Chapter 167

Monday morning still carried weight, just not the newness of Abigail’s schedule.

The apartment buzzed with that shared, purposeful energy that came from two people moving in parallel. Abigail moved through the kitchen easily, already dressed, packing her bag with the familiar rhythm she’d settled into over the past few weeks—notebooks, pens, a protein bar she knew she’d forget about otherwise. Coffee brewed in the background, the sound steady and grounding.

In the bedroom, Emma stood in front of the mirror, smoothing the front of her blouse, then pausing. She took a breath. Then another.

Abigail leaned against the doorway, watching her with a soft smile. “You look great,” she said. “Nervous, but great.”

Emma laughed quietly. “I still feel like I’m learning my way around this place. New building, new rooms… new everything.”

Abigail crossed the room and slipped her hands around Emma’s waist from behind. “That’s okay. Today doesn’t have to feel familiar yet.”

Emma rested her hands over Abigail’s. “Meanwhile, you’re heading into another normal Monday like nothing’s changed.”

Abigail smiled. “My schedule’s familiar. You’re the brave one today.”

Emma turned in her arms, searching her face. “Text me when you get to class.”

“I always do,” Abigail said gently. “And you text me after your first workshop.”

Emma nodded, reassured, and leaned in for a kiss—slow, grounding, the kind that steadied both of them. “Okay. Let’s go.”

The drive to campus was quiet, the kind that felt calm instead of awkward. Morning light stretched across the dashboard, catching the edges of the windshield as traffic rolled steadily along.

Emma kept her eyes on the road, hands firm on the steering wheel. She looked composed, but Abigail could feel the nerves sitting just under the surface—the slight tension in her posture, the way she inhaled a little deeper at every stoplight.

Without a word, Abigail reached over and rested her hand on Emma’s thigh.

The contact was gentle. Intentional.

Emma’s grip tightened for a brief second, then eased. Her shoulders dropped just a little.

“Okay,” Emma said quietly. “That helps.”

Abigail smiled, her thumb tracing a slow, grounding circle against her leg. “You’re doing great already.”

Emma glanced at her, just long enough for a soft smile to break through. “I just want to make a good first impression.”

“You will,” Abigail said easily. “You always do.”

The campus buildings came into view ahead, familiar for Abigail, still new and slightly overwhelming for Emma. The car rolled forward, steady and smooth.

Abigail kept her hand where it was the whole way.

“This is really happening,” she said softly.

Abigail squeezed her hand. “You’re ready. Even if it doesn’t feel like it yet.”

They walked toward the building together before splitting at the entrance. Emma paused, reaching back for Abigail’s hand one more time.

“Go crush Music Theory,” Emma said.

Abigail smiled. “Go make students feel safe.”

Emma laughed and headed down the hall toward her classroom, shoulders squared but eyes bright with nerves and determination. Abigail turned toward her own familiar route, slipping into Music Theory with the ease of routine.

Emma reached her classroom early.

Too early.

The hallway was quiet, fluorescent lights humming softly overhead. She stopped in front of the door and realized it was locked. For a second, her nerves spiked—but then she pulled her key from her bag, slid it into the lock, and turned it with a soft click.

The room opened up to her.

Empty chairs. Guitars resting silently along the walls. A keyboard waiting at the front. The space felt big without people in it—but not intimidating. Just… open.

She set her bag down, placed her lesson plan neatly on the desk, and took a moment to breathe.

Okay, she thought. Guitar basics. Foundations. You know this.

She laid out a few handouts, adjusted the chairs into a loose semicircle, and checked the tuning pegs on one of the guitars. Once everything felt ready, she picked up her own guitar and sat on the edge of the desk.

She started to play.

Nothing showy. Just warm, clean chords at first—soft fingerpicking that filled the room gently. Her shoulders relaxed as the muscle memory kicked in, the sound grounding her more than any pep talk could.

A few minutes passed.

Then she felt it.

Eyes on her.

She kept playing, but her awareness sharpened. When she finally looked up, she saw them—students standing just outside the open door and drifting in slowly, backpacks slung over shoulders, instruments clutched close. They looked tentative. Curious. A little tense.

And completely transfixed.

They watched her hands move across the strings, eyes wide, some frozen mid-step like they weren’t sure if they were allowed to interrupt.

Emma’s chest softened.

She let the last chord ring out gently, then smiled—genuine, warm, unforced.

“You can come in,” she said easily. “Sit wherever you feel comfortable. We’ll start class in just a few minutes.”

A ripple of movement followed. Students shuffled in, choosing seats, whispering quietly. Some still glanced at her like they were trying to memorize the moment.

Emma dipped her head, gave them another reassuring smile—and picked the guitar back up.

She played again, softer this time. Welcoming. Like the room was already alive and breathing.

 The melody drifted through the room, slower now, intentional. Emma let it breathe, her fingers moving with an ease that came from years of familiarity rather than performance. The sound settled the space, smoothing the nervous edges that still lingered in the air.

When she finished, she rested her palm lightly over the strings to quiet them.

“Alright,” she said gently, standing and setting the guitar back on its stand. “Before we officially start, I want to ask you something.”

She began walking toward the front of the room, unhurried, her voice carrying easily.

“As you were listening just now,” she continued, turning to face them, “what do you think makes a song feel honest?”

