Back to reality

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟑 – 𝐁𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐓𝐨 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲

The halls smell like stale coffee and rushed mornings.

Lockers slam, chatter buzzes like static in my ears, and somewhere, someone’s phone blares a song I pretend not to recognize.

Isaac and I walk side by side, trying to blend into the chaos like ghosts slipping through the crowd.

Two weeks off feels longer than it should.

“Feels weird being back, huh?” he says, glancing at me with that half-smile I haven’t quite figured out yet.

I nod, scanning the crowd.

There’s Emory, leaning against the wall with her friends, laughing like the world owes her everything.

My chest tightens — a familiar weight I’m still not used to.

Isaac’s eyes flick to her too, but he doesn’t say anything.

“Class?” I ask, shifting my bag.

He shrugs. “Yeah. We’ll survive.”

We turn a corner and suddenly Zack is there, waving wildly like he just spotted a celebrity.

“Y/N! Isaac! About time you two showed up!”

I force a smile, hoping it hides the storm brewing just beneath the surface.

Isaac just nods, eyes fixed ahead.

This is it.

Back to college.

Back to pretending everything’s normal.

But some things — like the way Isaac looks at Emory, and the way my heart won’t stop aching — won’t be so easy to ignore.

We’re still standing by the lockers, trying to find some semblance of calm amid the buzzing crowd, when Emory slides in next to Isaac, her presence sudden and magnetic. She’s wearing that effortless smile that makes everyone around her lean in a little closer, hang on her every word.

“Hey, Y/N,” Emory says, voice light but carrying that unmistakable hint of command.

I nod, trying to keep my expression neutral. Isaac shifts slightly but doesn’t say anything.

Before I can open my mouth, Zack bounds up beside us, grinning like he’s about to drop the hottest gossip of the semester.

“You won’t believe the new kids this year,” Zack says, eyes sparkling. “They’re like, actually popular. Like, really popular. I’m talking VIP lunch tables, social media blow-ups, the whole deal.”

Emory nods eagerly. “Yeah, it’s like a whole new hierarchy. Makes you wonder how we even survived before.”

Zack pulls out his phone, scrolling through a photo album. “Okay, first there’s Eren Yeager. Heard he’s got that brooding, mysterious vibe — the kind of guy who looks like he’s got secrets no one’s supposed to know.”

I glance over at Emory, who raises an eyebrow, her interest piqued.

“And then there’s Jean, who’s apparently the ‘smooth operator.’ Can talk his way out of anything, and everyone’s somehow totally into him.”

I open my mouth to respond — maybe to ask why they’re telling me this like it matters — but Emory cuts me off with a casual wave of her hand.

“Okay, okay. Enough about them.”

Her tone is cool, almost dismissive, like the whole popular-kid drama isn’t worth the breath it takes to say their names.

I feel a small smile tug at my lips. Finally, someone else who gets it.

Zack looks a little thrown, blinking like he didn’t expect to be shut down mid-rant.

“But I thought—”

Emory laughs, the kind of laugh that’s both sharp and warm. “I mean, if you want to waste your energy on them, go ahead. But I don’t care.”

I echo her sentiment quietly, “Yeah, I don’t care either.”

Isaac watches us both, his expression unreadable, but I catch the slightest nod from him.

Zack shrugs, hands raised in surrender. “Alright, alright. Fair enough.”

he bell hasn’t rung yet, but most of the hall is already starting to clear out — people peeling off into classrooms, the noise thinning into echoing footsteps and doors clicking shut.

For a moment, it’s just the four of us.

Zack leans against the locker beside me, fidgeting with the strings on his hoodie. “So… since we’re all back and alive, are we gonna pretend the band isn’t a thing anymore or...?”

I glance at Isaac.

His eyes are on Emory.

Of course they are.

But he hears Zack — he always hears when it’s about the band.

Isaac shrugs. “We could jam after class. Practice room’s still unlocked if no one’s claimed it.”

Emory tilts her head. “You guys are still doing that?”

I raise a brow. “That?”

“The band thing,” she says with a little smile, like we’re a high school garage act that outgrew its cuteness. “Didn’t know it was still alive.”

“It’s not just alive,” Zack chimes in, clearly trying to keep the peace, “It’s in recovery mode. We had a little break. Mental health, academic failure, romantic confusion — the usual.”

