d make fun of me” a second time when, without thinking twice, I turned down most of Glimmer’s drum gain.

You’ll see soon why.

“You’d make fun of me.”

I strictly told Escorpia to do the same with the piano volume to help tone down specific frequencies from the bass and guitar.

“You’d make fun of me.”

The strings on both Adora’s and Bow’s guitars are speeding up. It’s not frantic, just exciting.

You might wonder why I’m obsessed with speed. The answer is simple: because for me, producing a song is like operating a roller coaster.

It’s a strange comparison, I know, but think of it this way... When you get on this ride, you can only think of one thing: the thrill of the descent.

You never think about how slow the climb might be, or how scary it could be if something breaks down and it all turns into a horrible scene from that movie “Final Destination.” The only person truly concerned with those things is the operator who controls the ride. They take their time making sure everything works as it should, so everyone on board can enjoy those brief moments of euphoria.

That euphoria is the music.
The passengers are you.
Every member of this band is part of the roller coaster.
And I’m the damn operator in charge of this ride.

“You’d make fun of me.”

Enough. It’s time to drop in, and Scorpia knows it better than anyone because without even saying a word, she turns up the volume on the instruments.

This is the moment of euphoria.

“Can you see me? I’m waiting for the right time.
I can’t read you, but if you want, the pleasure’s all mine.”

I take off my monitor headphones because the rest of the recording is in the hands of the sound engineer.

I could say my work is done, but the truth is, it’s just beginning.

Since last Wednesday, I’ve been polishing this song in every way I can think of with Adora. After a half-hour argument, we decided to call it “Bags.” At first, I wanted to call it “I’m Adora and I’m pissed,” but she shot that down immediately.

That day, we didn’t leave the studio until the last rays of sunset disappeared from the window. The funny thing is, we didn’t stay late because of the composition (which was quick thanks to Adora’s creativity), but because of the pre-production progress.

Since the studio has spare instruments, she grabbed a Charvel, and I grabbed a Fender bass, and we spent the time tuning strings and randomly playing chords, hoping they’d sync perfectly to find that perfect groove.

“Don’t you think it sounds too indie?” Adora asked me at that moment.

“It is said by the girl who hated punk and is now the leader of an alternative rock band.” I argued, which just made her more stressed because she rolled her eyes at me. “Look, you have to see rock as a spectrum, okay? Yeah, there are many subgenres, but in the end, it’s all just rock. It doesn’t matter how it sounds or how other people perceive it, what matters is that you like it.”

She bit her cheek, lost in thought—or maybe tired, or reflective… I couldn't explain it, and that scares me.

I’m afraid of wanting to read her mind as easily as she can read mine.

“Just forget what I said. Let’s start over from the top,” she said, and we kept working.

Then the weekend came. We did a soundcheck yesterday and today we finished the recording phase; now I just have to handle the post-production, which is my least favorite part.

I officially call it a day when Mermista throws her over-ear headphones across the studio, not even bothering to disconnect her bass, just leaving it aside and walking out.

“We’ve hung out enough for today. See you in a week… or maybe in a month.” she says without more, and she leaves.

“Please tell me I’m hallucinating and that girl didn’t throw a pair of headphones worth over $6,500 across the studio,” Scorpia says, frozen in shock at Mermista’s crazy move.

“You’re hallucinating,” I reply.

I have a feeling this isn’t the first time she’s done or said something like that because the other girls (and Bow) took the headphones toss as casually as if she’d just said a quick “Bye,” like any normal person.

Luckily, I included in my contract that if any instrument, monitor, or other essential objects get damaged, I’m not responsible for it.

I get up for a moment to stretch since my joints feel stiff from sitting all day in front of the console.

But it’s worth it. It’s always worth it.

“Tired?” I ask as they come out of the booth.

“I could sleep for ten days straight,” Frosta admits.

“I can’t feel my fingers anymore because of the guitar,” Bow says, stretching his back.

“I could keep recording for eight more hours if I could,” Adora says excitedly.

That’s when everyone, even Scorpia, lets out a long, loud groan.

“Feel free to stay and keep recording all you want, Adora. I’m exhausted, so I’m out,” Glimmer says.

“Before you all leave,” I stop them for a minute, “it’d be good to see you all in two days. By then, I’ll have finished editing the song.”

They all agreed without hesitation.

“About that, do you think you could maybe— I don’t know… give us a little sneak peek?” Of course, only Adora would ask for that kind of thing.

I give her one of my sarcastic smiles.

“If I’m in a good mood tomorrow, I might send Micah the first two minutes of the song.”

“Maybe?” she presses again.

“Just maybe. End of story,” I say, opening the door so they can leave the studio (and my sight).

I love getting my way.

________________________________________________________________________

The applause shattered the silence in every corner of the theater.

“You and I look totally dumb,” I whispered to the blonde girl next to me, forcing a smile that was completely directed at the audience.

“You're saying that because of the dress,” she whispered back, bowing slightly.

“I’m saying it because we look like we were pulled straight out of a preschool for babies, handed a violin, and told to play alongside adults. Though, now that you mention it, these dresses are horrible. It’s like we’re all planning to attend a funeral right after this performance.”

“You’re overdoing it,” she glanced at me.

“We’re lucky we’re playing the violin because if we’d been playing any wind instrument, they wouldn’t even notice how short we are.”

“The rest of the orchestra is only three years older than us, Catra.”

“Forget the three-year age gap. Everyone here looks like they’re 5’10”,” I shot back.

Finally, the curtain fell over the stage, ending the winter concert.

We all left the stage in silence and order; if you think about it, we all looked like soldiers, and Director Weaver seemed like a general.

After stepping off, we headed to the dressing rooms and put our instruments in their cases.

We knew this routine inside and out after doing the same performance hundreds of times… except for Adora, since it was her first concert with the orchestra. Though, technically, it should’ve been her second, but last year’s was canceled because of a snowstorm.

Afterward, we circled around the theater to meet our parents at the entrance, who immediately wanted to take pictures with us.

Except my mom, who was deep in conversation with some notable former students of the orchestra, people who had passed down the music gene to their children (who now also belonged to the same academy).

That’s it, I didn’t have my mom there to take pictures or gush over me but I had two people who would always welcome me with open arms: Adora and her mom.

“She said she’d wait for us by the marble stairs.” Adora told me.

We hurried toward the marble stairs at the entrance. At first, we couldn’t recognize her because of the huge crowd of parents, until a camera flash suddenly pointed directly at us.

“Say cheese!” she called out before taking a second photo.

It was her. She was here. And she genuinely wanted to take a picture like all the other parents. Her face was pure happiness.

Without thinking, I put my arm around Adora’s shoulders; she did the same, and we both gave our best smiles for our first concert photo — not knowing it would become a kind of tradition for the next three years.

The camera made a soft click, and the flash blinked out for a few seconds.

“You both look beautiful, and congratulations. You did an incredible perfomnace, I’m so proud of you,” she said, tears of happiness welling in her eyes.

“Mom, you’re embarrassing me in front of Catra,” Adora whispered privately.

I wish she hadn’t seen my eyes, because in that moment I was the second person ready to cry over such a simple thing: someone being proud of me.

“I’m so happy you think that, Mara,” I said.

And I don't know why, but I suddenly felt like hugging her. So that's what I did.

It was strange, because I don’t recall ever hugging my mom before.

Well, now that I think about it, we did once.

It was after a foreign teacher gave a master class to the advanced youth students about how Niccolò Paganini’s techniques could be applied to modern music. During practice, he asked for a volunteer to play “La Campanella” (one of his most famous pieces), so I raised my hand and volunteered.

I didn’t do it for attention; I did it because I knew that if I didn’t, my mom would start that familiar lecture: that she was wasting all her time with me, teaching me complex pieces since I was 12 just to end up slacking off in her academy.

It was surprising that it ended with a compliment from the teacher, who said that despite my young age, I was undoubtedly a violin prodigy. That comment seemed to boost my mom’s ego, because afterward, she told me, “For the first time, you did it right,” then gave me a small pat on the shoulder (which I still consider a hug to this day).

But nothing compares to what I felt then. Nothing.

“Enough tears, now I want to take as many photos as possible.” Mara said, and Adora and I endured her camera’s flash for a long time just to make her happy.

That sweet moment was spoiled when I saw my mom leave the theater entrance. It looked like she was searching for someone… maybe, for the first time, she was looking for me.

But it wasn’t like that, because her eyes focused first on Adora, then on her mom.

“Mrs. Smith, right? Nice to see you again,” she started a friendly conversation.

It made me want to burst out laughing because apparently she’s friendly with everyone, except me.

“I say the same, Director Weaver. I want to congratulate you on the concert. It was exceptional, just like all your students. It’s clear you put a lot of effort and love into your work.”

Love? Could any part of her heart hold love?

“What can I say? I’d give my life for the musical community,” she laughed softly.

That’s the only time I’ve ever seen her laugh.

“I just want to say it’s always a pleasure working with your daughter. She’s a very talented and special girl, maybe a little too special to change the world of symphony,”

“That’s very kind of you, Director Weaver, because I feel the same way about Catra,” I heard to Mara say.

My mom looked confused for a moment, then her eyes shifted from Adora to me, as if she was seeing me for the first time.

Wait— I don’t think she realized I’d been standing right next to Adora all this time.

“I was a little worried Adora wouldn’t adjust to this new life after we moved, but Catra’s been a huge support. She has such a genuine personality that she brings out the best in Adora; I’m sure much of that kindness comes from you,” Mara added.

Does Mara actually think that about me? Seriously, someone’s complimenting me in front of the person who’s never felt the need to praise me? Do I really bring out the best in Adora?

Even my mom didn’t know what to say to that.

After a moment of silence, she gave her that mom smile and said, “I guess they are lucky to have each other... I hope I see you at the orchestra again in mid-January” she told Adora.

“So it will be.” Adora replied.

“Well, duty calls. It was nice talking to you. Catherine, will you come with me?”

“Sure. See you later, Adora.” I said, waving goodbye.

“Yeah, see you” she responded uncertainly.

I followed my mom, just like shadows follow people— I had no idea what was about to happen, but I knew it wouldn’t be good.

When we were far enough away, my mom quietly said:

“It would be great if someday you could learn something positive from that girl… After all, she has so many virtues that you clearly lack.”

That day, I learned that even at your best moments, someone will always try to ruin it.

And she ruined mine.

________________________________________________________________________

”Don't forget to lock the door’’ says Scorpia after letting out a long, loud yawn.

It’s 10 p.m. and I’m still working on post-production touches.

“Remember, you can keep editing it tomorrow,” she adds while packing up her things.

“I know, I know, but I can get a head start on some stuff. And I’m not that tired,” I reply.

“I’ve heard you tell better lies, Wildcat. See you tomorrow, and try not to stay out too late,” she says with a smirk.

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll be late. Bye-bye,” I say as she leaves the studio heading to my apartment to rest.

I could go too, but I can’t stop now. The song is sounding great, and I can’t lose this flow of inspiration just when I finally found it after so much time.

I keep fixing small sound issues when my phone screen lights up at midnight.

I’d ignore it, but it’s a message from an unknown number.

«You said you might send us a preview tomorrow…»
«And now it’s tomorrow.»

Adora. It’s obvious she’s the one texting me.

I need to relax. It’s just work stuff, normal… Or maybe she really just wants to hear from me—No, it’s clear she only cares about the song.

«From what I understand, you’re not Micah»

«Of course I’m not. I’m Hayley Williams… or did you forget? »

A wave of nostalgia hits me like a three-meter-high wave. No, I would never forget.

«You’re still not Micah»
«Seriously waited until midnight to ask about the song?»

I wait a minute.

«Yes.»

Of course, she wants to know about the song.

A little bubble pops up on the chat indicating she’s typing. I keep waiting, but then the bubbles disappear. No message follows.

«Just the first-minute preview» I reply.

Suddenly, my phone rings… but it’s not just a call. It’s a VIDEO CALL.

OKAY, stay calm. It’s just a video call, that’s all.

I position the phone on a corner of the mixing console, accept the call, and Adora’s face appears on my screen—or part of her face, since it’s dark and I can’t see her clearly.

“Sorry I look so bad, I was trying to sleep,” she says, rubbing her eyes. “Wait— you’re still at the studio?!”

“No, I just have the same studio set up in my apartment.”

She rolls her eyes.

“It’s too late, Catra. You can keep editing tomorrow.”

“It’s midnight, so technically it’s already tomorrow,” I say.

“Touché.” she responds.

I stare at the screen for a few seconds.

“Why did you video call me? I was planning to send you an audio clip of the song” I ask.

“Never. If there’s one thing I want to avoid, it’s a leak of the album’s songs” she replies.

“But my songs have never leaked before,” I say.

“Well, lucky you, but I prefer to prevent any accidents.” she says.

“Better safe than sorry,” I agree. I rewind the track so I can hear it again, especially the first minute, which is fully edited. “What do you think?”

I play the clip, and we both fall silent, starting the longest minute of my life.

Her expression is focused,she’s really analyzing every note and chord.

When the track ends she only say: “Sounds fantastic, seriously, Catra… but—”

“But…” I say, startled. I’ve never received a “but” in my entire music career.

“But… are you sure you still can’t hear the rest?” she asks with a slight smile.

“No, enough is enough.”

“I feel the same about your crazy schedule: enough is enough. Go home and get some sleep, please. It’s way too late,” she says, and I yawn. “Look at you, falling asleep on the console.”

“Fine, fine, I’m leaving,” I say, quickly saving the edits and shutting down my computer.

I pace around the studio, tidying up things for the work I have ahead in just a few hours. Then I notice Adora is still watching me from the phone screen. Now that I look closer, she’s lying on a bed, covered by a huge quilt that looks like a giant cloud.

“Are you going to hang up?”.

“And to blindly believe that you will go home and sleep? I don’t think so… I suppose you sometimes forget that I know you, too.’’

“No, I don’t forget it.” I pick up the phone still in video call and head out of the studio.

I hand the key to the door and walk toward the elevator.

“Want to see me get in my car, Mom?” I tease.

“Now that you mention it, that’s a good idea,” she replies.

When I reach the lobby, I keep walking toward the parking lot. I finally get in my car and leave my stuff on the back seat—except for my phone, of course.

As I start the engine, I notice on the screen that Adora is rubbing her eyes again.

“You should try to sleep again.” I tell her.

“Of course not, I’m—” she interrupts herself with a yawn. “Perfect.”

“I’ll be fine, Adora. My apartment’s only a few blocks away,”

“Are you sure?” she asks with a hint of worry.

“I’m hanging up now. Good night, sleep well.”

“Good night to you too,” she says softly.

And I end the call.

The car feels eerily quiet—way too quiet.

I hadn’t even reached the first traffic light when I started asking myself: What am I even doing?

Chapter Text

I swear, I’m about to pass out. Any second now, I’m going to faint.

I should stop for a second, take a breath, and then keep going, but I just can’t—especially now that the treadmill says I only have 3 minutes left to hit 5K.

I think I pushed myself too hard with the speed. I should be jogging, not running, but this is the only way I know how to burn off all my adrenaline.

The recording, the call with Catra, that “Good night, sleep well”… It’s all just too much right now. I’d asked for the pace—meaning the running pace. It’s something I used to do back in my college days to relieve stress, but lately I’ve really needed a cardio routine. I’m sick of lifting weights.

I just need to focus. Three minutes is nothing. On the other hand, cardio’s way more fun now that I’ve downloaded that Travis Scott playlist.

Right now, “SICKO MODE” is playing, and there’s no one and nothing that can break my streak.

Why did the music stop?

I really hope my AirPods didn’t break again. These are already the third pair I’ve bought this year.

When I think about checking my phone to see if there’s a problem with the music or Bluetooth, a robotic voice comes through my headphones, saying, “Incoming call from Glimmer.”

I answer the call without slowing down.

“Hope this is quick, I’m running,” I manage between heavy breaths.

“Don’t tell me your crazy coach has you running 3K again,” Glimmer says on the other end with that classic annoyed mom voice.

I glance quickly at the treadmill monitor, which reads in big letters: Goal — 5K in 2 minutes and 27 seconds.

“You know I just—” I gasp again, “like to push myself.”

“I see… Well, just letting you know we’re going out tonight,” she says before I can protest.

“I’m hanging up, talk to you later.”

“Wait! No excuses! It’s already decided.”

“Decided by who?”

“Me. Look, just be ready by 10 tonight. Bow will pick you up in his car, BUT DON’T SIT IN THE FRONT SEAT, THAT’S MY SPECIAL SPOT.”

“Uh-huh…”

Honestly, I wasn’t really listening to her anymore. I might be a rock star, but one thing I don’t do (besides tattoos) is party a lot.

It’s not that I don’t like going out— I just don’t like getting hounded by camera creeps who call themselves paparazzi. It’s bad enough they tail me during the day… I really don’t want to run into them at night.

And before you go against me, I do go out but only for events that represent the band: a private record label party, music awards, or maybe a bandmate’s birthday bash if they’re famous. But that’s it. And I know choosing privacy at this point isn’t easy, but as long as I can keep my life chill, I will.

That’s why I do all this: moving to a new apartment after my address got leaked online, train in a private gym, and even wearing a cap to cover my face most of the time.

“Hey? Are you listening or did your brain get too much oxygen and you fainted?”

“I don’t want to go,” I reply, still watching the timer.

