Chapter 139

The tension from Music Theory lingered in the air long after Abigail stepped outside. The campus was warm now, the sun climbing higher over the trees, and the chatter of students heading to their next classes filled the quad. She took a deep breath, letting the crisp morning air settle her nerves.

She wasn’t ready to head straight to her next class. Not yet. Her fingers itched for her guitar — for the kind of release only music could give her.

Instead of walking toward the student café, she turned left, down the side path that led toward the back of the music building. It was quieter there, a hallway lined with glass-paned doors that opened into small, soundproofed practice rooms. Most of them were occupied — she could hear faint piano scales and someone humming through a mic — but one door at the end of the hall stood open just a crack.

Perfect.

Abigail slipped inside, shutting the door behind her. The room was small but cozy — just enough space for a stool, a small piano, a music stand, and a chair. Acoustic panels lined the walls, muting the outside world. It felt like its own little universe, and for the first time that morning, she exhaled fully.

She set her guitar case down on the chair and reached into her backpack, pulling out the small bag of snacks she’d packed earlier — trail mix, a protein bar, and an apple. She placed them on the windowsill, then pulled out her music book — the one she used for her personal compositions, separate from her coursework. The pages were filled with half-finished lyrics, scribbled chords, and small notes to herself in the margins.

This was her space.

Her sanctuary.

Abigail opened her guitar case and lifted the instrument onto her lap, letting her fingers rest gently on the strings. She plucked a few quiet notes, tuning by ear until the sound rang pure and steady. Then she started playing — slow and deliberate, each chord carefully placed.

It was a melody she’d been working on for weeks. A love song, soft and unspoken, built from all the quiet moments she shared with Emma — the laughter, the warmth, the feeling of home in her arms. The song wasn’t finished yet, but she could feel it taking shape with every strum.

Her phone buzzed on the table beside her. She smiled, already knowing who it was.

Emma: Did you make it to your next class already?

Abigail wiped her thumb across the screen and typed back.

Abigail: Not yet. Found an open practice room. Needed to clear my head for a bit.

A moment later, Emma replied.

Emma: That’s good, baby. Play something for me later?

Abigail smiled softly, her fingers still moving lightly over the strings as she typed.

Abigail: Maybe later. I’m actually working on something new. But… I’m keeping this one a secret for a while. I want it to be perfect before you hear it.

There was a short pause before the three dots appeared again.

Emma: A secret? Now I’m intrigued. Fine, but you better dedicate it to me.

Abigail chuckled under her breath, her eyes softening.

Abigail: Always. You’re my muse, remember? I’ll call you before I head to my next class, promise.

Emma: Deal. I love you.

Abigail: I love you more.

Abigail settled deeper into the small wooden stool, lost in the rhythm of her song. Her guitar felt alive beneath her fingers — warm, steady, and familiar. The soft hum of strings echoed off the padded walls, filling the tiny room with a sound that was both soothing and consuming.

Minutes passed unnoticed. The world outside didn’t exist — just her, the melody, and the faint scent of wood polish lingering in the air. She scribbled a few more notes into her music book, then hummed a low harmony, chasing an idea that had been floating around in her head since this morning.

The chords swelled, her voice blending with the sound of the guitar as she moved effortlessly between verse and chorus. It was intimate, gentle — a song meant to be felt more than understood.

She was so deep in it that she didn’t even hear the first soft knock on the door.

The second one caught her attention. It was hesitant, almost polite.

Abigail blinked, looking up from her music book. “Come in,” she called, setting her guitar down gently on her lap.

The door opened slowly, revealing a tall girl with a soft brown complexion, curly hair pulled into a loose puff, and a bass case slung over her shoulder. She looked maybe a year or two older than Abigail — confident, but friendly.

“Hey,” the girl said, smiling a little shyly. “Sorry to interrupt. I was in the room next door, and I… uh… couldn’t help hearing you play.”

Abigail tilted her head, curious. “Oh—was I too loud?”

The girl shook her head quickly. “No, no, not at all. It was beautiful. I just—” she grinned, shifting her bass strap off her shoulder— “had to stop in and tell you. You’ve got something really special going on there.”

A faint blush touched Abigail’s cheeks. “Thanks,” she said, a little shy but smiling. “I’ve been working on a new song.”

“I could tell,” the girl said, stepping inside a bit more. “I’m Lyric, by the way. Music major, same building. I usually practice in here around this time, but I’m glad I didn’t today.”

Abigail chuckled softly, setting her guitar on its stand. “Lyric, huh? That’s a perfect name for a musician.”

Lyric grinned. “Right? My mom thought she was being clever.” She nodded toward the open music book on the stand. “You write all your own stuff?”

“Yeah,” Abigail said, flipping a page. “Mostly acoustic. Sometimes I mix in a little jazz or R&B feel, depending on my mood.”

“That’s dope,” Lyric said, her voice warm with genuine interest. “You sound like someone who actually feels what they play, not just follows the notes.”

Abigail smiled, appreciating the compliment more than she expected. “That’s kind of the goal. I think music should feel alive.”

Lyric nodded, tapping her fingers lightly against her thigh. “I get that completely. Maybe sometime we could jam together? You on guitar, me on bass — see what happens.”

Abigail’s eyebrows lifted, pleasantly surprised. “That actually sounds fun.”

“Cool,” Lyric said, pulling her phone from her pocket. “Mind if I get your number? No pressure — just if you ever want to play or need someone to bounce ideas off of.”

“Sure,” Abigail said, taking her phone out and exchanging numbers.

Once they were done, Lyric slung her bass case back over her shoulder. “Well, I’ll get out of your way. Didn’t mean to break your focus. Just… seriously, you’ve got something special. Keep doing what you’re doing.”

“Thanks, Lyric,” Abigail said, her smile soft but genuine. “That means a lot.”

Lyric gave her a nod before slipping out, the door closing quietly behind her.

Abigail sat there for a moment after Lyric left, the quiet settling around her like a soft blanket. The energy in the room felt lighter now — warmer, somehow. She hadn’t expected anyone to stop by, let alone someone kind and easygoing like Lyric. It had been a while since she’d met another musician who made her feel comfortable that quickly.

Smiling to herself, she picked up her phone from the table and unlocked it. Her first instinct, as always, was to tell Emma.

Abigail: Just made a new friend.

It only took a few seconds for the typing bubbles to appear.

Emma: Oh yeah? Who is it? 👀

Abigail grinned, brushing her thumb across the guitar strings absently as she typed.

Abigail: Her name’s Lyric — literally. She’s a bass player, practices next door. Heard me playing and stopped by to say hi.

Emma: That’s actually really cute. I love that for you.

Abigail: She seems cool. Said we should jam sometime.

Emma: Look at you, making friends already. 🥰 I’m proud of you, baby.

Abigail smiled at the screen, her chest warming at the message.

Abigail: Thanks, love. I’ll tell you more later — just wanted you to know.

Emma: Okay, I’ll let you focus. Can’t wait to hear the song you’re working on. Love you.

Abigail: Love you more. Always. ❤️

She set her phone down beside her, the glow from the screen fading as she reached for her guitar again. Her fingers brushed over the frets, light and thoughtful. For the first time all day, she felt calm — no tension, no eyes watching, no pressure. Just the soft hum of strings and the quiet satisfaction of creating something that felt like hers.