Chapter 145

The late-morning light streamed through the tall windows, and the faint hum of campus life filled the air—distant laughter, the shuffle of sneakers, and the smell of espresso drifting from the café nearby.

Her stomach gave a low rumble. She hadn’t realized how long it had been since breakfast.

The cafeteria wasn’t far—just across the quad and down the stairs beside the student commons. As she walked, the autumn breeze brushed through her hair, and she pulled her hoodie tighter around her, the sound of her sneakers echoing softly against the pavement. Students lounged on the grass with laptops and sketchbooks, while others lined up at food trucks that had set up for the day.

Abigail smiled faintly. College life had its own rhythm—one she was finally starting to settle into.

Inside the cafeteria, the scent of grilled vegetables, pizza, and coffee filled the air. The space was alive with sound—music low in the background, conversations layered over the clatter of trays and silverware. She stood in line at the grill station, scrolling her phone while the student worker flipped burgers behind the counter.

Emma had texted her.

Emma:
How was class, baby? ❤️

Abigail’s lips curved into a small smile as she typed back quickly.

Abigail:
It was really good. We talked about perspective and writing about love—it made me think about you. 💕
Now I’m starving.

She ordered a grilled chicken wrap, a side of fries, and a sparkling water. While waiting, she caught herself humming softly—a tune that had been following her since her morning guitar practice. Her mind was already thinking about new lyrics, maybe something about love seen through someone else’s eyes.

Once she got her food, she scanned the room and found a small table near the window. The sunlight fell across the tabletop, warm and steady, as she unwrapped her meal.

Her phone buzzed again.

Emma:
You always think about me. Eat something, love. You’ve got another class coming up. 💋

Abigail:
Yes, ma’am. I’m eating. Promise. 😄

She took a bite of her wrap and leaned back in her chair, savoring the moment of quiet. Students passed by in waves—some laughing loudly, others lost in thought. Across the room, someone was sketching in a notebook; at another table, a small group of music majors debated about famous jazz composers.

It reminded her that her next class—Music History with Professor Shields—was coming up soon. The thought made her chest tighten just slightly, but she brushed it off with another sip of water. She wasn’t going to let anything—or anyone—ruin her peace today.

When she finished her food, she wiped her hands and packed up her trash, tossing it neatly into the bin. Then she checked her phone one more time.

After lunch, Abigail walked across the quad, the warm afternoon sun cutting through the crisp autumn air. Students filled the courtyard—some sprawled out on the grass studying, others laughing in clusters by the fountain. Her guitar case swung lightly at her side as she checked the time on her phone. She still had a little while before her next class.

She paused by one of the benches beneath a tree, sitting down and pulling out her phone again. Her mind drifted back to Lyric—the student she’d met earlier in the practice rooms. Lyric had such a calm energy, a little shy but clearly passionate about music. Something about her genuine enthusiasm had stuck with Abigail.

Without overthinking it, Abigail opened her messages and started typing.

Abigail:
Hey, Lyric. Just checking in to see if you’re practicing today. Wouldn’t mind hearing you play this time. 🎸🙂

She hesitated for a moment before hitting send, then slipped her phone into her lap and leaned back, watching a few leaves drift down from the branches above. She didn’t expect an instant reply—Lyric had mentioned having a full schedule too—but the message felt right. Friendly. Encouraging.

A couple of minutes later, her phone buzzed.

Lyric:
Hey! I was actually about to head to the music hall now. You read my mind. 😅
You serious about wanting to hear me play?

Abigail smiled faintly, her thumbs already moving.

Abigail:
Of course. I owe you one after you caught me mid-practice earlier. Consider it me returning the favor. 🎶

The typing bubbles appeared, then disappeared, then came back.

Lyric:
Well… if you’re free, come by Room 214 in the east wing. I’ll probably be in there for a bit.

Abigail:
Perfect. I’ve got some time before my next class. Be there soon.

She tucked her phone into her pocket and stood, brushing off her jeans. The walk to the east wing wasn’t far, but she could already feel that familiar calm settling in—the kind that came whenever she was around music, whether she was playing or just listening.

By the time she reached the hall, she could hear faint notes echoing through the corridor—soft chords on a piano, steady but unpolished. The sound grew clearer the closer she got to Room 214.

She paused at the door, listening for a moment, then smiled before gently knocking twice.

From inside came Lyric’s voice. “Come in!”

Abigail pushed the door open to find Lyric seated at the piano, her hair tucked behind one ear, a small smile spreading across her face when she looked up.

“You weren’t kidding,” Lyric said with a laugh. “You actually came.”

Abigail grinned, stepping into the room. “I said I wanted to hear you play. Don’t make me regret it.”

Lyric smirked playfully. “Alright, then. No pressure.”