“Come on, Adora, we haven’t seen the girls from the band in ages.”

“We literally saw them yesterday at the studio—”

“You know what I mean. Besides, you need a break—from the music, from Catra, from the pressure of being famous…”

“You’re overdoing it.”

“Just think of it as celebrating our first single for the album.”

The album. That reminds me—I’ve got to meet up with Catra at noon to work on some songs.

“Please say yes. I know you avoid all that nightlife stuff, but we all want to see you there. Make this an exception.”

I start breathing through my mouth; I’m really running low on energy during this call.

I guess I can’t deprive myself of all the experiences a person should have just to overprotect my safety… Now that I think about it, the paparazzi seem pretty harmless, plus the rest of the band will be there too. It’s not like anything bad is going to happen; we’re just going out to have some fun.

The timer is counting down the last seconds: Goal—5K in 15 seconds.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“To The Midnight Velvet.”

I think the run is affecting me enough to hear the crazy things coming out of Glimmer’s mouth.

“No way, you need a reservation at least three months in advance to—”

“Dear Dora…” UGH— She used the ‘Dora’. “being famous in this industry has its perks, like knowing a guy who knows another guy who knows another guy… and before you know it, you’re meeting the daughter of the owner of the hottest club in the country.”

“At this rate, you’ll conquer the world by tomorrow.”

“May Grayskull hear you.”

The treadmill stops, allowing me to rest.

I think the run is over, but another robotic voice (now coming from the treadmill monitor) loudly says, “5K goal reached. It’s time to rest.”

“Who said that?”

“Nothing, I just think the treadmill is broken.”

“But—”

“Well, I’ll see you tonight, byeeee.” And I hang up.

I lie down on the floor and try to sync my breathing, soon I'll think of an excuse to get rid of the night out. Inhale and exhale, over and over again...

It must be my lucky day because it’s the first time I’ve managed to reach 5K. Maybe if I keep up my initiative and training, I could participate in next year’s mega marathon organized by the record label to raise funds for small music academies. I usually just make a small donation, but it wouldn’t be bad to compete… Who knows, maybe I’ll end up among the top 30 winners.

Who knows…

I reach for my water bottle with the little energy I have left and take a sip. I’m lucky that at this hour the gym isn’t too crowded; I’d be really embarrassed to be panting from exhaustion in front of other people… Especially because in this type of gym it is normal to find doctors, models, bodybuilders and entrepreneurs. All of them famous.

I glance at the clock while taking one last swig from my bottle: 10:45 AM.

My meeting with Catra is in two hours. So reluctantly, I force myself to get up and walk toward the gym exit, praying internally to all the cosmos in the galaxy that I can walk back to my apartment without my legs giving out from fatigue.

As soon as I step outside, I pull my cap down over my head and then raise my hoodie over it so that no one can notice me.

Wow, what an incredible life being a rock star is.

After a long walk, I finally reach my place, and without doing anything else, I strip off my sweaty clothes and head straight to the bathroom for a shower. When I come out, I change into fresh clothes, grab a quick snack, and tidy up a bit (which doesn’t take long since I don’t have many furniture… I seriously need to hire an interior designer).

In retrospect, I kill time until it’s meeting hour… until I can show Catra most of my unfiltered drafts.

Since we wrote—since SHE wrote ‘Bags’, I’ve realized that I can’t let my insecurities about what Catra might say or think about my songs hurt the band.

It’s like she said: I have to see rock as a spectrum. And if the only way to show her my vision of that spectrum is by revealing the real Adora, then I’ll have to take that risk once again; that’s why I picked 12 of my best lyrics where I poured all my love, effort, sweat, and tears.

The songs are not finished, but if the two of us can wrap up a song in less than a week, then these drafts will be a piece of cake.

I’m just holding onto the hope that she won’t be able to figure out much of the meaning, the true meaning, hidden in those songs.

I’m really wishing with all my heart that everything goes well.

I’m once again a victim of time when I get a message from Catra, and I realize there are only 30 minutes left until I see her.

«The studio is driving me crazy.»
«How about we meet at the bakery where we had breakfast last time?»

My heart skips a little. Just a little.

«I’ll be there; I’ll order my usual» I reply.

«Order mine without onions» she adds.

«And an espresso?» I ask.

«And an espresso.»

I grab my song journal and head out of the apartment, walking to the bakery. Since it’s a sunny day and there’s not much traffic on the street, I decide to leave the cap behind.

It’s definitely my lucky day.

________________________________________________________________________

Razz's goddaughter was proposed to. She mentioned it during our last practice session.

"She finally found someone who gets along with her," she said while putting her guitar away. "It's hard, you know? To meet someone you love for both their strengths and weaknesses, and for that person to feel the same about you." She says this wisely.

"Don’t tell me there’s a Mr. Razz out there?" Catra asked.

"Thank God, no!" She burst out laughing like a little girl. "The thing is… Some people like me were born to have ourselves."

"And don’t you feel sad about feeling lonely?" I asked.

Suddenly, her smile widened a little more as if she was about to reveal to me all the secrets that Pandora's box hides.

"Being alone is very different from feeling lonely, and I never feel lonely. Try not to see loneliness as something bad; at some point in your lives, you will experience it. It will be there sooner or later."

"But if you’re alone— How do you feel love?" I said, confused.

"Adora, love is everywhere: in the music you make, in the people around you, even the simple act of living is the most faithful act of love you do for yourself. Try to see love everywhere," Razz clarified. "I feel love in my role as a musician when I teach you to play the guitar," she added. "Or do you think that’s not love?"

That made me think a lot.

"If you’re going to get all mushy, I better leave," Catra jumped in.

"What I’m saying is, the wedding will be next weekend, so I’ll have to close the shop for those days. Don’t look at me like that; I can give you the lesson in advance tomorrow afternoon."

"But tomorrow is Monday," I said.

"And so what? Do you both have class at the academy tomorrow?"

"No, but I think Catra won’t be able to attend and—"

"Nonsense. I’ll be here on time." she declared in the most insecure tone I’ve ever heard.

"Tomorrow then. Here at 4:30 PM. On time."

That day when we left Razz&Blues, I couldn’t help but ask Catra why she did what she did.

"I seriously don’t understand you," I said with an angry tone.

She quickened her pace even more.

"Catra, please don’t ignore me." I said, even angrier.

She stopped, so we continued the conversation more calmly.

"I don’t know what you think, but when we started Razz's lessons, I thought it would be something just for us, something secret," I confessed.

"And it is!"

"Then why are you insisting on going to a lesson tomorrow when it’s obvious you have to be at the academy? Do you want your mother to find out about the guitar classes?"

"No, I don’t want that and—she won’t find out… She won’t find out."

I looked at her with fear, afraid that something terrible could happen if things went wrong. It’s just silly guitar classes; I shouldn’t worry, but with Catra, everything is different… it’s like she’s a ticking time bomb and her mother is the fire that lights the fuse.

At any moment she could explode.

"I’ll be at the academy in the afternoon, it’s true. I have to teach those little kids until 4:00 PM," she said. "Only until 4:00 PM; after that, I usually go home."

"And your mother?"

"My mother has to be at the academy until late afternoon; it’s her duty as the director: to greet the first student and say goodbye to the last one. It won’t be a problem," she said calmly, though I felt she was trying to calm herself down and not me. "Everything will be fine, Adora. You could even join me in the lesson, and afterward we can go together to Razz… what do you think?"

I kept looking at her with a worried expression.

"Please, just this once, be on my side. We can’t postpone a class now that we’re so far along; we’ve already learned to play half of ‘Dreams’ without sounding like a disaster," she insisted.

I didn’t say anything else, so I crossed to the other side of the street toward my house, ending the conversation there. It didn’t help much because as soon as I walked away, Catra said, “See you tomorrow,” and walked off.

Today, I remember all of this while getting out of my mom's car.

“Send Catra my regards,” she says cheerfully before slowly driving away from the academy.

I adjust my grip on the guitar case and head inside. I've been at this academy for almost three years now, and I hope I don't get lost again like I did on my first day. I walk down the first hallway to the right and knock on the door to see the only face I want to recognize there. I hear a faint “Come in,” so I enter the classroom.

And there’s Catra, surrounded by a bunch of kids who are all under nine years old. It's a bit of a strange sight for me.

When she looks up to see me, I can tell her eyes light up.

“Adora! Come, sit here next to me!” she says happily, and I immediately notice a lot of confused looks from the kids in the room.

“Is she another teacher?” asks a sweet little boy whose hair covers his eyes, and when he smiles, you can see he’s missing a front tooth.

“Good question, Finn,” Catra replies confidently. “Friends, I want to introduce you to Adora; she will be my assistant today.”

Just as I'm about to sit in the chair Catra prepared for me, I can't ignore the chorus of kids saying, “Hi, Adora!” and she gives me a quick little wink.

Then she quickly leans in and whispers, “Thank you for coming, really.” Then she continues with her lesson.

It's the first time I've seen Catra take such a serious role as a violin teacher; it almost seems like she was born for it… until I remember that she was raised specifically for that role.

“Let’s practice what we learned in the last class. You all know the drill: good posture, and then we’ll see if we can play a note.”

Then that boy, Finn, raises his hand nervously and asks, “What if it doesn’t go well?”

Catra crouches down to his level, pats his hair, and responds kindly: “Don’t worry boy, we all learn step by step. The important thing is to try. Do you want to give it a shot?”

Finn nods excitedly, and she helps him position the violin on his shoulder, showing him how to hold it correctly. The others follow suit, some more successfully than others, but all eager to learn. She walks among them, gently correcting their postures and encouraging them with a smile.

Why had I never seen that warm smile on Catra? Or those eyes full of patience?

“You’ve all learned! Great! Now let’s move on to the notes. Can someone demonstrate?”

In the end, one of the kids manages to play a note, and everyone bursts into applause. Catra looks at them with pride, and I can’t help but smile, impressed by the patience and love she shows in this instruction. Love… so this is the love Razz talked about.

When the lesson ends, Catra says goodbye to all the kids. When I think we're ready to go, Finn runs up to me and hugs me.

“Will you come to the next class, Adora?” he asks with puppy-dog eyes.

“I—”

“Adora has to teach violin to other kids, Finn,” Catra says.

“Ohh,” he replies with a sad smile.

“But we’ll still see each other around here,” I encourage him.

“And will you say hi to me?”

“Of course! With a hug included,” I say with a guilty smile.

“Well Finn, you have to say goodbye to Adora,” Catra says.

“Goodbye Adora,” he says, hugging me even tighter.

“Goodbye,” I say before leaving the academy—or rather, before Catra pushes me out of the academy.

“We're going to be late,” she says.

“Haven’t they taught you that lying to kids is wrong?” I accuse her.

“It’s a white lie; besides, Finn is so sweet. I wouldn’t be surprised if he hugged you until his mom came to pick him up,” she laughs.

“In the end, Catra has a sweet side.”

“What? Of course I don’t!” she says and then gives my shoulder a playful shove.

“What’s going on? Do you want a hug from Assistant Adora too?” I insist with my arms open wide.

“Just stay away from me,” she says, blushing and quickening her pace.

________________________________________________________________________

She doesn’t take long to arrive and sits in the chair I chose for us just as the worker brings our order.

“Thank goodness, I’m hungry,” she says.

I don’t say anything back; I just gently slide the notebook across the table so she notices it. Her eyes land on it with curiosity, like a cat spotting a mouse.

“Is that…” she suggests.

“These are songs I’ve really been working on over the last few months. A lot of them aren’t finished, but I guess we could work on that… you know, together.”

She’s about to flip through the pages, but when she reads the first page, she stops.

“Where’s this vote of confidence coming from?”

“The band can’t stall just because of me; I can’t let that happen. By the way, you did a great job writing ‘Bags.’”

“We did, Adora. Remember, we’re on the same team,” she corrects me.

“We did, right… If we managed to finish that song, I’m sure we can do the same with these.”

That was my permission: for her to dive into those songs, to work with me without filters or guidelines. My permission for her to re-enter my life. It’s a new sign of peace amid the cold war brewing between our past and present.

She keeps flipping through the pages one by one, analyzing the incomplete lyrics slowly. I feel a bit nervous handing over so much of my work, so I start eating.

“These are the songs I was looking for,” she says, nodding. “Adora, these lyrics are amazing. With this, we can record most of Side A,” she says with admiration.

“But most of them aren’t finished.”

“For now. It won’t be that hard to finish them; we just need to make some adjustments to the lyrics, but they’re perfect, seriously.”

“We can do it today, if you can.”

“I’d love to, but I have to tell you no,” she says, closing the notebook. “It’s Saturday, remember? I don’t want you in the studio on weekends.”

“I still think that’s a pretty dumb rule.”

“You say that because you have a fun job compared to others who work office hours from 8 AM to 7 PM,” she says while taking a sip of her coffee.

“You sound like you’ve been through that.”

“Oh, I actually have,” she adds. “And it’s awful.”

Catra working in an office? What did I miss when I moved here?

“To finish my business administration degree, apparently the final project required doing community service for small businesses. Community service means working for them for six months without pay just to get extra points on your thesis.”

“Wait, you worked for someone for FREE for six months? Isn’t that labor exploitation?” I ask.

“It isn’t when you’re not a permanent employee at the company,” she laughs. “It was a complete nightmare and a total disappointment. I spent four years of my life studying something only to realize at the end that I didn’t want to do it…”

That sounds really sad.

“I know it’s not my place to ask, but… how did you go from working in an office to working in the music industry?”

“Luckily for me, the university had a music program. They offered certain graduate programs you could take if you were interested in everything related to music, including a master’s in music industry. For a second, I thought I wouldn’t make it since there were hundreds of people on the day of the entrance exam; it was really competitive, especially when the university announced they would only have 400 spots. I still remember seeing Entrapta so happy when she found out her name was first on the list.”

“And what place did you get?”

“398th.” She says this with the same nostalgia you feel only when talking about one of your greatest achievements.

We finish lunch and say goodbye after agreeing to leave the adjustments in composition for Monday.

I return to my apartment, wondering who our substitute producer would have been if she hadn’t made it into the top 400 students at that university. I must have a short imagination because ever since she arrived, I can’t picture working with anyone else.

As night fell, I started eyeing the outfit I had laid out on the bed with a bit of hesitation. The clock read 9:45 PM, and I was still deciding whether to go or make up some excuse to Glimmer and bail.

No. I can’t make excuses anymore; it’s too late, and besides, I already did my makeup. But still, something isn’t convincing me.

I video call Glimmer.

“We’re on our way to pick you up— can you explain why you’re not dressed?”

“I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO WEAR!” I say anxiously. “I wanted to wear these boots with this jacket, see? THEY MATCH BECAUSE OF THE LEATHER,” I say while pointing the camera at the bed. “The problem is, I don’t know if I should wear pants or—”

“My grandma would wear pants; put on a short or a skirt, and the burgundy color will go better with the black of the boots and jacket.”

“I have a pair of shorts—wait.” I rummage through my closet. “Look, Glimmer.”

“That one! Put that on! I’ll see you in 15 minutes.”

“No, no, I still need something for the top; should I wear a tank top or a shirt or—”

“Don’t wear anything, I’ll see you in 15 minutes.” And she hangs up.

I end up pairing the jacket with a sheer black lace top. It doesn’t matter much because the jacket is so big that you can hardly notice. I grab my bag with my keys, my phone, wallet, and ID. I don’t need anything else.

I see Bow’s car pull up just as I close the front door. I walk over and get in the back seat.

“I hope things don’t get out of hand this time; the last time I went out with you guys, we ended up drinking coconut pitorro in a Puerto Rican neighborhood half an hour from here.”

“It’s not our fault you don’t know how to have fun,” Bow comments.

“That’s true. plus, we got home early,” Glimmer adds.

“We got home at 7 AM!”

“My mom taught me that the streets are dangerous at night, which is why we come back during the day. You need to think more about your safety, Adora,” Bow says as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. He turns up the radio and keeps driving.

Now that I look at them more closely, Bow is wearing a black dress shirt and has his neck adorned with silver chains. Any fool would look ridiculous trying to pull off a weird rapper cosplay, but for some reason, it looks good on him; and Glimmer is wearing a loose dress covered in silver sequins, making her look like a disco ball.

“What about the rest of the girls?” I ask.

“Seahawk is picking up Mermista, Frosta, and Entrapta.”

“Mermista got back together with Seahawk?! Didn’t they break up?” I ask.

“I know! I asked Mermista the same thing, supposedly they’re on good terms AGAIN” Glimmer says.

“Were they ever on good terms?” Bow says sarcastically.

“Frosta told me— but don’t tell anyone, Adora— that Seahawk begged Mermista to take him back. He supposedly showed up at her house with flowers and a serenade, tears and everything,” Glimmer says while touching up her makeup in the passenger seat mirror.

“I believe it. That guy seems like he’d kiss the ground Mermista walks on. He’s kind of—”

“Annoying.” Bow interjects.

“I’d say… weirdo—but yeah, he is annoying,” I reply.

“He’s a weirdo.” Glimmer confirms.

I watch the buildings on Main Street, waiting for Bow to turn north toward the city, but I’m surprised when he makes a U-turn and heads south instead.

“Bow, I think your GPS has an issue… Midnight Velvet is that way.” I point toward the other end of Main Street.

He and Glimmer share a quick look of complicity.