I can’t help it — I snort. “Don’t forget the part where Isaac nearly burned the practice room down trying to fix a broken amp.”

Isaac throws his hands up. “That was one time.”

“And a fire extinguisher was involved,” I add, grinning.

Zack laughs. “Still the most exciting rehearsal we’ve ever had.”

Emory watches us, arms folded, expression unreadable. She doesn’t look annoyed exactly… more like she’s outside of it. Floating above the conversation.

“Maybe I’ll stop by and watch sometime,” she says, her voice light. “If you’re not too busy blowing things up.”

Isaac nods, smiling faintly. “Yeah. You should.”

The words are for her. Not me.

Not Zack.

Just her.

And even though I saw it coming, it still stings.

I shift my weight, pretending to check my phone. “Anyway, I’m down to rehearse after class. I’ve got some new stuff I’ve been working on.”

Isaac perks up slightly. “Originals?”

I nod. “Maybe. Lyrics are half-scribbled and held together with caffeine, but yeah.”

Zack nudges my shoulder. “Sounds like a masterpiece already.”

Emory tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, her gaze flicking between us before landing on Isaac again. “Text me when you’re done?”

“Yeah,” he says, too fast.

She gives a small wave and disappears down the hall.

I watch her go, then exhale through my nose.

Zack watches me. “You good?”

I shrug. “I’m fine.”

But I’m not.

Because we’re back. The band’s breathing again.And so is everything I didn’t want to feel.

The old practice room smells the same.

Dust, worn cables, a faint scent of energy drink from that one time Zack spilled a whole can behind the amp and never told anyone.

I drop my bag on the couch, unzip my guitar case, and settle in without a word.

Isaac’s already at the drums — his spot. He twirls one stick lazily, the other tucked under his arm as he stretches. Zack fumbles with the mic, pretending to be a serious frontman but humming some ridiculous pop tune under his breath.

We go through one of our usuals — something fast, loud, familiar.

But halfway through, something feels… off.

Like we’re playing around each other, not with each other.

I fumble a chord. Isaac misses a fill. Zack’s timing is off.

We finish the song, the final note falling flat like a bad joke no one laughed at.

There’s a heavy pause.

Zack breaks it. “Okay, so… that sucked.”

Isaac shrugs, running a hand through his hair. “We’re rusty.”

“Rusty implies we were polished to begin with,” I mutter, plucking absently at my strings.

Zack flops dramatically onto the beat-up couch. “You guys, this is tragic. We need CPR. Or divine intervention. Or like… maybe just Emory on tambourine.”

“Wow,” I say dryly. “Way to raise the bar.”

A voice cuts in from the door.“I don’t do tambourines.”

We all look up.

Emory’s standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame with her arms crossed and one eyebrow raised like she’s always known she’d be needed.

I blink. “You followed us?”

She shrugs. “The acoustics were calling me.”

Isaac perks up immediately. “You want to sit in?”

“I could,” she says, walking in like she owns the place. “I mean, if you need someone who actually has rhythm.”

Zack perks up. “Wait. You play something?”

“Bass,” she says simply, dropping her bag on the floor and pulling out a worn but well-loved bass from inside. “Didn’t think you guys would need me, but clearly…” She glances at the amp still humming weakly. “Desperation is in the air.”

I raise a brow, skeptical. “You play bass?”

“Try me,” she says with a smirk.

We exchange looks.

Isaac gives a small nod, and Zack grins like Christmas came early.

Emory plugs in, adjusts the strap, and without missing a beat, starts riffing — sharp, steady, confident.

The room shifts.

I feel it.

The way her notes lock in with Isaac’s beat. The way Zack adjusts his tone, like something just clicked into place.

And suddenly… the music works.

I strum again, and this time — it flows.

It feels like a band.

Zack throws his head back, half-laughing, half-singing into the mic.

Isaac’s sticks blur.

Emory doesn’t miss a beat.

And me?

I play louder.

Because even if I didn’t want her here — even if part of me wishes it was anyone else — I can’t deny it.

She completes Isaacs heart.

She completes the sound.

And maybe that’s the problem.

The last note rings out, bouncing off the cement walls like it knows something we don’t.

We all stand still for a second.

Breathing.

Listening to the silence after.

Then Zack throws his hands in the air. “Holy hell, that actually sounded good.”