She turned back to the keys, her fingers moving with a little more confidence now that she had an audience. The melody that filled the room was soft, tender—somewhere between jazz and a lullaby. Abigail closed the door behind her and leaned against the wall, letting the sound wash over her.

She could tell Lyric played from the heart—not perfect, but honest. It reminded her of herself in a way.

When the song faded, Lyric looked over her shoulder, eyes searching Abigail’s. “Well? Be honest.”

Abigail smiled. “That was beautiful. You’ve got a really natural touch—you don’t force it. You let it breathe.”

Lyric’s cheeks flushed slightly. “Coming from you, that means a lot. Seriously.”

Abigail shrugged, her tone light. “Just saying what’s true.”

For a moment, the silence between them wasn’t awkward—it was comfortable. The kind that exists only between two people who understand the same language, even without words.

Then Abigail glanced at the clock and sighed softly. “I should probably head to class soon. But you keep practicing, yeah? You’ve got something special there.”

Lyric nodded, smiling softly. “Thanks, Abigail. And… thanks for coming by.”

Abigail smiled back. “Anytime.”

She gave a little wave and slipped out into the hallway, pulling her phone from her pocket as she walked.

Abigail → Emma:
Just stopped by the music hall. That girl Lyric I told you about was practicing—she’s actually really good. Heading to class now. Love you. ❤️

It was 12:45 PM by the time Abigail made it across campus to the music building. The day had mellowed into that quiet stretch between morning rush and afternoon focus. The sky outside was bright but soft, the sunlight filtering through the tall windows that lined the main hallway.

Her guitar case tapped gently against her leg with each step, the sound echoing faintly off the tile floors. She glanced at her phone fifteen minutes before class started. Enough time to breathe, maybe enough to call Emma before things got busy again.

Without hesitation, she hit the call button.

Emma answered almost immediately. “Hey, baby,” she said, her voice warm, comforting. “You get some lunch in you?”

Abigail smiled as she walked toward the classroom. “Yeah, I did. I actually ate today. You proud of me?”

Emma laughed softly. “Always. You’re keeping that baby brain of mine calm knowing you’re taking care of yourself.”

Abigail grinned, adjusting the strap of her bag. “I try. I just wanted to call before class get a few minutes with you before the chaos starts.”

“I like that habit,” Emma said, her tone teasing but affectionate. “What class are you walking into now?”

“Music History,” Abigail said, rounding the corner toward the door. “Professor Shields.”

Emma paused, and Abigail could almost hear the tiny sigh on the other end. “Right. Just… remember what we talked about, okay?”

“I remember,” Abigail said softly. “She’s not getting under my skin again. Promise.”

“Good,” Emma replied, her voice gentle but firm. “And if she tries anything, you call me the second you step out.”

Abigail smiled. “You’ll probably be the first person I call anyway.”

She pushed open the classroom door with her shoulder, stepping quietly into the half-empty room. A few students were scattered around, flipping through notebooks or chatting softly. Professor Shields was already near the front, sorting through a stack of sheet music.

Abigail walked toward the back of the room, her phone still pressed to her ear.

“I can’t wait to come home,” she whispered to Emma, her tone low but full of warmth. “I need a full-body massage when I get there. Like, head to toe. I’m sore all over.”

Emma laughed through the receiver, soft and playful. “Oh, so that’s the kind of call this is.”

Abigail chuckled quietly, sliding into her seat. “Don’t act surprised. I’m serious, though. You’re gonna owe me a whole spa day when I get home.”

Emma hummed. “I’ll take care of you, baby. Always.”

Before Abigail could respond, she felt it—eyes on her. She looked up and found Professor Shields watching from the front of the room, her expression unreadable but her jaw just slightly tight. The professor’s gaze flicked briefly to Abigail’s phone, then back up to her eyes.

Abigail smiled faintly, meeting the look with calm confidence.

Emma’s voice came through the phone again. “You there?”

“Yeah,” Abigail said softly. “I just got to my seat. I’ll call you after class, okay?”

“Alright, my love. Be good,” Emma said, her tone laced with warmth.

“I love you,” Abigail said, her voice clear enough that a few students nearby glanced her way.

“I love you too,” Emma replied without hesitation.

Abigail ended the call and slipped her phone into her bag. She looked up again just as Professor Shields spoke.

“Afternoon, Abigail,” the professor said smoothly, her voice professional but carrying a subtle edge.

Abigail gave a polite nod. “Afternoon, Professor.”

For a heartbeat, the air between them felt weighted like a note suspended before the next chord resolves. But Abigail just opened her notebook, clicked her pen, and focused on the blank page in front of her.

Professor Shields cleared her throat and turned toward the whiteboard. “Alright, everyone, let’s begin. Today we’ll be continuing our discussion on twentieth-century music—specifically, how cultural shifts and emotional expression gave rise to new genres like jazz, blues, and early rock.”