“Don’t tell me you changed your mind and we’re going to the Puerto Rican neighborhood…”

“No, we’re just picking someone else up.”

"Who are you picking up? And why is Bow looking at me like he has a surprise?”

I don't like this.

"You'll see..." Glimmer says.

We drive through street after street until the car stops in front of an apartment complex. I’ve never stopped by here before, maybe because it’s a bit far from downtown. Glimmer turns to look me in the eye and speaks calmly.

"Don't panic, but we invited Catra anda Scorpia to the party."

"WHAT?! YOU DID WHAT?!"

"Come on, you were so excited after recording the new song that Bow and I thought—"

"Don't include me in your evil plans!" Bow interjects.

"I thought it would be a good idea to include her in the group, especially now that she's the new producer; she should get used to seeing us together," Glimmer tries to explain.

"This is a bad idea." I start shaking my head as if I'm about to witness a social suicide. "That's why you insisted so much for her to come… You- YOU TRICKED ME!"

"Yeah, I know, but it's for your own good and—" She looks at the entrance of the complex and sees two people walking toward the car. I assumed the other person they invited was Scorpia. "I just get excited knowing they’ve worked out their issues, and I thought they could keep treating each other the same way as before but better. I'm just trying to do what’s best; I promise, you're my best friend, and I always want what's best for you," she says instead of just saying 'I'm sorry.'

"And you think this is what's best?" I mumble.

"I don't know… we'll find out soon." She rolls down the passenger window and suddenly changes mood, as if she pressed a button in her head and turned into another person. "Hey girls, how's it going? Come on in, don't be shy!" she says with a smile.

I bite my tongue to avoid causing a scene and open the back door. As I push the door open, my eyes meet Catra's gaze, which stands out more than usual because of the dark makeup she's wearing. Then I glance at her hair, which is slicked back; then, unconsciously, my eyes drift to her outfit, which stands out because she's wearing a black lace jumpsuit with a matching blazer that covers her chest and most of her waist, paired with lots of gold jewelry. Finally, I notice her lips are painted a bright red, maybe even too bright.

She looks perfect.

"Adora, could you make some room for Catra and Scorpia?" Glimmer suggests, pulling me out of my trance.

"I—yeah, come on in," I say, moving to the far right seat to make space for them.

Unfortunately for me, Catra got in first, so we end up sitting next to each other. Finally, Scorpia gets in, looking just as good. When she closes the door, Glimmer purposely says something like, "The night is young," and Bow drives us toward Midnight Velvet.

I try to control myself as much as I can to look normal… why do I suddenly feel like I'm breathing really loudly? I'm not out of breath. And why am I sweating? The air conditioning is on. Am I sitting okay? Or do I feel hunched over?

"You look like a disco ball in that dress, Glitter, or should I say Sparkles?" Catra jokes.

"I'd much rather you call me Glimmer than Sparkles."

"Sorry Sparkles, but I've already baptized you with that name," Catra replies.

And an awkward silence fills the car…

Scorpia, as expected, tries to keep the conversation going.

"So… have you guys been to the Midnight yet?".

"Actually, it's our first time going," Bow responds. "I heard the waitlist is a nightmare, but thanks to one of Glimmer's contacts, we managed to get a reservation for tonight. And you two? I imagine you're excited to check it out."

“On the contrary, we’re actually tired of this place from going so many times,” Catra says, catching Glimmer completely off guard to the point where she has to turn her face to see if Catra is joking.

“HOW?! The waitlist is endless and—how?!”

“I went to high school with the DJ,” she replies, sounding bored as if it doesn’t impress her at all. “Not to mention he owes me some favors for helping him with a few covers.”

“How many times have you been?”

“Scorpia has gone a few times since she arrived, and I… I don’t know, in the last two months maybe 11 or 12 times?” she tries to think. “I’ve lost count,” she admits.

“You really like going out,” I say respectfully.

She looks at me like she’s surprised I spoke.

“It’s not that we like going out, it’s just that artists have this thing for holding conferences and signing contracts in nightclubs… I don’t find it interesting, and they’re usually half-drunk the whole time,” she says.

“Well, I’m glad you came with us because it would really be a problem if I can’t find the bathroom in that maze. I heard it has three floors and two terraces.”

“It’s three terraces, not two,” Scorpia corrects.

“You said you and that DJ went to the same high school?” I ask Catra privately, trying to get an answer to a question that has been eating at me since the first day I saw her with the executives. Just probing.

“Yeah, now that I think about it, you know him. It’s Roge, we used to hang out with him at the parties Lonnie threw, remember?”

If there’s one thing I’ll never forget about my teenage years, it’s the parties at Lonnie’s house.

“He always had a cigarette behind his ear, right?” I say.

“That’s him. Except now he’s a DJ and doesn’t smoke anymore because of asthma, but he’s still the same Rogelio.”

I wanted to ask her something more detailed or specific, something that would reveal if she was dating him. But my chance slipped away when Bow started firing questions at Catra.

“Please tell me you have some useful advice for me about the club.”

“Don’t try to park at the entrance because you’ll never find a spot. Few people know there’s also parking in the back of the club… Don’t worry about security; it’s always full of guards.”

Thirty minutes later, we arrived at the venue. Bow turned toward the back parking lot, just as Catra advised, and luckily, it wasn’t as full of cars as the main entrance. As we got out of the car, I couldn’t help but take a few seconds to admire the nightclub: The place looks incredible, a modern structure that seemed to glow on its own in the night.

Midnight Velvet radiates a mysterious and seductive vibe, as if it hides secrets and promises beneath its surface. The music vibrated in the air like a heartbeat, and from outside, we could feel its pulse thumping strongly, inviting us in.

“Mermista told me they’re waiting for us inside.”

That’s our signal to go in.

The number of people there is impressive; everyone has a powerful presence and confidence. They have an alluring aura, as if each of them knows something I’m still figuring out.

Glimmer took care of giving her name to confirm our reservation, so a staff member guided us all up the stairs to the VIP area on the first floor.

We followed him and arrived at the table where Mermista, Seahawk, Frosta, and Entrapta were waiting. In front of the table is a balcony overlooking the dance floor. Dua Lipa's “One Day” is playing throughout the club.

“Finally!” Mermista shouts, which is normal in places like this since the music is so loud you can’t hear anything else. “I just ordered some Gordons! The waiter said it wouldn’t take long! I didn’t order anything else because I was waiting for you! If you want, I can get you a Bacardi, Bow!”

“It’s okay! I’ll order the Bacardi later!” he replies loudly.

Catra leans in close to my ear and says loudly, “Please tell me she’s nicer when she has alcohol in her system.”

That makes me laugh, so I lean in and reply, “Just wait until midnight, and you’ll see her with a smile from ear to ear.”

That gets her laughing too.

We walk over to the rest of the group and greet them. As I’m saying hi, I spot Frosta and give her a hug.

“What are you doing at a 21+ club when you’re about to turn 19 in less than a month?” I ask her quietly.

“Mermista helped me get a fake ID, and I’m not Frosta; my name is Mackenzie, and I was born in 1999,” she says with a haughty air, as if it’s not obvious she looks like a teenager.

“Sure, Mackenzie. Just be careful with the Gordons. I don’t want a repeat of last time—”

“That’s in the past. What’s done is done. Focus on the present,” she says, slipping away to talk to Glimmer.

I leave my bag on the table, and the vodka arrives just as I’m settling into the couch. Everyone’s faces light up with curiosity when we see another waiter come over with shots of tequila.

“I didn’t order tequila!” Mermista tells the other waiter.

“It’s a gift from the owner’s daughter! Enjoy Midnight Velvet!” he replies and walks away.

Glimmer is the first to take a shot, buzzing with happiness because she met someone who knows someone who knows someone who knows the owner’s daughter.

The rest of us start taking our shots too, except for Frosta, whose shot Mermista drinks instead.

“But that was my shot—” Frosta protests.

“When I said I’d bring you one, it was on the condition that you’d be sober. Just be grateful I ordered you one of those energy drinks,” Mermista says, leaving Frosta no choice but to sulk in her misery while sipping her strawberry-flavored energy drink.

I take my shot and feel my side of the couch sink more; it’s Catra.

“Adora Smith just took a shot. it’s the end of the world, people,” she says with fake concern.

“Well, keep prepping your bunker for the apocalypse because I grabbed the taste,” I say, savoring the taste of salt still lingering on my lips from the shot glass.

“I want you to know you’re disappointing 16-year-old Adora who swore she’d never drink even half a glass of beer.”

“She was still a kid back then… and in my defense, I still think beer tastes like old man's urine.” I reply.

“Don’t say that out loud! someone might hear you and cancel you on Twitter,” she whispers with laughter. “I can already see #Adorasmiththeisoverparty trending worldwide.”

I reach for the vodka bottle from the cooler and pour myself a drink.

“My first cancellation! For hate the beer! How exciting… Do you want me to make you a drink?” I ask her.

“I already ordered a Moscow Mule from the waiter, but thanks.”

How pathetic am I?

“Oh, okay…” I put the vodka bottle back and take a sip of my drink, feeling awkward for trying to be polite… when really, I probably just came off as an annoying pest, maybe even more annoying than Seahawk. “Where were we?”

“That you’re going to get canceled. But don’t worry, I’ll use my secret Star Wars fanpage account to defend you against all those internet haters.”

“That sounds like something you would actually do. Although the most likely thing is that they'll end up canceling you too for being ‘Adora Support’, and many will come out saying that you're some kind of bot—.”

“Oh— I’ll be right back, my drink is here” She complains, getting up and walking straight to the waiter who just arrived at our table. Then she turns back to me with hers drink, but Entrapta and Mermista appeared in her way and started a conversation...

My phone vibrates. I turn on the screen and see some messages that Glimmer sent me from the other side of the table.

«Everyone can tell you’re having a gay panic»

«I thought you had given up your role as a loser lesbian in college.»

Oh no. I’ve become my worst nightmare: Seahawk in sapphic form.

«It’s your fault. Be nice and get me out of this.»

Her expression changes when she sees my message. For a second, I think she won’t help me, but then I see she’s on my side when she stands up from the table with her drink in hand.

"I didn't come here to just sit around. Let's go dance! I need to confirm if that DJ is as good as the rumors say." she says loudly so the rest of the group can hear.

"Let's go then!" Mermista shouts, and like a line of ducks, everyone heads down the stairs to the dance floor. Except for me and Entrapta, who has always had two left feet when it comes to dancing.

"Aren't you coming, Adora?" Bow encourages me.

"Adora has never been one to dance." Catra jumps in to tell him.

And it's true. I prefer to sit back and watch others dance rather than participate, the thought of being around strangers dancing under flashing lights that could trigger epilepsy feels a bit uncomfortable.

Despite that, Bow waits for my response.

"I'll head down in a bit..." I say, dragging it out.

After hearing that, Catra goes down to the dance floor with Bow behind her. I stay back, watching them from the balcony with Entrapta.

"I know I'm not the person you usually turn to for relationship advice, but I estimate there's a 95.4% chance that your alert senses are overstimulated when you're near Catra. It's a very common reaction from your hypothalamus," Entrapta says, being her usual human computer self.

"I don't think I'm overstimulated—"

"Your pupils are dilated, and I don't think it's from drinking alcohol. Your breathing rate is at 50 breaths per minute. And I can see you're sweating, unless you have an endocrine issue you haven't told me about..."

"Enough, Entrapta—Yes, no… maybe I'm feeling this way because of Catra. But SHUT UP."

"Why not? According to science, interpersonal relationships should be based on comfort. If you feel uneasy around her, then why are you near her?"

"I don’t know," I stare at my drink for a moment and then take another sip. "She’s always been around, even when she and I were teenagers… and I just can’t… act normal. Maybe science has an answer for that."

She stares at a spot on the dance floor as if trying to find the answer.

"I usually don't delve into biological science, but from what you're telling me, I guess you're experiencing the same effect that insects do when they get disoriented by artificial light. Moths and many insects exhibit phototaxis, meaning their movement is directed toward light so they can fly in a straight line; when they encounter artificial light, like a light bulb, they can't help but be drawn directly to it, causing them to lose their sense of direction and making them tired and vulnerable... Is that what you feel? Do you feel vulnerable being exposed to such bright light that draws you in but that you also can’t stop looking at?"

As she said all those scientific words, I could only focus on Catra. The dance floor is full of people… I could mistake her for anyone else, but I didn’t because she simply shines among the rest. She really does shine. And I can't stop looking at her.

"Yeah… That's how I feel."

Chapter Text

The lights are making me lose all sense of sanity, and I'm pretty sure I'm not feeling lost because of the drink since one glass can't get you drunk.

"We hit it off right away in the first session at the studio, which was a nice surprise because in 67.8% of cases, musicians don't get along the first time they work with new producers!" Enthusiastically exclaims Entrapta, who was so immersed in her experience working with Hordak. "Can you believe he also loves advanced audio editing with DAWs? I waited for years to find a mind advanced enough to share my Sound Design and Manipulation techniques with DAWs! But don’t get me wrong, Adora, I loved working with you, but working with Hordak is basically experiencing musical science."

We had been on the balcony for 40 minutes. Or rather, she had been talking non-stop about work for 40 minutes while I had been trying to keep my eyes on a certain someone on the dance floor and… Where did she go? She was there just a second ago!

"We're in the perfect decade to use MIDI recording and—Are you okay? You look dizzy."

"Aren't these disco lights bothering you? I feel like I'm about to have an epileptic seizure," I say, feeling anxious.

"You’re right, now that you mention it, I read an article that said the flashing frequency of these lights can overload the brain and cause abnormal electrical activity."

I think the lights aren’t the only thing overloading my brain…

"I'm going to step outside for some fresh air," I explain as I get up from my chair and refill my glass with vodka. "If Glimmer comes back, tell her I'll be on the terrace for a bit—"

"Which one?" she asks.

Damn, I forgot this place is huge and has like 29 million terraces.

"The closest one," I say as I head down the stairs toward the exit without having the slightest idea which terrace is closest.

After going down the steps, I move away from the dance area and cross over to the south wing of the lobby, hoping to find a terrace but only run into a restaurant that's way too fancy for me to even think about entering. So, I turn back and walk toward the west wing.

I see a glass door and without thinking too much, I open it, believing I finally found the terrace, and I did: It's a somewhat romantic garden lit by chandeliers with a bar.

It's definitely a perfect place to get some fresh air… but somehow it feels out of place with all those women screaming and jumping in a semicircle.

I walk closer to see what I'm missing that's so interesting. I could swear I was expecting anything except three sexy firefighter dancers.

The hot firefighters are dancing provocatively for a girl about my age who is sitting in a chair with a face that looks like a mix of embarrassment and joy. She's wearing a plastic tiara with a band that says "The Bride."

There was no need to pay attention to the garden speakers, which by the way are blasting "Careless Whisper" by George Michael at a devilishly loud volume, to realize it's a bachelorette party.

Better go back to the disco, this scene is too much for me..

I turn around to head back but accidentally bump into one of the bridesmaids, spilling my drink all over her dress.

"Oh, I'm so sorry! I was just—" I say, genuinely embarrassed.

"You ruined my dress, you dumb blonde! You want to fight, don't you?" she says in a passive-aggressive tone. It's clear she's drunk.

"No! I don’t want to fight; I'm just trying to find the terrace and it was an accident—" I insist as I think about how to fix my mistake.

"Are you saying you're an intruder?" she says louder and louder. "Girls, we have an intruder! And SHE RUINED MY DRESS! I told you not to have the bachelorette party here. Call security!"

I don’t know how I ended up in this situation, but the bartender quickly says something into his walkie-talkie when he hears the shouting, the music stops, and everyone, including the strippers, starts staring at me like I’m an alien from the wrong planet.

“It’s not necessary! I-I didn’t mean to ruin her dress; we just bumped into each other and POOF, accident! Hehe, I was just trying to find the terrace, but I got lost,” I explain while backing away toward the exit. “Sorry for interrupting; I was just leaving. By the way, congratulations on the wedding and—”

Just when I think it’s all going to be over, I bump into someone behind me.

“Excuse me, it’s just that—” When I turn around, I’m surprised to see Catra looking very serious and authoritative.

Why does she always have to show up when I get into trouble?

“Security is on their way, they said there’s a problem,” she says.

“You don’t look like security,” the drunk woman replies.

“I don’t have time for this. Tell me what the problem is. They’re dealing with a code red in the east wing, and we’re undercover,” she interrupts.

I wonder if these are the effects of alcohol my mom warned me about when I was a teenager.

“That girl crashed our private party. We reserved the entire garden for a reason: so no one else would be here except the guests. And she’s throwing her drink at everyone” the annoyed woman says, “She’s a wild one!”

“EXCUSE ME? I’m not a wild one!” I say, getting closer to her, now wanting to fight. But before I can do anything, Catra grabs my wrists and positions them like police officers do with criminals.

“Who do you think you are, intervening without an invitation?! Sorry, ladies, this won’t happen again. I’ll make sure this wild one doesn’t set foot in this establishment again. As an apology, the bartender will provide you with another bottle of whatever you’re drinking. Right, buddy?” she says confidently to the bartender as if she were a partner at The Midnight Velvet.

When the bewildered bartender starts nodding, she pushes me (still with my hands behind my back) toward the exit.

“What are you waiting for? Do you want me to carry you? Walk faster.” Then she turns to the party guests and says, “Hope you all keep enjoying yourselves!” with a smile, making the music blast back to life and the strippers start dancing again as if the last five minutes never happened.