She let the question hang.

No hands went up.

A few students shifted in their chairs. Someone glanced sideways like maybe they’d missed something. Another stared down at the floor, clearly thinking but not ready to speak.

Emma nodded, completely unbothered.

“Okay,” she said with a small smile. “That’s normal. Don’t answer yet. Just think on it for one second.”

She turned back to the desk, picked up her clipboard, and began taking roll. Names echoed softly through the room, each student responding, the atmosphere loosening with every voice.

When she finished, she set the clipboard down and leaned lightly against the desk.

“I’m Ms. Smith. This is Guitar 101.” she said, smiling

A few students straightened instinctively.

“Since it’s our first day, I want to set a few expectations so we’re all on the same page,” she continued, her tone clear but kind.

She held up one finger.
“Please be on time to class. We start together, and I don’t want anyone feeling like they’re walking in already behind.”

A second finger.
“Make sure homework is turned in on time. It doesn’t have to be perfect, but it does need to be honest effort.”

A third.
“And if you have any questions at all—about assignments, technique, or anything you’re unsure about—my door is always open. You can come during office hours, before class, stay after, or send me an email. You don’t have to figure things out alone.”

A few students nodded, visibly relieved.

Emma pushed off the desk and glanced back around the room.
“Alright,” she said. “Let’s go back to that question.”

She scanned the faces, then gestured lightly toward a student in the middle row.
“Sasha?” she guessed. “Is that right?”

The student blinked, then smiled. “Yeah. That’s me.”

Emma smiled back. “Want to take a shot at it?”

Sasha hesitated for a beat, then nodded.
“I think… a song feels honest when it sounds like the person playing it actually means it. Like it’s coming from a real place, not just technique.”

Emma’s expression softened immediately.

“Yes,” she said warmly. “That’s exactly it.”

Sasha relaxed, shoulders dropping, while a few classmates glanced over with quiet appreciation.

“Technique matters,” Emma continued, addressing the room, “but honesty is what makes people listen. That’s what we’re going to focus on here—finding your sound, your voice, and learning how to trust it.”

Emma let the moment settle, then clapped her hands softly once—not sharp, just enough to refocus the room.

“Alright,” she said, moving back toward the semicircle of chairs. “Let’s build on that.”

She picked up the guitar again but didn’t play right away. Instead, she held it loosely, resting the body against her hip.

“When we talk about honesty in music,” she continued, “we’re not talking about perfection. We’re talking about intention. So today, we’re starting simple. Foundations.”

She gestured to the board and wrote:

Posture
Hand placement
Tone
Listening

“We’ll start with posture,” she said, glancing back at them. “Because if your body is tense, your sound will be tense.”

She demonstrated, sitting on the edge of the desk again. “Feet flat. Shoulders relaxed. Guitar should feel supported, not like you’re wrestling it.”

A few students adjusted automatically.

“Good,” Emma said, noticing. “Now, left hand—don’t squeeze the neck like it owes you money.”

That earned a ripple of laughter.

She smiled. “Light pressure. Just enough to get a clean note. Try this with me.”

She played a simple progression—slow, deliberate—then paused.

“Your turn. Just one chord. Don’t worry about speed.”

The room filled with tentative sound. Some notes rang clean. Others buzzed. A few students winced at their own mistakes.

Emma walked slowly between them, kneeling beside one student to gently adjust their wrist, nodding encouragement to another.

“That buzz?” she said calmly to someone near the window. “That’s not failure. That’s feedback. It’s telling you something.”

She returned to the front and played the progression again, this time softer. “Listen to the space between the notes,” she said. “Silence matters too.”

She looked up. “What did you notice that time?”

A hand went up. Another followed.

Emma nodded. “Yeah?”

“It sounded… calmer,” someone said.

“Exactly,” Emma replied. “Because I wasn’t rushing it.”

She let that land, then smiled. “Music will tell you what it needs if you give it time.”

Emma glanced at the clock and smiled. “Alright,” she said, setting the guitar gently back on its stand. “Good work today.”

As chairs shifted and a few students started to move, a hand lifted near the back of the room.

Emma paused. “Yeah?” she said, turning toward them.

The student cleared their throat, a little nervous but sincere. “Um… thank you.”

Emma smiled, genuinely curious. “For what?”

“For making this class feel relaxed,” the student said. “It really helped—especially since it’s the first day.”

Something warm settled in Emma’s chest. She nodded once, her smile widening. “You’re welcome. I’m really glad to hear that.”

She looked around the room, meeting a few eyes before speaking again. “And remember—if you need anything at all, just let me know. You can ask during class, before or after, during office hours, or by email.”

She gestured lightly toward the board. “There are also a few videos posted online that walk through today’s basics. If you ever need extra help or just want to review quietly, they’re there for you.”

Emma stepped back, giving the room one last encouraging look. “Good first day,” she said, offering a small nod. “Class is dismissed.”

The room filled with the sounds of zippers and chair legs as students packed up. A few lingered, smiling or offering quick thanks on their way out. When the door finally closed behind the last one, the space went quiet again.

Emma exhaled.

She straightened a chair, wiped down the desk, and reset the room—small, familiar motions that felt grounding now. She checked the lesson plan for the next class, adjusted the guitar stand, and smiled to herself.

Ready.