Chapter 140

An hour slipped by before Abigail even realized it. The song was coming together beautifully each verse finding its rhythm, each chord weaving seamlessly into the next. The small practice room was scattered with open pages, scribbled lyrics, and a few half-eaten snacks, but she didn’t care. She was in her zone.

When she finally glanced at her phone, her eyes widened slightly. “Almost one,” she muttered, setting her guitar gently back in its case.

“Hey, baby.”

Abigail smiled, balancing the phone between her ear and shoulder as she gathered her things. “Hey, love. Just wanted to call before my next class. I got a little caught up playing and lost track of time.”

Emma chuckled softly. “That doesn’t surprise me. When you start playing, the world could end, and you’d still be in your zone.”

Abigail laughed, sliding her notebook into her backpack. “Guilty. But it was worth it the new song’s coming together really well. I think it might be one of my favorites yet.”

“I can’t wait to hear it,” Emma said, her tone full of affection. “You sound happy. I love when you sound like that.”

That made Abigail pause for a moment, her chest warming. “I am happy,” she said quietly. “It’s been a good day so far.”

“Good,” Emma said, smiling through her voice. “Now go make the rest of it just as good. What’s next Literature?”

“Yep,” Abigail said, locking the practice room door behind her and heading toward the Humanities Building. “Professor Cross. She’s great though I like her energy.”

“Sounds like you’ve got a nice rhythm going,” Emma said. “Call me after class?”

“Of course. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

Abigail ended the call and slipped her phone into her pocket.

The walk across campus was quiet, sunlight filtering through the trees and scattering golden flecks across the pavement. Her mind still buzzed with the melody she’d been working on, the notes looping endlessly in her head.

By the time she reached the Humanities Building, the halls were mostly empty. She glanced at her phone again 12:47. Early. Perfect.

When she stepped into the classroom, only one other person was there Professor Cross herself. The older woman stood at her desk, arranging a neat stack of books and notes, her calm presence radiating that same effortless authority she carried on the first day.

Abigail hesitated in the doorway for a moment before offering a small smile. “Hey, Professor Cross. Mind if I come in early?”

Professor Cross looked up from her papers and smiled warmly. “Of course, Abigail. You’re always welcome.”

Abigail lingered for a moment, then said, “Um, actually… I was wondering if I could play something real quick. I’ve got this tune stuck in my head, and if I don’t get it out now, I’ll never be able to focus during class.”

That earned a soft chuckle from the professor. “A tune stuck in your head, huh? As a fellow creative, I understand the struggle. Go ahead, let me see what you’ve got.”

Relieved, Abigail smiled and slipped her guitar out of its case. She sat in one of the front seats, adjusted the strap over her shoulder, and started to play.

The melody filled the room warm and introspective, with hints of longing threaded through every note. It was the same song she’d been working on earlier, but somehow, it sounded fuller here, echoing off the classroom walls.

Professor Cross leaned against the edge of her desk, arms folded, listening intently. She didn’t interrupt, didn’t speak just let the music move through the space. Her expression was thoughtful, even impressed.

When Abigail paused, she glanced up with a small grin. “Okay, so I’m stuck on this part right here.” She strummed a few uncertain chords, the rhythm faltering as she frowned down at her fingers. “It’s like… I know what I want it to feel like, but I can’t quite find the right transition.”

Professor Cross nodded slowly, stepping closer, her tone encouraging. “You’re reaching for emotional continuity — something that bridges what came before with what’s next. What feeling do you want to carry through that moment?”

Abigail tilted her head, thinking. “I guess… hope. It’s supposed to be about holding on even when things feel uncertain.”

The professor smiled, her eyes lighting up with understanding. “Then you don’t need to over complicate it. Keep it simple, honest. Sometimes a single sustained note can say more than a dozen chords.”

Abigail considered that, then nodded. She plucked the chord again, letting it linger, then eased into the next phrase. It clicked clean, emotional, and exactly what she’d been trying to find.