Catra drops her security guard act as we cross the hallway, and both the garden and the glass door fade from our view.

“I leave you alone for 40 minutes, and you’re already throwing your drink at strangers at a bachelorette party you weren’t invited to,” she says with a feigned disappointment while tightening her grip on my wrists. “Didn’t your mom teach you to be happy for other people’s achievements?”

“I just wanted to find the terrace, but this place seems to have no exits! And that makes me a wild one?!” I confess angrily and twist around, causing her to loosen her grip on my wrists. “By the way, how did you find me?”

“It wasn’t that hard. I saw you wandering through hallways like you were looking for an exit in a haunted house,” she crosses her arms. “I was going to let it go, but that lady’s scream said ‘trouble!’ in every language… and for some inexplicable reason, you’re a magnet for trouble.”

“I’m not a magnet for trouble!” I try to insist.

Which didn’t help much because we heard a man in the distance shout: “Security is here!”

“RUN!” Catra orders me, and with the same surprise she used to grab my wrists, she takes my hand and we rush through the hallways toward the exit before the security guard can recognize us.

For a second, I remembered when we used to run from the back of the auditorium to meet my mom after orchestra concerts.

We ended up catching our breath on the stairs in the lobby.

"That... I'm not doing that again! Playing cop and robber is in the past," she says between heavy breaths. "Why were you looking for the terrace?"

"To get some fresh air," I add with a guilty smile.

"You've had enough fresh air with that chase. Now let's go back to the others before they kick us out of here," she says as if she has the final word, and since she really does, I follow her back to the club. Another day, I'll find the terrace.

When we step into the club, I head toward my spot on the balcony, but before I can take the first step up to the VIP area, Catra grabs my hand again, leaving me breathless, and leads me to the dance floor.

"NO, NO, NO," I shake my head repeatedly. "Dancing is not my thing." I stand there trying to stop her, but all she does is guide me through the crowd.

I'm going to be terrible at this. I'm going to mess it up.

"The 'no's don't work on me, Adora," 'Somebody Else' by The 1975 is playing. "If I want something, I get it. And I want you to dance with me." She looks at me like I'm the answer to all her questions, just like she was the reason for all my doubts in the past.

"But the lights—" I insist.

"Do they look like they cause epilepsy? I KNOW. If you feel dizzy, just close your eyes for a few seconds and that's it."

We reach the center of the dance floor, and I start looking around for Glimmer or Bow to save me from this, but I can't find them. I can't find anyone except Catra.

It's like it's just her and me. Two sailors in a sea of people.

The club lights have changed; they're no longer blinding white but slowly flickering blue and yellow lights—the same colors as the irises of the girl in front of me.

She starts dancing, swaying side to side as if every cell in her body feels light with the music… it's like the notes flow through her veins, and she decides never to swim against the current. She moves her head from side to side while her shoulders and hips do the same; it’s not a mechanical motion but a hypnotic one.

The song fits perfectly with the moment; I don’t know how to explain it, but the singer talks with melancholy about a love he wants to forget, yet he can't bear the thought of imagining this person loving somebody else… It would be a bit ironic for me to dance to this song with the one person I can’t forget, so I stay stiff with my arms crossed, trying to keep my distance for my own safety.

“Come on, Adora,” she says as she slowly approaches me with a hesitant smile. It’s not until she puts her hands on my shoulders and shakes me gently, making it look like I'm dancing when she adds, “Just go with it.”

“Can you blame me? I’m just terrible at this.”

“I really should have taken you to more parties when we were in the academy,” she says impatiently to herself. “Just move your shoulders and follow my rhythm.”

She takes my hands again and guides my movements to the beat of the melody. I try to mimic her hip movements and feel like I'm genuinely doing it right because she keeps nodding at me with that approving smile that I love so much.

Yeah, maybe the people around us are singing loudly and dancing as freely as possible, but she's here waiting for me. She's waiting for me to feel free.

“Now, spin.” she says. Then she takes my right hand with her left and gives me a quick spin—maybe a little too quick because after the spin, she quickly holds my waist to help me keep my balance, and we keep dancing like that: her gently holding my waist and me placing my hands on her shoulders for comfort.

Fuck the distance.

The music changed, and instead of ‘Somebody Else,’ Halsey’s ‘Colors’ started playing. As soon as we recognized the first notes, we jumped up with excitement, and the place felt brighter, even more vibrant, because this isn’t just any song.

It’s our song.

I don’t remember exactly when we decided it would be our song, but it just is, and we’re listening to it now.

Catra leans in closer to my ear so I can hear her over the music.

“I choose blue!”

That makes me laugh even more; we’ve always had an ongoing debate about who gets to be blue and who has to be gray, so we’d take turns while singing the lyrics.

We keep dancing, but now it’s different—like two teenagers who think the future is millions of miles away, not knowing that soon their lives, just like their relationship, would change.

We sing loudly and dance freely, pretending that nothing has changed, pretending that we haven’t changed.

I wish with all my heart that the song would never end.

The DJ cuts the music and plays the unforgettable line from the song, so Catra and I have no choice but to sing it to each other with shining eyes: “You were red,” Catra’s lips form as she points at me, then she points at herself to complete, “and you liked me because I was blue.”

A song is just a song… it shouldn’t mean anything. So I play along.

And then we both sing at the same time as we get closer and closer.

The music vibrates in my chest, and for the first time, I feel part of this dance floor, without fear or shame. Although I’m no longer focused on the song, I can pay attention to Catra and that feeling of safety I have when I’m next to her… I once heard my mom say that she brought out the best in me. Despite the years and circumstances, I still believe that’s true.

“Smith, haven’t seen you in ages.” I hear someone say behind Catra in a tone that’s downright nasty.

A chill runs down my spine. As if a bucket of ice water has been dumped on me.

How could I forget that horrible voice? The same voice that has made me feel bad hundreds of times. The same voice where I placed my fears and which ruthlessly decided to stomp on me again and again.

It’s Huntara.

Unconsciously, I pull away from Catra out of fear—fear that she’ll ruin this moment and fear of what she might say.

“You,” I say with a shaky voice, though I really wanted to yell at her to get lost and leave me alone. But I don’t because the last thing I want is to cause a scene worthy of judgment.

Catra looks back and forth between me and Huntara with confusion, as if she’s playing hot potato without knowing who will lose.

“What are you doing here?” I ask without a hint of happiness at seeing her.

“That’s what I’m asking you. You hate these places,” she steps closer to mutter in my face.

“Well, I’ve changed,” I reply in the same harsh tone. “You should do the same.”

I turn around, ready to leave it at that and head back to the balcony with Catra, thinking up some white lie to justify this encounter. But Huntara aggressively grabs my arm.

“The thing is, I don’t want to change,” she says angrily. “And you shouldn’t either… did you forget our plans together?”

“You mean YOUR plans,” I shoot back just as angry, trying to shake off her grip. “Now I’m asking you to let me go; you’re hurting me.”

But she doesn’t loosen her hold.

“You don’t understand, do you? Is it so hard for you to get it?” she says with frustration. “I need you, Adora. I know you need me too, please stop being stupid and—”

“She said to let her go. Now.” Catra confronts Huntara firmly. She doesn't do it loudly or in a problematic way like this situation calls for, but saying it calmly is much more effective than any shout.

Huntara notices Catra like a bothersome fly over her food and looks at her with disdain. Her grip still hasn’t loosened.

“What did you say?” she asks, anger building in her throat.

Catra steps closer, facing her head-on.

“You’re hurting her, let her go,” she says in a clear and firm voice. Then she adds quietly so only Huntara can hear, “I don’t know shit about you, but I think the cameras caught enough of your public harassment act for physically and verbally assaulting a star in the industry, so you’d better let her go if you don’t want to get into legal trouble.”

“Who are you? A brown-noser?” Huntara snaps, stepping even closer to intimidate Catra.

“Her producer. And who are you? I’ll need your name for the report,” Catra replies without backing down.

Huntara hesitates but eventually lets go of my arm.

“I'm the person who used to fuck her.” she says and then disappears from our sight.

No.

She—she couldn’t say that. Not in front of her. Not now.

“Adora, are you okay? Did she hurt you? Do you need anything or—”

I can’t hear her; her voice feels distant, like I’m inside a recording booth, trapped behind glass and unable to hear anything else.

I’ve never felt so exposed in my life—not like this.

Catra takes my hands and says things like, “Everything’s going to be okay” or “It’s over,” but I just can’t process what she’s saying.

I’m thinking about so many things at once: the academy, guitar classes, Lonnie’s party, the conversation I had with my mom, the fight after the concert, moving, meeting Bow and Glimmer, the time I confessed my fear of falling in love again, my relationships that ended badly, the first album, dating Huntara, the manipulation and lies, ending our relationship, visits to the therapist, seeing Catra again…

Everything hits me all at once.

If it weren’t for Catra’s hands on my cheeks wiping away my tears, I wouldn’t even realize I was crying. I’m not someone who hides who I am; I just hide the harsh truth: that I gave my heart to this horrible human being who didn’t hesitate to stomp on it more than once.

I don’t have good memories with this person; they’re nothing like the memories I still cherish with Catra—no. I can’t even compare such an insignificant relationship to what I experienced with Catra.

From the beginning, I planned to tell her about this part of me that many people already know… but she doesn’t yet.

Of all the people I can trust, Catra is at the top of my list… but a part of me is still afraid that her opinion of me will change, that she’ll see something different in me, something she won’t like. That’s why I held back from telling her: I thought there would be a chance in the future to let her know because she’s the one who helped me discover THAT. I imagined hundreds of scenarios and had thousands of dreams that turned into nightmares.

But now I’m facing reality: I wanted to tell her myself, and only me… but it seems that opportunity I longed for slipped through my fingers.

I can feel my hands shaking, the music is too loud and the lights too bright.

Someone is pushing me toward a quieter place, somewhere less chaotic. I don’t know why time feels so fast and so slow at the same time, but I go from being on the dance floor to sitting on the bathroom floor with Catra by my side.

“Adora, I need you to look at me please!”

Now I really look at her, not at her, but at her eyes, which have brought me so much calm in many moments. I still remember the names I gave them: Sea and Earth.

“Let’s do this. You’re going to imitate me every time I inhale and exhale, okay?” she says calmly.

I have no choice but to nod and imitate her.

“We inhale,” and we both breathe in. A few seconds later, she says, “We exhale,” so I release the air I’ve been holding in my lungs. “Again. We inhale… and we exhale.”

We repeat this exercise about 6 or 7 times.

“I think you’re doing it better than I am, don’t you?” she says with a kind smile. “Now I need you to do it at your own pace. I’ll stay right here with you, next to you, no matter what happens” she says while squeezing my hand even tighter.

“Will you do it?” I say, scared.

“Always.” She confirms with an intense look full of empathy, but there’s something else shining in her eyes… Something more powerful.

It’s anger.

Anger towards the person who ruined our dance, our moment, and our song.

________________________________________________________________________

"Maybe I should just go. Your friends will definitely think I'm just another nerd from the academy, and they won’t believe I’m cool enough to be your best friend."

"Stop overthinking it. I’m sure they’ll like you," Catra said casually. "What are you waiting for? Knock on the door."

I pretended to turn back, but it was pointless because she wrapped her arm around mine like a chain and knocked on the door several times.

We were outside Lonnie's house. The front looked very clean and serene, like any other high-status family home. It had three floors, a garage, and a porch with freshly cut grass; the only thing breaking the spell of perfection was the loud music that could be heard two blocks away.

No one answered the door.

"They didn’t hear us. Maybe it’s a sign from fate that we should go back to my house and have a classic sleepover like all the other teenage sleepovers, where we watch horror movies and stuff our faces with ice cream," I said, trying to convince her.

"If you think I’m going to waste a sleepover where we can just sneak off to a party—" she said while continuing to knock on the door.

"Sneak off? But my mom gave us permission to come!"

"Whatever, this plan is better: You’ll see what a real party is like with real people and real alcohol."

"But I don’t drink—" I was interrupted.

"OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR, LONNIE!!! OPEN UP OR I’LL CALL THE POLICE AND SAY I'M YOUR OLD NEIGHBOR." She yelled while knocking even harder. She never let go of her chain-like grip on my arm.

We waited a few seconds until finally, a girl with dark skin and completely braided hair opened the door, holding a red plastic cup.

I assumed she was Lonnie.

When she saw Catra, her eyes widened instantly.

"Finally!" she said, raising her voice over the music. "Come in quickly, the beer pong game is about to start." She gestured for us to hurry inside, so Catra released her grip and pushed me into the house.

As I stepped in, I took a quick look around from the entrance, and with that simple action, I realized that not only was the music filling every corner of Lonnie's house, but so were people. Lots of people.

"Lonnie, this is Adora. Adora, this is Lonnie," Catra introduced us.

"Nice to meet you," I said, extending my hand to Lonnie.

She scanned me from head to toe, paused at my hand, then looked at Catra as if she were hiding something.

"Adora... I've heard a lot about you," she accepted my hand warmly, which felt a bit old-fashioned given that it smelled like raspberry vape and beer.

"Knowing Catra, I'm sure she only said bad things," I replied sarcastically.

Lonnie burst out laughing at that comment, which made me happy.

"Luckily for you, she only says good things about you. I'll introduce you to the others in a bit; in the meantime: My house is your house," she said confidently, then winked at me. "Are you joining the first or second round?" She directed the question at Catra, referring to the beer pong game.

"Second round; I'll show Adora around the house," she said before hooking her arm back around mine.

After hearing that, Lonnie gave me a suspicious look.

"Don’t take too long, I’m not teaming up with Kyle again… that guy has a talent for losing at any game." Then she returned to the party.

Catra and I stayed in the foyer of the house, and the noise was loud enough that I couldn’t ignore what Lonnie had just said. If curiosity killed the cat, I just hoped it wouldn’t get me too.

"Kyle? Don’t tell me she was talking about Kyle from Razz."

"As you go through life, you'll realize this town is smaller than it seems," she said with disappointment. "Before I forget, I need to give you some rules," she added carefully.

"I didn't know parties had rules."

"Well, at this party they do: first, don't break anything. Second, don't leave my side." She pointed to our linked arms. "Third, don't accept drinks from any guy. Fourth, please don't break anything. And fifth, if you have any questions, just ask me."

I wanted to ask her a ton of questions, but I decided to stay quiet because my questions had nothing to do with the place or the party.

She led me to a table filled with bottles, sodas, and red cups, though on one side of the table there were beer kegs. Catra grabbed two cups and, without asking or getting permission, started filling one with beer and the other with soda.

She handed me the cup without fail, then sat on one of the kegs, looking around as if she was searching for something or someone.

"Let's see..." She took a sip of her drink and scanned the crowd: many were dancing, some were laughing, others were crying, and a few were kissing. If this is Catra's world outside of school, it doesn't seem as interesting as I imagined.

"How did they buy the beer if everyone is underage?" I asked suspiciously.

"Lonnie's cousin bought it with a fake ID," she said as if that was totally normal. Or maybe it is normal, and I have zero knowledge about teenage parties.

"Isn't that illegal?"

"Yeah, Adora, it's illegal. So what? It happens All the time" With each word, it was clear her patience was wearing thin.

I shouldn't have come, and I definitely shouldn't have said that. She just wants to introduce me to her friends, and I'm being an ungrateful brat.

Now she glances at me with a hint of regret and continues speaking but in a calmer tone. "I know you genuinely hate this, but I need you to see this as more than just a party. Think of it as a chance to..." She paused for me to finish her sentence.

"Make friends?" I guessed.

"What? NO— You have me for friends. I meant this is your opportunity to enjoy a unique experience in your youth."

"Catra, from here I see hundreds of drunk guys; I don't think this is a unique experience," I said while nodding toward a group of guys dancing in the center of the room.

She made a slight grimace.

"Come on, I'll show you the house," and we moved toward the other end of the house, away from the drink table.

Catra started guiding me through like I was a tourist in her own territory. Our first stop was the stairs. We climbed slowly; the wooden steps creaked under our feet, and from up there we could see all the chaos happening in the main room. People were moving everywhere with cups in hand and loud laughter.

"It’s not that fun, but from here you can see the whole scene. Come on, let’s go outside."

"Aren't you going to show me the upstairs rooms?" I asked.

"There was a little issue at the last party… and Lonnie decided it’s better to lock all the rooms so it doesn’t happen again," she murmured carefully.

"How serious was it?" I asked curiously.

"You’re still too innocent to be asking those things, Adora Smith." She raised her eyebrows, confirming my suspicions. "Next stop: the backyard!" And we headed down from the stairs to our next destination.

The back door opened, and fresh air rushed in, contrasting with the heat and noise inside. There were twinkling lights hanging from the trees, and a bunch of guys were on the lawn—some leaning against walls, others in groups caught up in conversations or laughing nonstop. Some were smoking, while others were just enjoying the chaotic atmosphere. The crowd had spread out, but the backyard was still full of life and energy.

Back inside the house, we entered the kitchen. It was an organized chaos: I could swear I'd never seen so many pizza boxes in my life, along with cheap alcohol.

People were everywhere—some dancing in the middle, others sitting in chairs or leaning on the counter, laughing and talking loudly.