Isaac laughs, breathless, wiping sweat from his brow with his sleeve. “That felt insane. Like… actually tight.”

“Guess I’m not just a pretty face,” Emory says, setting her bass down with a smug little smile.

I set my guitar against the stand a little too carefully, jaw tight. “I didn’t say you were useless.”

Emory glances at me, her eyes flickering with something unreadable. “Didn’t say you didn’t.”

Isaac doesn’t notice — or pretends not to — as he walks over and bumps her shoulder with his. “Seriously though. That was amazing.”

She grins at him, and it’s that grin. The kind she only gives to him.

I look away.

Zack plops down again, still buzzing. “So what now? Do we make her an official member? Print T-shirts? A reunion tour? ‘B/N featuring the Bass Goddess’?”

“Relax,” I say, sitting on the edge of the amp. “It’s one song.”

“Yeah,” Emory says, but her tone is lighter. “But one very good song.”

Isaac looks at me suddenly, his brows raised like he’s waiting for something — approval? Validation? I’m not sure.

“Y/N?” he asks. “What do you think?”

What do I think?

I think I liked it better when I didn’t have to share the stage with someone who already has everything else I want.

But I also know I can’t lie.

“That was good,” I admit, forcing the words out. “Better than before.”

Emory arches a brow. “That almost sounded like a compliment.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

Zack laughs, already fiddling with the speaker again. “Okay, so we rehearse again tomorrow? Same time?”

Isaac nods. “I’m in.”

“Me too,” Emory says, already unplugging her gear like she belongs.

They all look at me.

I hesitate — just a beat too long.

Then I nod. “Yeah. Fine.”

Emory brushes past me to grab her bag, and for the briefest second, her shoulder grazes mine. Not hard. Not aggressive. Just… present.

She doesn’t say anything.

But the message is there.

She fits here.

Now the question is — do I still?

The second Emory’s shoulder brushes mine, it hits like a spark.

Not the good kind.

The kind that burns.

I grab my bag, fingers white-knuckled around the strap, and bolt before anyone can say a word.

The door swings shut behind me harder than I meant.

Okay — maybe not harder than I meant.

Screw it.

I needed out.

The hallway feels too bright, too quiet, too everything. My footsteps echo sharp against the tile as I rush past half-lit classrooms and lockers that all look the same.

I don’t stop. I don’t look back.

Because if I do, I might explode.

And no one in that room deserves to see that.

Not him.Not her.Definitely not both of them standing side by side.

---

Back in the practice room, the silence lingers long after the slam of the door.

Zack blinks, still mid-stretch. “…okay. So, what the hell was that?”

Isaac frowns, turning toward the door like maybe he can see through it. “Did I say something?”

“You?” Emory scoffs, pulling her hair into a loose ponytail. “Please. If anyone triggered her, it was probably me.”

Zack raises both hands. “Whoa, whoa. Let’s not all start acting like this is a group therapy session. Maybe she’s just having a bad day?”

“She was fine before,” Isaac mutters. “I mean… quiet, yeah. But she played great. She was into it.”

“She always gets weird when I’m around,” Emory says, tossing her bass pick into her bag.

Zack stares at her. “Weird how?”

Emory shrugs, but there’s a knowing edge to her smile. “You’ve seen it. The fake smiles. The deadpan replies. She can barely look at me.”

Isaac stiffens slightly. “You’re imagining it.”

“Am I?”

Zack sighs. “You both have more tension than a busted guitar string.”

“She doesn’t like that I joined,” Emory says plainly. “She didn’t want me here. She just didn’t know how to say it without sounding bitter.”

Isaac looks down at his drumsticks, rolling one between his fingers. “Maybe we should talk to her.”

Zack shrugs. “You can try, but good luck cracking the Y/N emotional vault. Girl locks it tighter than Fort Knox.”

They all fall quiet.

Emory breaks it first, voice low. “Look… if I’m the problem, I’ll back off. I don’t want to screw up your band.”

Isaac’s brows furrow. “You didn’t screw up anything. You helped. That was the best we’ve sounded in weeks.”

Zack looks between them. “But Y/N walked out like we hit her dog. So… maybe the best we’ve sounded isn’t the same as the best we’ve felt to her.”

Silence again.

No one really knows what to say.

Because no one really knows what’s going on in Y/N’s head.