Her eyes lifted, and the professor’s approving smile told her she’d nailed it.

“That,” Professor Cross said softly, “is how you let the music breathe.”

Abigail grinned. “Thanks, Professor. That actually helped a lot.”

“Anytime, Abigail,” Cross said, returning to her desk as more students began trickling in. “You’ve got a gift. Don’t be afraid to trust your instincts they seem to know where to go before your mind does.”

Abigail smiled, feeling lighter than she had all morning. She tucked her guitar away as the room began to fill with chatter and notebooks opening.

For once, she was ready to learn and maybe even to listen to herself a little more, too.

By the time the room began to fill, Abigail had settled into her usual seat near the middle, notebook open, guitar tucked safely against her chair. The warm hum of voices and the shuffle of bags filled the air as students trickled in, chatting about assignments and weekend plans.

Professor Cross moved gracefully to the front of the room, adjusting her glasses as she placed a thick, worn copy of James Baldwin’s “The Fire Next Time” on her desk.

“Alright, everyone,” she began, her voice calm but commanding. “Let’s pick up where we left off with Baldwin’s discussion of identity and self-acceptance in the face of society’s expectations.”

The room quieted. Pens hovered above notebooks.

Professor Cross leaned against the desk, her tone thoughtful. “Baldwin says, ‘The place in which I’ll fit will not exist until I make it.’ What do you think he meant by that? What does that say about how we build identity, especially when the world tells us who we should be?”

Silence lingered for a few seconds as students glanced around at one another, hesitant to speak first. Abigail’s fingers drummed lightly on her notebook before she finally raised her hand.

“Yes, Abigail?”

Abigail lowered her hand and met the professor’s gaze. “I think he’s saying that identity isn’t something we’re handed. It’s something we create, even if it means breaking what’s expected of us. The world might not have a space for who we really are until we make it ourselves.”

A slow, knowing smile spread across Professor Cross’s face. “Exactly,” she said softly. “And that’s not an easy thing to do. Especially for people who have been told their whole lives that they don’t belong. Baldwin wasn’t just talking about race. He was talking about courage. The courage to be unapologetically yourself.”

Abigail nodded, her chest tightening slightly at the truth in those words. She thought about Emma, about the two of them building a life that didn’t fit anyone else’s mold but still felt right. It was their space. The one they created.

Professor Cross began pacing slowly, the energy in the room shifting as she continued. “Morrison, too, echoes this idea in Beloved that claiming yourself, your story, your voice, can be an act of defiance and healing. Sometimes the most radical thing a person can do is simply exist on their own terms.”

A few students nodded, scribbling down notes, while others listened quietly, thoughtful.

Then she looked toward the class again. “Can anyone think of a moment where they had to create a space for themselves? A time where you didn’t wait to be accepted you decided to belong?”

Abigail hesitated, then spoke again, her voice softer now. “I think when you stop trying to shrink yourself to fit somewhere you don’t belong, you make space for the life you actually want. And the people who are supposed to be in it find you there.”

Professor Cross paused, her eyes meeting Abigail’s for a moment. “That’s beautifully said,” she replied quietly. “And it’s true. Sometimes the act of living honestly inspires others to do the same.”

The discussion carried on from there, weaving through Angelou’s poetry, resilience in the face of hardship, and the role of voice as survival. The class felt less like a lecture and more like a conversation, one that stirred something deep in everyone listening.

When the clock finally struck 2:15, Professor Cross closed her notebook with a soft thud. “Alright, everyone, before you go, your next assignment. I want you to keep a short reflection journal this week. Write about where you feel most like yourself and why. No page limit, just honesty.”

The sound of bags zipping and papers rustling filled the room. Students began to trickle out, chatting softly about the prompt.

Abigail packed her things slowly, feeling a quiet sense of peace. The class had hit close to home, maybe more than she expected.

As she slung her bag over her shoulder, she smiled faintly to herself, already thinking of how she’d tell Emma about it later about Baldwin, about the music, about all the small ways she was learning to build her own space in the world.