Finally, Catra pointed out that the garage had been turned into a game room, so we ended our tour there. We entered a spacious and messy area, with a ping-pong table covered in cups filled with mysterious drinks, a couple of gaming consoles, and a bunch of cushions scattered across the floor.

The garage had been transformed into a getaway, a corner where the party could continue without people feeling trapped in the crowd. Joyful shouts and laughter filled the air, and for a moment, despite wanting to escape, I felt like I could find a bit of fun there.

“Catra’s here!” shouted a tall guy wearing a basketball jacket, with a cigarette perched on his ear.

Everyone welcomed her with cheers as if she were the life of the party. I realized Catra had a role beyond just being the daughter of the director of the most prestigious orchestra in this part of the country.

She greeted each person there without making me feel left out: “Hey! Long time no see. This is Adora.” Or “Hi! How was the game? By the way, she’s Adora.”

I returned the greetings and flashed my best smile to everyone I met.

We ended up approaching the guy who had announced his arrival.

“Hey you,” she said, giving him a playful punch on the arm. It was clear this was her way of showing affection since he didn’t flinch. “You have to tell me your secret for how you guys haven’t lost this season. If you keep it up, you’ll make it to nationals.”

“Alright, I’ll tell you: I’m bribing the referee,” he replied sarcastically while inspecting his own fingers.

”That's technically impossible… if you owe me money”

“I never said that I bribe him with money.” He lifted his gaze from his fingers to me. “The famous Adora Smith, nice to finally meet you. I’m Roge.”

“Am I really that popular?” I asked.

“Well, you’re the only person Catra can’t stop talking about, and that says a lot about you… Catra, let go of your friend; you look like her bodyguard.”

Catra rolled her eyes at him in irritation but didn’t release her grip.

“Where’s Scorpia? I haven’t seen her all night.”

“She stayed home. She said she had to study for the math exam,” he replied, then took the cigarette from his ear and lit it.

“But that’s in two weeks!”

“You know how she is about exams.” He took a puff. “Want some?” He offered me his cigarette.

“Adora doesn’t smoke,” Catra jumped in to answer for me.

“I see,” he said, taking another puff but now with a goofy grin, one of those grins that shows he knows more than he should.

“Catra, come play with us!” Lonnie shouted from the ping-pong table. It was her call: we had to go.

“Talk later,” Catra told Roge, not with the same enthusiasm as before, and we went over to where Lonnie was waiting for us.

The guys were setting up cups in a pyramid shape on both sides of the ping-pong table, filling them with strange drinks. I couldn’t tell if it was whiskey, vodka, or beer, but it smelled really strong where I was watching the game.

Since Catra was the rising star of the match, she had to break free from my grip to play. I stayed close to the table.

I didn’t want to miss anything.

Lonnie and Catra faced off against the other two guys who decided to play, holding ping-pong balls in their hands.

Catra launched the first ball with a confident smile and fell into a cup at the other end of the table. Her aim was met with a skill that looked practiced. The guy in front of her has no choice but to drink from the glass; after making a disgusted face, he tries to do the same but his aim isn’t as good as his opponent’s.

Then it’s Lonnie’s turn, and she surprises the other player with another perfect shot, so he has no choice but to drink.

Sometimes, the ball bounces unexpectedly, causing laughter or small gestures of frustration. The conversation flows between plays, with jokes and comments about who will be the first to lose their cool. The intensity isn’t over the top; it’s more of a friendly competition that keeps the mood light and fun at the party.

At one point, I see Catra lose, so she has to take a drink from the cup in front of her.

She downs it without pausing and tries to hide her grimace of disgust.

“What the hell is this?” she asks the guy across from her.

“Ask Lonnie, she’s the only one who can choose the drinks,” he replies, shaking off the question.

“It’s whiskey…” says her game partner.

“With what?”

“With blackberry wine and vodka. Don’t make that face, it doesn’t taste that bad,” she adds.

“It doesn’t taste that bad… It just tastes horrible.”

The game continues with small victories and defeats until finally, Catra scores a point that seems to end the game, though maybe not in the most epic way—just with a satisfied smile.

“Do you want to play?” my best friend asks after scoring a victory in her silly game, reeking of a strange mix of liquors.

“This is the third time I’m telling you: I don’t drink,” I reply slowly to Catra.

“I know that, but I could drink for you,” she insists.

“No. That wouldn’t be fair. Besides, you said we’d just be here for a little while and then leave.”

Saying that didn’t help much because three hours later, we were still in that house filled with music and noise. After Catra insisted multiple times on playing beer pong, I agree… which turned out to be a bad decision because I realized I’m terrible at those kinds of games; it ended with Catra drinking all the drinks because of my awful aim, making her feel dizzy and start saying nonsensical things.

“You’d better take her home” Lonnie advised me.

“But I don’t want to go home, I want to dance and play truth or dare and make friendship bracelets and play Fleetwood Mac songs on my guitar…” Catra said comically. “Adora, where’s my guitar?!” she exclaimed in alarm.

That gave me an idea.

“It’s at my house, how about we go there and get it so you can show everyone how you play?” I lied.

“Yesssss! Let’s go home!” she said, pointing to the exit like a little kid who was about to go to an amusement park.

We said goodbye to Lonnie and the rest of the guys and started walking home. We took a step into the street when I noticed she was swaying side to side, so I held her by the shoulders to keep her from falling as we walked back to my place.

“Did you enjoy going out with me?” she asked affectionately.

I couldn’t help but laugh; this change from strong Catra to affectionate Catra is so drastic it feels unreal.

“Why are you laughing at me?” She pouted. “I really want to know if you had fun… I understand, you don't want to be my friend anymore.”

“No, of course I still want to be your friend,” I reassured her as we walked. The night was really cold for summer, it probably would rain the next day. “And I had a great time, seriously.”

“Do you promise?”

“I promise. I just didn't like that you drank all those drinks for me, I didn’t ask you to do that.”

“I did it because I wanted to. No one forced me. Besides, you looked so bored in the corner watching the game… I just wanted you to have fun.”

I've always heard throughout my life that taking care of drunks is the worst thing ever; they're clumsy and uncontrollable. But in Catra's case, she's a sweet drunk. Plus, she says exactly what she thinks, which is kind of a virtue.

“In that case, thanks, but I don’t want you to do that again. There are definitely better things to do for fun at a party.”

“We haven’t played Truth or Dare.”

I guess this is the perfect opportunity to ask her questions she’s avoided since the day we met… but somehow, I feel like i’m taking advantage of her.

“Maybe we shouldn’t play,” I say.

“Don’t be boring. We still have a long way to go before we get home.”

“We’re only three blocks away,” I clarify.

“Why don’t you want to play with me?” And she looks like she’s about to cry.

“Alright, I’ll play,” I say to avoid any sign of tears. I've never dealt with people crying because I'm usually the one they have to deal with since I'm always the one crying.

“Okay,” and she calms down, “I’ll ask you Truth or Dare, and you have to choose one. If you choose Truth, I’ll ask you a question you have to answer, and if you choose Dare, you’ll do what I tell you to do.”

I stay quiet because everyone knows the rules of Truth or Dare. And I know my own rules for this game: always choose ‘Truth.’

“That doesn’t sound too hard.”

“No, it’s not. You start, ask me: Truth or Dare?” she encourages me.

“Truth or Dare, Catra.”

“Dare.”

What dare can Catra come up with in this state? None that would endanger her life, of course.

“I dare you not to drink instead of others, just like you did with me.”

She turns her head as if I just said the dumbest thing in the universe.

“That’s not a dare.”

“Anything that starts with ‘I dare you’ is a dare,” I defend myself.

“But—”

“Your turn, or don’t you want to play?”

“I want to play, okay: Truth or Dare?”

“I choose Truth.”

“Why did you move here?” she asks.

“What do you mean?”

“You used to live in Mystacor, and everyone wants to live there. Why did you suddenly move to this corner of the country?”

That’s actually a good question for someone who’s drunk.

“Well… my mom quit her job there to spend more time with me. Apparently, she was afraid I wouldn’t adjust to living with her because we didn’t have much time together. That’s why she signed me up for violin lessons so that in the afternoons when she was working, I’d be busy learning an instrument. Then she got offered a new job here where she could work fewer hours and get paid even better… She didn’t think twice about it, really, so we moved and now we live here.”

“How could she be afraid you wouldn’t adjust—”

“My turn, Truth or Dare?”

“Umm, I’ll choose Truth because your dares are ridiculous.”

This is my only chance.

“Why are you always fighting with your mom?” I ask meticulously.

I thought she’d change the subject or end the game, but she didn’t.

“I ask myself the same question every day of my life. I don’t know, she’s always treated me this way… badly,” she drags out the words as if it hurts her to talk about it.

“She probably wants what’s best for you.”

“No, she doesn’t want what’s best for me… She just hates me because her dreams from youth ended when she got pregnant.”

“You’re exaggerating, I don’t think she thinks that about you—”

“Oh, of course she does. She’s yelled it at me too many times for me to count. Sometimes I wonder what her life would have been like if she hadn’t gotten pregnant by her music teacher; I simply wouldn’t have existed and wouldn’t be a burden in her life. That’s why I do everything she asks me to: to show her that I’m not a burden, to try to earn her love, even though deep down I know that my very existence is a reminder of her broken dreams.”

Every word hurt more to hear; I thought she would start crying after spilling all those confessions, but she just recites it like it’s a song she knows by heart.

“But… you like the violin, right?”

“No, I actually hate it. In fact, I hate a lot of things: violin lessons, having to carry my mother's expectations, I hate everything related to the orchestra… I hate it all.”

That hurt even more.

"Except for you," she said, resting her head slightly against my neck. It was a bit awkward since we were walking, but it was still a sweet gesture. "I could never hate you. You're kind of like my fairy godmother or my guardian angel because ever since you came to the academy, I've been able to handle everything."

Now I'm the one about to cry out of anger at myself for never realizing that she lives such a calculated—no, better said, controlled—life. How can she hear from her own mother that she hates her just for existing?

How is that possible?

I didn't say anything else and hugged her. She probably won't remember this conversation by tomorrow morning, but I will, I'll remember it today, tomorrow, and the day after that. I hugged her because I knew she needed it, and I hugged her because I needed to feel her arms around me because, oh my God, such a wonderful person has a truly corrupted heart.

And if someone was going to comfort her, it had to be me.

She didn't say anything, nor did I. We stood there in the street, completely frozen, me hugging her and her tentatively accepting that hug amidst her mental fog from the drink.

The cold night air brushed against her hair, making it look wilder and freer.

I feel deceived: the most free person I know is really trapped in her own mind. Now I realize that, and more: the silences, ignoring things, the hints she was leaving me…

I ended the hug, and before she could see me, I wiped away a tear that had slipped down my cheek.

“Let’s go home.” I held her by the shoulders again and we continued walking.

We walked in silence for a while until she spoke again.

“One last round of truth or dare.”

I didn't want to play that stupid game anymore, not after she told me what was going on with her mom.

“I’m a bit tired—”

“One last question of truth, see? I know you’ll choose truth.” She insisted.

I just wanted to be done with this.

“Truth.”

“Have you ever kissed anyone?”

That made me stop in my tracks again. People might think: It’s a common question among teenagers, we’ve all kissed someone.

But the thing is, that question makes me uncomfortable not because I’ve kissed someone (which I haven’t), but because no one has attracted me so far.

This is supposed to be the age when all girls have boyfriends, and you see them in parks holding hands with boys or at the movies kissing boys and all those things.

But that doesn’t work for me.

When I see them, I only feel a slight repulsion. It’s not jealousy, I just don’t see myself in a relationship like they do. Is there something wrong with me?

And it embarrasses me that Catra asks me about this because knowing how amazing she is, she must have way more experience kissing boys than me.

“No.”

“NO?! Really? You’ve NEVER kissed anyone?” Her face shows clear surprise, which makes me feel even more embarrassed. I must look like such a kid in front of her.

“I haven’t kissed anyone.”

“Why?!”

“You ask like you’ve kissed a lot of people.”

“Oh, no. I’ve only kissed Razz's dumb grandson once, and it was horrible. It even made me want to throw up.”

“Kyle? You kissed Kyle?!” Just knowing that made me feel sick. I just can’t see it.

“Don’t get jealous, it was at a party and we were both drunk and bored, but anyway… it was horrible and it won’t happen again.” She says it as if just remembering it disgusts her.

Now it makes sense why he always offered to close the music store. It wasn’t a coincidence: he was just trying to get her attention.

“So it won’t happen again,” I repeat her words.

“Neither with him nor with any other guy.” She threw that comment out of nowhere, and I don’t know why, but I feel the night breeze colder than usual.

What could she be referring to?

“And when do you plan to give your first kiss?” She asks me.

"I—I don't know," I say nervously. Why am I nervous? "I guess it’ll happen when it’s supposed to, you know… spontaneously. And it should be with someone special, someone I trust so it won't be weird."

"I could be your first kiss," Catra suggested.

This must be her drunken thoughts, she can't be serious.

"Wouldn't that be weird?" I wasn't holding her shoulders anymore; I turned her around to look directly into her eyes because these kinds of proposals shouldn't be taken lightly...

"It wouldn't be weird for me."

"Yeah, but—I’d like to be kissed by someone who actually wants to kiss me."

"And why do you think I don't want to kiss you?" she asked, sounding a bit hurt.

I once read in a book that the difference between where you were yesterday and where you'll be tomorrow is what you think, say, and do today. I've never been someone who makes decisions, but it seems like this is in my hands for a reason… it all depends on whether I accept it or reject it.

"You’re a really special person to me, and if you think your first kiss should be with someone who truly makes you feel good… well, I think I can help with that." She stated firmly, though some of that firmness was lost in her slurred words.

"Do you really want to kiss me?" I ask to make sure.

And she nods four times.

"There’s a problem…" I say to buy time against my fear of inexperience, and because this is supposed to be something wrong "I don’t know how to do it."

I felt her breath a little heavier than usual, and her smile, though crooked from the alcohol, was warm and genuine. She looked at me with those bright eyes that are impossible to ignore, and for a moment, I thought about what it would be like to kiss her. But just before I could say anything, she leaned in slowly, with an adorable clumsiness, as if she had done it hundreds of times before.

Our breaths mingled as she got closer; she smelled like blackberry wine and a bit of vodka. I stood frozen, waiting for her lips to close the small and imperfect distance between us.

For some unknown reason, my heart was racing uncontrollably.

"Just go with it," she whispered against my lips.

And then she closed the gap.

Chapter Text

When Glimmer texted me in the afternoon insisting that I join her and the rest of the band for one of their Saturday parties, I figured it wouldn’t end well.

Spending time together in the studio is a professional thing, but going out to a club? That’s more like a friendly outing… maybe too friendly for me.

I even turned down her invitation when she started going on about who would be there.

“Mermista and Entrapta will be there too. Do you know Entrapta? Right? They studied together in that music master’s program, so I guess they get along really well,” she said on the other end of the phone while I was busy in the studio analyzing some new songs Adora had left me that afternoon.

“Get to the point. I’m busy,” I told her directly while highlighting a draft that particularly caught my attention.

“Adora wants you to come with us.”

I instinctively dropped my songwriting journal in shock at the suggestion.

“She says the best thing for the band is to spend time together to strengthen our bond… and whether you want to accept it or not: you’re part of the band, at least for a little while.”

After biting my tongue and thinking of countless excuses to get out of it, I admitted it was a great idea.

Maybe a different night out would be the key to taking a break from the studio and finding the creativity I need in new places, so I agreed, but only for professional reasons.

Plus, it was a great opportunity to execute my backup plans. My plan was simple: have fun (which is optional) and make the situation with Adora as comfortable as possible (which is mandatory).

However, I never thought my plan would fall apart due to an unexpected confrontation… And now I find myself on the floor of a bathroom, helping the person who should hate me most in the world but doesn’t, through a terrible panic attack.

Adora is still shaken by what happened; I can see it on her face. The good thing is that with each exhale, her hands stop trembling a little, and with each inhale, it seems like her lungs are getting some air.

I squeeze her hand so she can feel my presence amid all the chaos she’s experiencing and fighting to escape.

“Do you want some water?” I suggest because even though I try to hide it, her pale face is starting to scare me. “I’m sure some water would help. I should step out for a moment and get—”

I gesture to get up, but I can’t. I just can’t. Feeling her hand gripping mine in fear and seeing the terror in her eyes makes it clear that I can’t leave her alone.

“Adora?”

She doesn’t say anything; she just shakes her head side to side as if that’s her only way of communicating. So I sit back down next to her.

I’m scared at the thought of her having another panic attack. I managed to handle it just now, but what if it happens again? What if I can’t help her come back to herself? Worse yet, what if someone notices that a rock star is collapsed on the floor of a well-known club?

That would never go unnoticed.

I think it’s pretty obvious what I need to do: I need to get Adora out of here. I pull my phone out of my pocket and call the first number that appears in my call history; they answer on the second ring.

“Come to the bathroom. Adora needs you,” I say calmly because in situations like this, the last thing I need is to panic the person next to me. “And bring a bottle of water. Now.”

I don’t even wait for a response. I hang up.

“None of this would have happened if I hadn’t come,” Adora suddenly says. It's striking how every word that comes out of her mouth seems to be a struggle, like she's fighting to swallow a knot stuck in her throat. "I ruined your night."

"No. Please don’t say that." I retort, taking the chance to repeat it more firmly this time: "You absolutely did not ruin anything."

She starts to laugh sarcastically. There she is: Adora, even in the middle of a panic attack, able to laugh at her own misfortunes… how inconvenient.

"How can you treat me like nothing happened after what went down?" she says, and even though her words are filled with shame, all I notice are her tear-filled eyes.

"Because that doesn’t matter. There are people in the world who only exist to hurt others, and that’s it."

"I'm not talking about that. You— Why don’t you treat me differently knowing I went out with a..." Apparently, the knot in her throat has gotten bigger because she can't finish her sentence and just stares blankly at a spot on the floor, lost in her fears, doubts, and worries.

"With a braggart?" I respond to counter her shame. "Honestly, I expected you to date out with more peaceful people and less... problematic ones."

She glances at me from the corner of her eye and raises one corner of her mouth slightly, but she remains distant.

It's not enough.

I spent so many years away from Adora, thinking every day about how to regain her trust, and now that I'm closer than ever, I just can't lose what little I have of her. I can't accept that.

"Hey, that doesn’t change anything about you." I move my knee to bump against hers to get her attention in another way; it's a small but powerful act because she looks me in the eyes again—really looks at me. "I know it's a bit late to say this, but you're the coolest person I know. And I'm not saying that as some adult trying to make another adult feel better… I'm saying it as the uncontrollable 14-year-old girl you met at that music academy."

I fall silent for a moment, waiting for something to happen, but nothing does. Just when I think I've lost her forever, she lets out a few small laughs, but this time they’re laced with honesty.

"You are such an idiot," she says, with small tears sliding down her cheeks again. When I think about reaching out to wipe her tears, she does it herself, which annoys me a bit because I want to be the one to do it.

"Yes, I am," I smile while blinking rapidly; this is not the ideal moment for me to start crying. "Nothing and no one will change how I've seen you since we were 14. No one."

And when I feel her hand squeeze mine and the honest silence wraps around us, I realize I've just begun to regain her… Not completely, but I've just recovered a small part of her.

Only a few minutes pass before Glimmer walks into the bathroom. The confusion lights up her eyes when she sees us sitting on the floor; I can see she's gripping the water bottle I asked for earlier tightly in her fingers.

She locks eyes with Adora's pale face and immediately notices her red eyes and short breaths.

"Did it happen again?" she asks with concern for the girl beside me.

Seeing Adora nod at Glimmer's question feels like receiving a handful of ice to the chest. "Did it happen again?"… I hope she's not referring to what I'm thinking.

As if it were a signal, Glimmer moves closer and sits down on the other side of Adora, opens the bottle, and hands it to her without losing any sense of control.

"How?" she asks Adora anxiously, and as if that weren't enough, she adds a question directed at me in a harsh tone, as if she were spitting poison into the air, "What did you do?"

Maybe at another time in my life, I would have said something worse to her, but not now. Not with Adora i front of me.

Adora quickly responds, “It was Huntara, she—she was here.” She speaks with visible effort to stay strong, then takes a sip of water to steady herself and continues, “She came up to where we were and she exploded… Catra was just trying to defend me.”

Hearing that name, Glimmer gets up from the floor and heads for the bathroom exit, her contained fury like that of hundreds of volcanoes; her gaze searches for a greater danger than lava, and the intent to unleash it shines in her eyes.

I barely let go of Adora’s hand and step between Glimmer and the bathroom door.

“We don’t have time for fights. We need to get Adora out of here,” I say firmly, trying to reason with her even though rage is spilling from her breath.

But she dodges my attempt to control her by pushing me aside. I thought it was impossible for someone as small as Glimmer to hold so much anger inside, so I take the lead by blocking the door with my back, preventing her from pushing through.

“She’ll see what’s coming for her,” Glimmer mutters to herself.

“Sparkles, get your feet on the fucking ground. We can’t cause a scene,” I tell her, but even louder, “You have to stay calm for Adora. Remember: She needs you. Imagine if someone walks into this bathroom and recognizes you both; they might twist the story and run off to the tabloids saying you’re shooting up heroin or something. It could hurt the band and the record deal, maybe even break the contract, and there won’t be a new album.”

I pull her back from her trance with those words. Glimmer looks at Adora on the far side of the bathroom, and her face goes even paler now that she’s aware of the consequences her actions could bring.

I know my hypothetical example sounds drastic or even dramatic, but it’s not the first time people have tried to tarnish artists' images with wild stories.

“Okay… Here’s the plan: Bow is outside the bathroom; tell him to start the car,” and without hesitation, she hands me some keys she had hidden in her bag, “and you guys will exit through the back of the club calmly. I’ll tell the girls we’re going out the front entrance; I heard Mermista say she ran into some fans when she arrived, so that’ll draw attention and you can get Adora some fresh air without interruptions,” she says as if she has it all figured out. “Once we all get out of here, we’ll figure out where to go.”

And in that moment, I realized how lucky Adora is to have friends like Glimmer: Because they care about her even more than she cares about herself.

Glimmer goes back to Adora and helps her get up from the floor. I walk over to one of the sinks and grab a few paper towels.

“Help me here!” Glimmer says urgently.

“If we’re going to execute your plan, we’ll do it right,” I insist, and with those paper towels, I try to wipe away any trace of sadness and distress that had overwhelmed Adora just moments ago, as well as any smudged makeup. For the first time, she doesn’t put up any objections; maybe because she’s aware of her state.

Then I open the door and we step out of the bathroom.

The noise of the music and Bow’s confused look welcome us back to the dance floor.

I see Glimmer whispering something in his ear, and without asking questions, he leads us toward the exit.

“Just hold Adora’s arm and pretend everything is fine,” Glimmer tells me, so I do that. “I’ll see you in a bit,” and she slips away to the VIP area to get the rest of the band out through the main exit.

We make our way across the dance floor with Bow leading us, and I'm holding Adora by one shoulder, acting like we're leaving the best party of our lives. As strange as it sounds, this feels like déjà vu... maybe in a parallel universe, the exact same thing happened, and I'm in Adora's position while she’s in mine.

We left the establishment and walked into the parking lot.

"Take your time, we don't have to get in the car right now if you don't want to" Bow proposes

"I just want to get out of this place." She shares a sad smile.

So Bow unlocked the car alarms, and together we help Adora into the back seat like she was a fragile glass doll that could shatter into a thousand pieces at any moment. When he closed the door, I ask him a question that twisted my insides.

"When did she start having panic attacks?" I say directly but cautiously, knowing Adora was watching us from inside the car.

He pause as if he were internally debating whether or not he was the right person to tell me, and every second of silence only heightened my concern.

What had I missed about Adora's life since she moved?

"Please just tell me," I beg as I trying to rearrange my own thoughts. "I know she and I aren't as close as we used to be, but my worry is eating me alive. I don’t know what she’s facing and—"

"The first one happened in her first violin class at university," he says reluctantly, as if confessing something he shouldn’t reveal. "Don’t ask me too much about that time because neither Glimmer nor I were there, though to be clear, we didn’t even know her back then..."

He moves a couple of meters away from the car to continue the story, so I follow him and stay silent to listen to everything.

"I knew from the start that she got some kind of scholarship to study music at university, but from what she told me at the time, she felt a bit lost and confused about what she wanted... She also mentioned that the effort to get the scholarship, along with trying to keep it, put her in a state of stress that felt endless. She wasn’t happy. That same unhappiness drained all the love she felt for the violin, so she had no choice but to give it up."

Impossible.

Adora Smith, the future of the violin, simply gave it up because she felt lost? It’s ridiculous—no, it’s unreal.

"You’re joking with me, don’t you?. She didn’t just give up the violin like that… ‘This is the person who will change the fate of the violin in classical music’, All the teachers said so. Remember, she won a national scholarship... I was there the day she won it!" And as I argued more points, my voice rose higher and higher.

He speaks again, in a low voice, but skillful enough to make me shut up. There is no one in the parking lot except us and the lonely cars, but I still feel overwhelmed.

"Well, I’m not the person who can answer those questions," he says, then takes a long and deep breath before continuing, although I have the feeling that he is trying to maintain his own control. "After that, Adora requested a change of major in her first semester of college, switching from violin to cello. That’s where we met. Apparently, the department accepted her transfer since, after all, the scholarship applied only to string instruments…”

"And the panic attacks stopped?".

He looks me in the eyes, as if I were foolish for not understanding where Adora's life experiences were leading, as if I only knew her good sides, as if he were forcing me to wake up from my daydreams about her being the most perfect person in the world and not just an ordinary person who also struggles, who has also experienced loss, who has also faced disappointments, who has also fought against the injustices of life.

"The panic attacks continued, although they happened less often and in sudden moments. Once, I asked her what she felt before the attacks, and she said it was very vague sensations: seeing a shadow or a silhouette, a certain smell, a specific sound, those kinds of things... However, she repeated that everything felt familiar yet unfamiliar at the same time. Those episodes disappeared when we graduated from college."

I saw him return to the car. This time he turns around to sit in the driver's seat, so I ask him one last question before ending the conversation.

"But that was a long time ago, why is she having an attack now?"

"I wonder exactly the same thing." He says with some pity—not for Adora but for me

And he gets in the car. I do exactly the same; when I close the door, he starts the engine, and we leave The Midnight Velvet (and the pain) behind for good.

The three of us spent time driving through the rest of the city while we wait for Glimmer's indications.

After a while, she calls Bow and tells him that it’s best to call it a night since worrying about her best friend is much more important than a night out drinking. So she also tells him to leave Adora and me in our respective apartments.

When Bow leaves me at the entrance of my complex, he dismisses me with a: "Maybe we can do it again another day, but in a less loud place."

Deep down, I knew we wouldn't do it again… not another day, not ever.

________________________________________________________________________

The sunlight streaming through the window pulled me out of a deep sleep. I looked around and realized I wasn’t in my room, so I blinked a few times, trying to remember where I was and what I was doing there.

I saw that the wall to my right was covered in posters of different famous movies, a world map highlighted with colorful pushpins, and a bunch of star-shaped stickers.

Where was I?

I turned to the left side of the bed, hoping to find more clues, but all I found was Adora sleeping peacefully next to me.

The sunlight illuminated her like an angel, and the light made her blonde hair look so golden it could be mistaken for gold. Her face had such a peaceful expression, and her breathing was so rhythmic that I bet she was dreaming of something beautiful. It would have felt horrible even to think about waking her up.

Loonnie’s party.

Now I remembered, or at least I thought I did. The truth was, I had drunk way too much the night before, and everything came back to me in flashbacks and echoes, as if I hadn’t been there and was just trying to recall scenes from a movie I watched ages ago.

I remembered the beer pong game, how Adora had played so poorly that we lost and I ended up drinking all her drinks. I remembered mentioning something about a guitar…

Oh, and I remembered Adora holding my hair while I vomited in her bathroom toilet.

Now that I thought about it, I shouldn’t have done any of that… It had been bold and careless of me; the party was supposed to help Adora step out of her comfort zone and meet people outside of school, not for her to be a babysitter for drunks—my babysitter, to be exact.

I focused more and more on her face as I thought and overthought. I was a bad friend for making her go through that… Oh God, what if Mara saw me drunk? Maybe she thinks I’m a bad influence on her daughter and doesn’t let me see her again.

If that happened, no more best friend, no more guitar lessons, no more inside jokes, no more company, no more support, no more anything. It would have been the end of the little happiness I had for myself.

I felt like someone was hammering my head, but even though I knew it was just a hangover effect, I had the theory that it was just a physiological demonstration of my sadness from believing that all of this was too good to be true.

I should get going now; after all, today was cleaning day, and my mother had let me sleep over at Adora's with the condition that I would be back by 11:00 AM.

I turned right to see a digital clock on the nightstand showing 10:50 AM… CRAP.

All guilt disappeared when I realized I should be home instead of reflecting on my stupid actions while looking at Adora’s face. So, I pushed the sheets aside and jumped out of bed, searching for all my things to leave.

I grabbed my bag, and as I crossed to the other side of the room, I caught my reflection in a full-length mirror. It was impossible to ignore that I was wearing completely different clothes than what I had on the night before… I had on my pajama pants, which were mine, but I had no idea where the sweater that said “Turning darkness to light” had come from.

Damn it, the last thing I needed was for Adora to have actually played her role as a caretaker and changed my clothes.

It was obvious she wouldn’t want to see me ever again, so I quickened my pace to make my departure even less embarrassing. I rushed around trying to grab all my belongings to shove them in my bag and get out of there as soon as possible.

As I put on my shoes to leave, I heard someone behind me.

“Good morning, Catra,” Adora said from her bed, sounding sleepy. When she noticed me tying my shoelaces, her expression darkened. “What? You’re leaving already?”

I didn’t know what to say, maybe because my own embarrassment was holding me back.

“Good morning, I…” I pointed to my bag, feeling embarrassed. “I’m supposed to be home in 10 minutes, but I overslept. You know how Director Weaver feels about being late.” Why was I talking about my mom? I was probably still a little drunk.

Adora’s face darkened even more. I didn’t know what the hell I had done yesterday… but I knew I screwed up everything, I could feel it.

“I—I’m sorry. I shouldn’t just leave like this, but really, truly, I’m sorry, and I mean that as someone who doesn’t usually apologize.”

“Don’t apologize. I should never have accepted that—”

“No, I shouldn’t have accepted drinking all your drinks at beer pong. That was immature and dumb. You weren’t obligated to take care of me while I was wasted; I’m not a baby, and you’re not my babysitter… T- This is the first and last time it happens, and if I did something that upset or made you uncomfortable, just… forget it, that wasn’t me.”

Her eyes widened in surprise. So she asked, “You don’t remember much?”

I covered my face with my hands, feeling embarrassed to admit that I didn’t.

“I remember talking about a guitar and throwing up in your bathroom… I know that’s already enough of a violation of your trust. Adora, you even changed my clothes… Is there any way I can make it up to you? Because I really don't want us to stop being friends just because you think I'm some kind of out-of-control alcoholic.”

She threw the blanket aside and sat up on the bed, thinking about what to do.

“There is a way to make it up to me.”

That got all my senses alert.

“What is it?” I asked, intrigued.

“Swear to me we’ll always be friends,” she emphasized after a pause. “No matter what happens, we’ll always be friends… Just swear it.” She looked more serious than usual.

Paying for my bad actions with an eternal friendship seemed fair enough.

“I,” and I stood tall like a soldier taking an oath, “Catherine Weaver, swear that we will always be friends.”

“Good.” And she reverted to being her usual kind self. “Aside, that’s my sweater,” she pointed to it with her head.

“I figured as much, although I think the pants would look better with their matching shirt.”

She scrunched her lips, making a slight grimace with her whole face.

“I know, but you threw up on the shirt… It was so late at night that the only idea that came to mind was to lend you one of my sweaters,” she explained awkwardly.

“Oh, in that case, thank you… here, let me give it back,” I started to lift the sweater when Adora began shaking her head loudly, telling me not to take it off while covering her eyes with her hands.

“DON’T TAKE IT OFF! JUST—just give it back later! I really don’t mind!”

“Are you sure?” I asked.

“YES, more than sure, best friend hehe.”

With that, I pulled down the sweater and grabbed my bag. At the same time, Adora uncovers her eyes and I saw her cheeks turn pink.

“I’ll return it as soon as possible; I’ll even wash it if needed.”

“I don’t think that’s necessary,” she waved her hand dismissively and then added, “It looks better on you than on me.”

That stirred something inside me; I couldn’t say what it was, but it felt like a hive of bees buzzing in my stomach.

“We’re lucky Razz decided to close the shop this week,” I said to move away and ignore that feeling a little.

“Don’t remind me. For the first time, getting out of bed today felt impossible,” she shivered from cold and pulled the blanket over herself. “See you on Tuesday?”

“Yes. See you on Tuesday.”

She walked me to the door and waved goodbye with a somewhat stiff hug.

When I got home, my mom punished me for being a few minutes late, which meant an impromptu violin lesson. But that didn’t matter; nothing mattered except having Adora's friendship in my hands.

________________________________________________________________________

Not even those calming teas that make you sleep like a log helped me get a wink of sleep last night. Still, the image of Adora gasping for breath replayed in my mind like a scratched record.

I know I shouldn’t dwell on it too much; these kinds of episodes should be put to rest and that’s it, it’s in the past. The dilemma here is that I’m thinking about that moment every second, which gives me the slight feeling that Adora is probably still thinking about it too.

I know.

She looked really upset when she confessed to me, no, when that girl started spitting out things about her private life, knowing that Adora is the only one who can decide whether to tell me about her romantic life or not...

And it burns me inside that a part of her was sure I would treat her differently because of that, not for dating someone problematic, but for dating a girl. When I told her I didn’t care, it’s truth: We’re in the 21st century, no one should be ashamed of loving someone of the same gender, and I openly defend that because all my relationships have been with women.

I stare at the ceiling of my room as I think about what I can do to lift her spirits a little, without it feeling forced or overly cheesy. Should I text her? I just want to know if she’s feeling better… No, I’d be intruding too much into her personal life, and she just needs space. However, I don’t believe someone can pull themselves out of an emotional slump alone, she needs support from the people around them to move forward… No, I’m sure she doesn’t want my support.

My fingers toy with the screen of my phone as I ponder my options.

Now that I think about it, the few times we’ve really connected have been while we were writing. It’s obvious that the studio isn’t an option, today is Sunday and Etheria Records is closed, not to mention my rules are clear: No working on weekends.

But if you think about it… if I compose in places other than the studio itself, it’s not real work.

I don’t analyze it any further because if I keep analyzing, I won’t do anything at all. It’s noon, so she’s probably awake.

I send her a message.

«I have inmind to write a song for the album, but I'm feeling a bit blocked.»

«Can you help me?»

I turn off my phone immediately. I’m impulsive like that? And mixing my feelings and disguising them as “work”? Every day I lose more credibility and professionalism.

A few minutes later, the screen lights up with her reply.

«Didn't your work rules say something about 'not working on weekends'?»

That response makes me bite my cheek in impatience.

«Forget my work rules.»

«The studio is closed, but I could go to your place, only if you're okay with it.»

«If not, we can just wait until tomorrow at the studio.»

Some time passes, but she replies.

«It would be good for me to work a little. I'll send you my location.»

No more said.

I grab everything I’ll need: pencil, song notebook, and my enthusiasm. I change clothes and after saying goodbye to Scorpia, telling her I have an errand to run, I leave the apartment.

As I get into my car, I start feeling a rush of nerves because the idea of writing a song is a total LIE. I follow the directions from the digital map and think about all the pages I read the day before.

Her location takes me near downtown; it’s not too far from the studio, so I drive for about 10 minutes until I reach the front of an apartment building.

Long before I park, I see someone waiting for me in the lobby entrance: It’s that blonde girl who won’t leave my head. So I park, grab my things, and get out of the car.

As I walk toward her, my conscience starts to whisper words of encouragement: Everything is still the same, don't act weird.

She notices my presence, and I notice hers. I freeze on the stairs at the entrance while she watches me from a few steps up with curiosity. We stand in silence for a minute, just looking at each other without saying anything… Her face looks a bit tired, her hair is pulled up in a messy bun, and she’s still in her pajamas, which consist of a onesie and an oversized hoodie.

“Come in,” she gestures for me to enter. “I have everything ready upstairs” .

After entering the lobby and taking the elevator, I arrive at her floor.

It feels a bit empty for such a large space; there’s a dining table, the kitchen, a few small plants, and a vinyl record player that’s spinning while playing The Beatles.

“Home sweet home,” she says as she closes the door behind me. “Sorry it looks so empty, I’m I'm supposed to remodel it but... I like to procrastinate”.

“It’s better this way. When you have a place full of stuff, it’s hard to keep it clean,” I point out positively. “For that reason, my apartment is a mess.”

She looks around as if it’s her first time seeing the place.

“I don’t know, I’d like to make it more mine, to make it feel like a place I really want to live”.

”A place like your mom’s house?”

She lets out a sigh that seems to have been holding back all her life.

”I could not have done it better myself.” she says with nostalgia. “So… the song.” .

That reminds me that I came here to write a song, not just to hang out.

“Right, the song.”

She points to the dining area, so I settle there. She goes to the kitchen and comes back with two glasses of water, placing them on the table before heading into another room, which I assume is her bedroom. She returns with her guitar in hand, turns off the record player, and sits down across from me.

“Tell me” she asks, waiting for my response while tuning her guitar.

Oh no.

I rummage through the song notebook.

“Well, I was thinking we could do something similar to the last song…”

“Improvising.” she completes.

“It’s clear that we won’t be improvising,” a nervous smile escapes my lips. “It would be great to use one of your songs and rewrite some parts while keeping the original vibe.”

“I see… It’s unrelated, but did you recognize the album I put on the record player?”

“It was ‘Abbey Road,’” I respond while flipping through page after page in the notebook.

“I wrote a song inspired by that album, well, it’s inspired by ‘Something,’.”

I’m no longer listening to her; I’m just trying to find a way out of a potential disaster thanks to my lie.

“You should show it to me one of these days.”

“I already did. It’s among the first pages.” She points to the notebook in my hands.

I look up, stunned.

“We can rewrite that song,” she suggests. “It’s one of the few songs I actually like even though it’s not finished.”

“If you say so. It doesn’t matter what song I had in mind—well, it DOES matter, but we can save it for another day.”

“Fine.” She extends her hand, and I have no choice but to pass her the notebook.

She goes to the first page and flips through some sheets until she finds the song.

“Do you remember the chorus?”

I close my eyes trying to recall the lyrics.

“‘Something in the way…’ nanana,” I hum because I haven’t heard that song in ages, which makes her smile at how lost I seem. “Ammm… ‘I don't want to leave her now, you know I believe and how’” I say while laughing.

She strums a few chords on the guitar as she reads some lines from her own version of the song.

“My version goes: ‘I want to leave you now, I still don't know when or how’. But I’d like to replace it with: ‘Don't tell me you need me now… you got your feelings back’.”

I see where this is going.

“Don’t you think it sounds better?” she asks, her tone casual, but her eyes challenge me in a way that makes my heart race. It’s a dare, and I’m not entirely sure how to respond.

“If you're going to make me choose between The Beatles and you, I just want you to know that it was fun working with you."

She lets her fingers drop from the guitar, making the strings sound funny and out of tune. She scratches the tip of her nose to hide her irritation.

”I'm talking about the new version of my song.”

"It can always be better." I say, my voice steady despite the storm brewing inside me. I snatching the notebook from her, and with the pencil, I start writing the new lyrics on the page. “Go on, I’m listening.”

So she continues improvising with the notes on her guitar.

“I would continue the chorus with: ‘I've heard it before. I'm tired of waiting around, letting you let me down, I'm done being yours’”

Every word she hums is a word I write down.

She tilts her head to the side as if trying to see things from a new perspective.

“That’s all I have in mind. It needs something else, something that you hear and feel angry about,” she dares to say, a bit annoyed.

It feels like I’m talking to another Adora, one I haven’t seen in this upset.

I pause for a second. And I read the page.

“If you want anger, you could sing a fast part. The bridge you wrote is perfect”.

"If I use it for the chorus, I'll be left without a bridge."

"We can write a new bridge."

She rests her head on the guitar, as if that string holds an answer she’s not yet ready to say.

“I've never gotten used to singing that fast. Just so you know: I’m not Eminem. If we add a fast part to the song, I'm likely to run out of breath halfway through."

“That won’t happen.”

”How come you're so sure?”

”Because there will be a 2-second break.”

”You forget that I play the guitar.”

”I don’t think this song needs much guitar… let the person on rhythm guitar handle that, so you can take a break from playing halfway through the concert and focus on your vocals.”

"We don't even have half of the album ready, and it's clear you're thinking about how I'm going to sing the songs live" she mutters to herself.

"I'm supposed to have everything figured out. And if I say a fast part will sound perfect, it's because I know you can sing it" I assure her. "At least give it a try."

I slide the notebook over to her so she can read the improved chorus better.

She accepts by taking the notebook, shifts a bit in her seat to get ready, and adjusts her fingers on the guitar to start singing.

"Without the guitar, it won't be necessary," I stop her. “And pay atten to the break of the two seconds”

She sets the guitar aside, and I notice how she starts to tap her fingers on the table, finding the rhythm and connecting with the inner melody. Then she begins to sing, starting off slow and quickly picking up speed.

“I was secondary to everything, I've never been so insignificant.
You shook the love and it's evident”

“One… Two...” I mean making the resemblance of the break.

“Next to you, I was crumbling, the power balance stumbling.
You wrecked it all and it's sinking in.”

“One… Two… and end.” I bring my palms together in applause because it sounds better than I thought it would.

Her eyebrows furrow.

"You win… I think I might actually like it”

Chapter Text

Who would have thought my last hopes would rest on Mermista? Yes, you read that right: Mermista.

“So, you used to sing in the church choir,” I say as I adjust the height of her microphone inside the recording booth.

“Are you deaf? I didn’t say I used to sing in the church choir; I said I was FORCED to sing in the church choir,” she replies with her usual disdain. “It’s obvious that it’s not the same.”

That’s the ninth sarcastic comment she’s thrown at me in these two days of recording, and to be honest, I’m about to lose my patience. Thankfully, I'm facing away from her, so she can’t see the irritation in my wide eyes. I’m tempted to say something with the most hypocritical kindness I can muster, but I’d rather not waste my limited energy on that...

So, I don’t respond and focus on my job.

When I finish adjusting and testing the microphone with phrases like “Check, one, two,” I see Adora give me a small signal to come over to her stand on the other side of the booth.

“My microphone isn’t working,” she says, pulling down her headphones, so I head over to help her.

When I quickly inspect the microphone, I notice everything is in perfect condition. I take the headphones from her hands to check the sound, but everything is coming through clearly.

Now I see what’s happening.

“Not working, huh?” I ask, eager to know what she’s trying to say, even though I already have an idea.

“This is a really bad idea,” she replies quietly so that the others in the booth can’t hear her; even being close to her, I have to strain to catch what she’s saying… because no matter what Mermista says, I’m not deaf.

“It’s not working because the microphone is connected wrong. Give me a second,” I say in a normal tone so everyone else can hear. Then I start disconnecting and reconnecting the microphone at a pace that could only be described as sloth-like. I glance at the rest of the band members in the booth, and when I see they’re all focused on their own tasks, I talk to Adora again, but this time in whispers. “Do you have a better idea?”

“Remove the bridge,” she suggests as if it were the only way out of this nightmare of a song.

“First, the microphone ‘isn’t working,’ and now you want to delete the bridge? Just a reminder that April Fool’s Day was last month, Adora.”

“Who are you going to force to sing the bridge if Mermista can’t do it well? Micah?”

“Don’t suggest things you know I’m capable of doing,” I reply as if it were a final warning.

To cut a long story short: Adora was right when she said she’d run out of breath halfway through the song because of all the fast parts. That’s why I suggested another band member sing the bridge for her to add some variety to the song.

I’m talking about the best part of the song; it’s supposed to sound different, fresh, and outstanding. I thought there wouldn’t be any issues recording it until I remembered that Perfuma (the band’s second vocalist) is on a spiritual retreat until God knows when.

’It doesn’t matter, I can have another member sing in place of Perfuma’ but the truth is, the rest of the members sound terrible: Glimmer is off-key, Frosta sings like a kindergarten kid, and Bow… I won’t even include Bow since the bridge is specifically written for a girl to sing.

So that leaves me with one last wildcard: Mermista. I'd like to sit back and wait for Perfuma to return so we can finish recording the song, but I need to send a preview of the second song to the record label by the end of this month.

Now I can say that not only am I running out of ideas, but I'm also running out of time.

With Adora's silence, I realize I've been too hard on the whole song situation, but honestly, everything has been tangled up since the day we wrote it. So I soften my comment a bit.

"Just don’t be negative. We’ll find a way to make it work... Trust me," I assure her with optimism, but the truth is, I’m not even sure what to do if this doesn't work out; I finish connecting the microphone and I give it to her "Here, try the sound."

She starts saying some vowels to test it out. After a moment, she nods confidently, and I give her an approving nod back. Without continuing the debate, I step back to my spot outside the booth.

As I sit next to Scorpia, she hands me some headphones; I close my eyes for a moment as if trying to focus on the moment, crossing my fingers and hoping the universe hears my wishes so that everything goes as planned.

"'You Need Me Now?' Take 6 of the bridge," I let Scorpia know while I press the record button. A light inside the booth turns on, indicating that the track is being recorded; as soon as the band notices, they start playing.

The first second Mermista begins to sing, all I can imagine is the scolding I'll get from the executives... and I think Adora can imagine the same because her eyes go wide on the other side of the window when she hears Mermista sing—no, actually, I think everyone in the booth is picturing my downfall in the industry, or at least that’s what their horrified faces reflect. I hadn’t even gotten through the third line of the bridge when Scorpia, without consulting me, decides to turn off the recorder with a look of shock, as if she had just met the devil himself.

“She—she sings… like a—” she struggles to find the words but it seems even a dictionary wouldn’t help her.

“Like an ogre,” I respond with disappointment, covering my face with one hand… not because I’m laughing at Mermista’s unusual vocal skills (which makes me question if her story about being a church singer is true or if she’s just a pathological liar playing a bad joke on me) but because I don’t want the band to see me on the verge of tears.

Where am I going to find another singer in less than three days?

“Maybe autotune can fix it, Wildcat,” Scorpia tries to find a solution.

“No. I’m sure no kind of technology, not even the most advanced, can fix that demonic voice,” I say as I lean toward the intercom to let them know we need another singer.

Luckily, the guys stopped playing when they noticed things weren’t going well; only Mermista looks completely confused. For a second, I think about what I’m about to say since the last thing I want is for her anger to explode all over the booth.

I don’t hesitate any longer and inform them.

“Um— I don’t think this will work,” and when I see Mermista lift her arms from the bass in confusion, I add, “How do I explain this… The problem is us, not you. You’re very Brian Johnson and the song is very Cyndi Lauper, you got me?”

The good thing is that the rest are following along: they nod politely and approach Mermista to share words of support, or at least that’s what I assume they’re doing.

I turn off the intercom and slump back in my chair.

“You’re very Brian Johnson?” Scorpia repeats as if trying to remember who that name belongs to.

“Yes, Brian Johnson but possessed,” I confirm before sinking into a new dilemma. “Scorpia, what am I going to do now?”

"I don't see any other option but to cut the bridge, but I'm worried because that will take a minute and a half off the song." She thinks for a moment before adding, "Or you could ask for an extension on the deadline. That way, we can change all the lyrics in the bridge to fit the lead singer."

"The extension isn’t an option, it would just delay us. And Adora made it clear that she’d rather be thrown to the wolves than ask the executives for an extension… If she said it that way, there’s a reason."

I shift my gaze from Scorpia to the band; they must be waiting for my next instructions.

I stand up from my chair to enter the booth, but I hesitate for a second before reaching for the doorknob.

"What did you decide?" Scorpia asks with curiosity, giving me a few more seconds to think... but the decision is already made.

"I'm going to tell them we’ll cut the bridge, even though a song without a bridge is a monotonous song." Saying it out loud only makes me feel more disappointed in myself for not having thought this through.

I open the door, and ten pairs of eyes focus on me. I take a deep breath and lift my head to find the strength to announce my decision.

"I spoke with Scorpia, and together we decided to remove—" I say, my voice trailing off mid-sentence.

"You sing the bridge," Adora proposed in a tone slightly higher than usual, with a smile that never reached her eyes.

But no effort from Adora can match the magnitude of the resounding echo that followed: a unified shout of “WHAT?!” that resonated from the rest of the band, including myself. I feel my heart pounding in my chest as I shake my head, almost unable to speak.

"No way. I'm not singing," I refuse, feeling the ridiculousness of the idea like a weight on my tongue.

Adora speaks again, this time addressing the band directly.

"If we want to get back on stage, we have to put effort into this album. That’s why the producer suggested from the beginning that the bridge be sung by someone who surprises and confuses fans in the first few seconds because our return to the industry depends on that: maybe this is the surprise factor we’re looking for." Her tone, confident and relentless, tries to convince everyone, and in a way, it works.

"Just remember that I'm just a producer—" I start to say, but she ignores me, immersed in her speech.

"Remember George Martin or even Jack Antonoff! Both participated vocally in specific projects, and it was a success. Catra wrote the bridge, she knows the lyrics inside out and can sing it in the right key." Every word seems to enchant the band, boosting their confidence in her proposal and filling the silence with tension.

This all feels so absurd... and frustrating.

"Can you please wake up from your daydream? I'm not a singer!" I repeat, this time louder, hoping everyone hears me.

"Maybe you’re not a singer, but you have training," she replies, turning to face me directly as if trying to convince me alone. "You’d only be singing... what? Half a minute of the song?"

"Yeah, half a minute, but there’s no plan for a featuring—"

"Until now. Weeks ago you asked me to read the fine print of the contract, and I did: ‘the album must include special content, as agreed by the parties.’ That’s what the contract says, and there’s no better special content than a featuring." Her steady and confident gaze leaves no room for doubt.

How does she have such talent for debating? I look for help in the faces of others, but they all seem to be on the same page.

I have no choice but to bring up the legal issue because artists (just like kids with their toys) are very selfish when it comes to splitting royalties.

"If you want to make this song a featuring, we’ll have to call a meeting with lawyers and executives to split the royalties evenly—”

"The lawyer will never be a problem," Adora interrupts with a superior tone, as if it were an absolute truth. “If you’re going to ask for something for the feature, do it now.”

I’d love to ask for time to think about it… But I don’t have the time or the desire to wait.

“I’ll sing the bridge, but with a legal condition,” I say, my voice firm despite the knot in my throat. “They need to change the songwriting credits.”

Adora looks at me, and without consulting, without asking for permission, without hesitation, she says, “We both wrote the song. We’ll make sure it’s in your name.”

My eyes widen.

“I don’t want it in my name. I want it in your name,” I say as if I’m negotiating with someone incredibly untouchable. “I’m not talking about Glimmer’s stage name. I mean your real name.”

A tense silence hangs over us, and in that moment, I realize that no matter how hard I try to stay calm, I’m pushing beyond the band’s private limitations… I realize this because Adora’s face turns pale just like it did in the bathroom at The Midnight Velvet before she had her panic attack.

Producing this song has been a total failure, but the result is promising enough that it could be the best song the band has ever made, and the thought of Glimmer taking all the credit for a song she didn’t write just because Adora doesn’t want to be in the spotlight makes me want to scream in rage.

Not for her or Glimmer, but for me: Because I was the one who told her that she specifically lives off other people’s attention. I was the one who gave Adora that complex.

And I will be the one to destroy it right now.

“If that’s what you demand… Then so be it.” She finally says. “Can we record now? Or do you want to have the meeting first?” she asks, interested even though she knows my answer; if I choose to deal with the legal meeting first, I’ll have to delay delivering the song… and no one wants that.

“We’ll record now.” I say, still a bit unsure about accepting that proposal. Now that I think about it: It’s the first time I’m part of a feature. “Get ready for the take; I’ll tell the engineer to have everything set up.”

I walk around the studio, going in and out of the booth to make sure everything is perfect; Scorpia couldn’t believe what I had gotten myself into either.

“Watch the timing, monitor the volume levels on my mic, and please, if I start singing badly, cut the recording right away,” I plead with Scorpia, a bit nervous, but she just gives me a kind smile.

“It’s all going to be great, Catra.” She tells me, but what am I supposed to say? Thanks? I don’t think so? I hope so?

I step into the booth, now as a singer, setting up in the vocal stand that Scorpia made for Mermista; I'm between Frosta and Bow.

As I put on the headphones, I focus on the instruments, which start playing right away, but Adora’s voice catches me even more off guard.

“You know what would be really fucking cool on this? Catra.” That makes me turn my head to look at her, and I realize I’m not the only one who does. I try to see her face to understand what she’s aiming for, but she just gives me a half-smile. “Like, if we could get Catra on this, oh my God… That-, that would-, like, seriously.”

She’s not just saying random words; she’s making an introduction for the bridge, an introduction where she mentions me.

I play along.

“Oh my God, you’re so right… I’m gonna sing now.”

And I sing the bridge, rhyming words like cheap and leave, pretending as if I hadn’t written that lyric just to annoy Adora’s ex-girlfriend. I know it’s immature, but I’m singing in such an ironic tone as if I were letting her know that Adora will never get back with her; for the last line, I lower my voice a bit, imitating a more serious yet playful tone because it’s my favorite part.

“I’m never beggin' for love again, baby.
Not beggin' for yours.”

She keeps singing the song, and even though she didn't ask me to, I continue singing, or rather, adding some nuances in the last chorus.

Scorpia mouths, “this is it” from outside the booth.

I hate thinking about my mom, but I can’t help it. It’s like she used to say every time I couldn’t do something she wanted: ‘The only way to get things done right is to do them myself.’

In the end, the bridge issue turned out to be not as big as I thought. As soon as the song (and finally the recording) wraps up, we’re all wrapped up in words of excitement.

“That’s what singing is!” Bow says before giving my shoulder a squeeze.

“Yeah, Catra, you were just wow!” Frosta adds, happy to finally be able to go home.

It still feels strange to receive their friendly comments, so I’ll have to get used to hearing that more often.

“Thanks, I—” I start to respond but lose my train of thought when I see Micah walk in with a stressed look on his face as if he’s just witnessed something unpleasant.

He tries to find me next to Scorpia but doesn’t see me, so he looks up and realizes I’m inside the booth with the rest of the band. Then his gaze shifts to Bow, then to Adora, and finally to Glimmer.

Okay, I confess: I’ve never had a father figure in my life, but I know when an older man is about to give a kid the lecture of a lifetime just by looking at his face. Micah’s expression clearly says we’ve accidentally gotten ourselves into serious trouble.

He signals for us to come out of the booth, and that’s what we do. I’m the first one out the door and the first to approach him.

Micah scratches his beard, waiting for me to explain myself.

“It was my idea to make the song a feature,” I say quickly. “I know I shouldn’t make these decisions lightly and that I was supposed to schedule a meeting with the executives and lawyers, but we really have little time to—”

“What the hell are you talking about?” He cuts me off, still angry; the studio lights make him look much more authoritative, which makes me want to apologize for being so reckless in how I spoke to him.

I look for help from Glimmer behind me; he’s her dad, so she should know how to handle him in these situations.

But she looks at me with wide eyes, even more lost than I am, so she chimes in.

“She means we didn’t ask for permission to make the song a feature, you know—now she sings the bridge of the song…” she says sheepishly and somewhat confused. “That’s why you’re upset.”

Micah’s eyes widen as if we’re clueless.

“What? Oh—no… that’s not why I’m upset, but…” He realizes a second later. “Wait, did you just make the song a feature?!—Just, let’s talk about this another time. Didn’t you read today’s magazine?”

“Nowadays no one reads magazines.” Glimmer replies

“And if so, why does everyone have one of these?” So Micah presses his lips together and hands me a copy of a national gossip magazine. The cover features a photo of me leaving The Midnight Velvet with Adora around my shoulders, both of us looking uneasy. The second photo (even bigger than the first) is a somewhat blurry image of me talking with Bow in the parking lot; well, it doesn’t look like we’re talking more like arguing.

The headline of the news article reads, “Crisis in the Rock World: Explosive Argument Between Producer Catherine Weaver and The Princess of Power's Guitarist Sparks Internet Frenzy” by TMZ News.

Just seeing the photos makes me feel like the temperature dropped to -7 °C. This is what I feared the most, and now it’s come true.

Further back, I see Adora (who hasn’t seen the magazine yet) closing her eyes in a sign of redemption. It’s clear she knows what’s going on.

Glimmer tries to take the magazine from me, but I dodge her and flip to the article to read it aloud:

“TMZ Reports: On a night that seemed calm, the streets near the popular state disco ‘The Midnight Velvet’ were the scene of an unexpected confrontation between renowned music producer Catherine Weaver and the guitarist of the rock band ‘The Princess of Power’, Bow Matthews. Although both left looking relaxed, they were visibly agitated, sparking rumors of a possible emotional dispute related to a relationship.” I take a moment to suppress a gag at the thought of Bow being in a relationship with me. “The producer was accompanied by Adora Smith, the band’s vocalist, who appeared to be in the middle of a tension that surprised those present. They eventually managed to end the discussion, the marks of the fight lingered in the air. The music community and onlookers are left wondering what secrets those words concealed amid the night, and if this dispute will mark a breaking point in their professional and personal relationships. For more details, you can check out images at the end of the article.”

I look up, stunned but somewhat relieved because at no point do they mention Adora’s panic attack in the bathroom or the argument with Huntara on the dance floor. I pass the magazine around for everyone to take a look, and I notice Micah returning to his serious demeanor.

“Catherine, I trusted you when you said you would be completely professional in this job.” He crosses his arms and adds, “Keeping a secret relationship with Bow is only going to affect the project and the band. I love these girls and Bow, and because I love them, I won’t let this”—he gestures as if drawing a line between Bow and me—“destroy what we’ve worked so hard to build.”

“No, no, no, God no,” Bow denies, crossing his arms in an X shape. “Catra and I—never—NO.”

“He’s right: No.” I contradict him more forcefully. “It’s technically impossible for me to like Bow—like, IMPOSSIBLE.”

Micah approaches Bow, still not believing us, and grabs Bow by his shirt as if he’s considering throwing him across the room.

“I’ve opened my home to you and let you call me ‘Dad’ sometimes—what for? To have you lie to my face?”

“NO! I WOULD NEVER LIE TO YOU, MR. MICAH! YOU KNOW HOW I AM WITH GLIM—I WOULD NEVER LIE—” Bow’s face turns pale with fear.

“Dad, it’s true! Let him go!” Glimmer jumps in to help Bow, grabbing her father’s arm as if trying to calm a beast. “You have to believe him!”

When I first met Bow and Glimmer, I thought they were secretly dating because of how they treated each other, but I dismissed it as a silly theory… well, now watching Micah try to decide whether or not to strangle Bow just makes me feel sorry for him because my theory is undoubtedly true… and because he’ll never be able to break up with Glimmer unless he wants to be a dead man.

“Give me one good reason to believe you,” he growls at Bow.

“Here's a good reason: I’m a lesbian,” I say to calm the situation; let’s face it, the kid was about to be killed… someone had to do something.

But apparently, saying that didn’t calm the situation because everyone looked at me like I was the elephant in the room. Micah’s eyes went wide, Bow’s fear was replaced by surprise, and the rest of the girls had their mouths open as if they were witnessing a plot twist on an MTV reality show.

In a second, Micah released Bow from his grip and whispered apologies as he backed away with his tail between his legs.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t—sorry for accusing you of violating the contract, Catherine,” he stammered, his face turning red with embarrassment. “I’ll never doubt your professionalism again, and I apologize for making you share such a private detail about your life—we’re all about gay rights here, right Glimglim?”

Not even Glimmer has the guts to break the tense atmosphere caused by her father.

“Just tell the press we won’t be making any statements and that’s it. We’ve ignored rumors many times before, we can do it again.” Adora broke the awkward silence, arms crossed and wearing a poker face. I suspect this isn’t the first time she’s had to deal with this kind of gossip.

Micah nods in agreement with Adora’s words.

“About that… We’ll have to make a statement,” he says sadly, as if he were sending them off to a lost cause. “We won’t do it for the band’s image, which has already taken a hit since Mermista threw a beer bottle at a fan just for not wanting to take a picture with her, but to protect Catherine’s reputation.”

“My reputation?” I point to myself in disbelief. “My work may be influential, but I’m not a celebrity caught up in this gossip game. Just do what Adora says: We won’t be making any statements.”

“Let me put it in better terms: I advise you to make a statement denying these rumors for your own safety… If anyone suspects you’re in a secret relationship with someone in the band, you’ll be the next target for fans—and I’m not talking about paparazzi, I’m talking about real psychos. Didn’t Bow tell you about the time someone put a tracker on his car? Or didn’t Adora tell you about the time we had to move her three times because people leaked her location online? The last thing I want is for you to get involved in this fame world, and if the only way to stay away from that is with a statement, then we need to do it.”

Before I could say anything, Bow confidently take control of the conversation.

“We’ll make the statement. We’ll clarify to that magazine that it was just a small disagreement over a friendly dispute, that we actually get along very well, and that we only maintain a solid friendship.”

Micah smiles with skepticism… I think the earlier confrontation left some marks on his mood.

“Charming statement, but it’s too vague… Sure, Catherine and you are friends; that will only raise more questions. And even if you deny it, fans will contradict you because you didn’t give them details about how you met, what you were doing at that nightclub, or if you were really arguing over a friendly disagreement.”

“In that case, what can we do? An interview where Bow, Adora, and I talk about our amazing and strong friendship?” I say sarcastically.

Micah snaps his fingers.

“For these reasons, I like you more than the rest; the band hasn’t given an interview in over a year and a half. If we take this opportunity, you’ll be in the public eye and we can clear up these rumors once and for all. Furthermore, you can even imply that they've been working together in the studio lately, which will shift the TMZ news to something that will be forgotten"

"Aha, and who’s going to interview us?" Adora says, sounding defeated as if she just wants to end this whole thing.

"Oh, don’t worry about that," he waves his hand dismissively, "I’ve already got all that arranged."

The way he says it makes me think we'll be interviewed in the most casual way possible, like on a local radio station or something. But I get alarmed again when I see Glimmer’s frightened expression.

"Dad, who did you find for the interview?!" she asks, scared of the answer.

"Glimglim, don’t worry about—"

"Who?!" she insists once more, making him adopt a somewhat uncomfortable posture as if he fears the reaction to his answer.

"The interview will be on 'The Tonight Show Starring Double Trouble'... next Wednesday."

________________________________________________________________________

The shared happiness of the protagonists, along with the spaceships filling the screen, led to the final credits of the movie, which covered the entire TV screen accompanied by an emotional soundtrack. The room fell silent, only broken by the music.

“Just cinema,” I whispered, grabbing a handful of popcorn from the bowl and popping it into my mouth. “I told you, there’s no better movie in the world than Episode IV of Star Wars. Well, technically Episode VI surpasses it by a lot, but since you haven’t seen it yet, I won’t spoil it for you.”

I turned to see her reaction, but Adora seemed entranced, her gaze lost on the screen.

“Earth to Adora,” I said, gently nudging her shoulder. She immediately snapped back to reality.

“Umm?” she murmured, as if waking from a deep sleep.

“Did you like watching the Death Star explode?”

“What? The Death Star exploded?” she exclaimed, alarmed as if she feared she had missed half the movie.

I stood up from where I was sitting and walked over to the TV to take the DVD out of the player.

“What’s wrong with you? It seems like your body is here, but your mind is somewhere else,” I said a bit annoyed. “I insisted weeks ago that we watch this movie, and you’re just ignoring me.”

“I’m not ignoring you,” she tried to justify herself.

“Yes, you are. You didn’t even laugh at the C-3PO scenes,” I raised my arms in frustration, using it as a chance to vent. “And it’s not just today; you’ve been like this for days.”

I put the DVD in its case and sat back down next to her; we were at her house trying to have a Star Wars marathon, or at least attempting to, because her lack of attention was only increasing my frustration to the point where I almost wanted to go home.

“In class, you barely talk to me… If you’re treating me this way because of what I did at Lonnie’s party, I—I can understand if you don’t want to be friends anymore,” I said, my throat tight as I struggled against the lump forming in it.

Adora’s face fell as if she feared I would say that at any moment.

“No! I really want us to stay friends,” she clarified anxiously while gripping a corner of her shirt.

“Then tell me what’s going on! Why are you treating me differently out of nowhere?!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she feigned.

That response was the last straw. I felt like my world was crashing down, as if all the trust I had in her was crumbling. I felt foolish for thinking some explanation would come forth, but she just seemed to be making me feel like it was all in my head. Unable to take it anymore, I grabbed my bag and headed for the door.

“Let’s finish the marathon another day if you want to talk to me again,” I said, opening the door. Before leaving, I added loudly, “Say hi to your mom for me,” and stepped out, feeling sadness, anger, and confusion wash over me.

I blinked as quickly as possible to avoid crying; that would only make me look more foolish than I already felt.

I took a couple of steps on the sidewalk when I heard a door open and close behind me. I didn’t even turn around; I kept walking.

“Catra, please,” I heard Adora say from behind me, quickening her pace. “Don’t do this.”

“Do what exactly? Make you explain why things are happening?” I faced her angrily. “I can’t read your mind, Adora. If you have a problem with me and want to resolve it, you need to express it in words. By shutting yourself off, you achieve nothing.”

“You win. I am treating you differently,” she confessed. “But I’m not doing it on purpose; in fact, I didn’t even realize I was doing it… but it’s because I don’t know how to deal with this.”

“Deal with what? Adora, what don’t you want to tell me?”

“Do you remember Lonnie’s party?” she said, her gaze distant.

“No, actually I don’t remember,” I denied, reminding her that I got way too drunk at that party; I only have very vague and short memories of it.

“Right… Well, that night you told me something that really got me thinking." I didn’t say anything, waiting for her to find the courage to continue. "About your relationship with your mom."

I felt like someone had poured a bucket of cold water over my head. That explained why she had been so distant at school and why her face darkened every time I mentioned my mom.

"I know you asked me to forget it, but I can’t. I just can’t," she admitted with difficulty. "It’s unfair to know she treats you like that and not be able to do anything about it. It makes me feel useless. Friends are supposed to support each other, but… what can I do for you in this?"

Now I see it: all this time, Adora wasn’t feeling bad for me; she felt bad because she didn’t know how to help me. She felt helpless and lost, just like I did.

"I—I’m not asking you for help," I blurted out the first thing that came to mind in this whirlwind of emotions, quickly thinking of something that could really hurt me. "Just don’t tell anyone about this, not even your mom."

"Is that all you think about? That I’ll tell someone?" Her face twisted as if someone had stabbed her. "Let’s talk about you. I’m worried about you… I— I care about you a lot, maybe more than anyone else, and it depresses me to see you like this."

I felt like the conversation was heading into territory that was too personal for the street. I took her arm and led her to the steps of her house, where we sat in silence, each lost in our own thoughts.

I licked my lips while thinking about what to say so she wouldn’t feel so sorry for me.

"It’s not that bad, believe me… I’m used to this lifestyle, but don’t worry, it won’t be forever. Nothing is forever." I thought about my plan, how I wanted to leave, what I would do to start over... and I debated internally whether to confess or not, but then I realized it was Adora; she would always be different from the rest. "I’ve got it all planned out. I’m leaving home as soon as I turn 18. I’ll find a job, one that actually pays, and save as much as I can over the next summers to be independent right after I graduate; then I’ll figure out the college thing..."

Adora’s face grew sadder and sadder as if I were going to leave right then instead of in two years.

"I’ll go with you." The words slipped from her lips like a prophecy waiting to be fulfilled, making my heart leap like a drum.

"You won’t. You have Mara and your violin… You’ll definitely get a scholarship or something like that at a prestigious university, and you’ll leave here." I bit my cheek slightly because it also made me sad to imagine a future without Adora. "That’s your destiny."

"It could be yours too if you want it badly enough," she said, looking at me with determination.

"I don’t think so… if that’s the case, I’d have to move to the city."

"You’d move in with me." She interrupted me.

"I’d also have to study some boring major."

"I’ll help you study, so it won’t be so boring," she replied with a smile.

"And I’d have to cut ties with everything that connects me to this town." I looked at her hopefully. "Except you… but that would just be my plan B."

Adora stared at a car passing by her house, lost in her thoughts, maybe imagining a life in the city far away from all of this.

"Do you think I’m selfish for wanting your plan B to be your plan A?"

I looked at her thoughtfully for a second.

"Of course not."