The hallway is cold.

Fluorescent lights buzz above me like they’re mocking how fast I walked out, how dramatic I looked — storming off like I’m in some overacted music video.

But I don’t care.

I walk fast, shoulders tense, footsteps sharp against the tile.

I don’t even know where I’m going — just away.

Away from the sound of Isaac praising Emory like she’s the missing piece.Away from the way she walked in and fit like she’s always belonged there.Away from that look.That look on his face.Like she made the music feel real again.

I grit my teeth.

“Stupid,” I mutter. “So, so stupid.”

The hallway is empty. Most people are already in class or at home. But me? I’m still here, storming through this echo chamber of my own thoughts.

I tighten my grip on my bag and keep walking.

Every step I take echoes louder in my head than it does in the hall.

It’s not just about the music.It’s not just about the band.

It’s everything.

Isaac, with his stupid soft voice and that crooked grin that’s never mine anymore.

Emory, with her perfect timing and perfect basslines and perfect everything.

And me — the girl who had all the time in the world to say something, but didn’t.

I shove through the door to the back stairwell and sit on the top step, the metal cool against my legs.

I let my bag fall with a dull thud beside me and rest my forehead on my knees.

Why do I feel like I’m losing something I never even had the guts to claim?

My phone buzzes in my pocket.

I don’t check it.

I know who it is. Zack, probably. Maybe even Isaac.Maybe Emory, if she’s feeling extra saintly.

But I don’t care right now.

I just want a second.

One second to be angry.One second to feel everything I’ve been shoving down since we got back to school.

Because if I don’t let myself feel it now — I’ll carry it into the next rehearsal.And the next.And the next.

And eventually, I’ll explode.

The buzzing stops.

Silence again.

For a while, I just sit there.

Breathing.

Letting the silence press in like a weighted blanket over my shoulders.

I stare at the cracked tile wall across from me, trying to will myself to feel less.

Less irritated.Less bitter.Less everything.

But my phone buzzes again.

Persistent this time.Short.Then another.

Zack. Has to be. No one else texts me in bursts like he’s narrating his own thoughts in real time.

I sigh. Dig around in my hoodie pocket and pull my phone out.

Three messages.

All from him.

[ Zack 🎤🖤 ]yo where’d you go??em swears she didn’t do anything??you okay or are you plotting murder again

I stare at them for a second.Then tap back to the home screen.Then open them again.

I don’t know why.Maybe because it feels like someone noticed.Maybe because it’s Zack — the only person who ever texts like he’s just yelling into a void and hoping I yell back.

I stare at his last message.

> you okay or are you plotting murder again

A dry chuckle escapes me. Just a breath. Barely audible. But it’s real.

I thumb out a reply.

me:somewhere between emotional crisis and felony

He replies almost instantly.

Zack:classic. want me to bring snacks or rope?

me:rope.but like emotional rope. not body disposal rope.

Zack:damn. you used to be more fun.

Another message. This one slower.

Zack:you wanna talk about it? or should i keep being your emotional punchbag

I hesitate.Stare at the screen so long it dims.

Then finally, I type:

me:i don’t know how to talk about it.

Zack:okay. want me to come sit next to you and not talk about it either?

I don’t reply.But I don’t put the phone away either.

Because now I’m not just angry.

I’m not just jealous or confused or hurt.

I’m… tired.

And maybe I don’t want to feel all this alone anymore.

By the time I finally decide to return to class, the halls are half-empty again — that eerie post-bell quiet that makes everything feel like a bad dream.

I swing my bag over one shoulder and make my way toward the lecture hall, jaw tight, stomach still tangled in knots. Zack hadn’t replied again after his last message, but I know he meant it. He always does.

I reach the door and hesitate, hand on the handle.

I already know what’s waiting for me.That weird, heavy silence when everyone turns around.The judgmental stares.And worse — Isaac and Emory pretending they didn’t just watch me storm out like a brat with a broken heart.

I open the door.

The professor pauses mid-sentence.

His head swivels like something out of a horror film. “Miss Y/L/N.”

Oh, great.

“Nice of you to finally join us.”

I freeze just inside the door. Every pair of eyes in the room turns to me, like I’m a museum exhibit.

I spot Zack first — front row, because of course he is. He gives me a little salute and mouths brave.

Isaac’s in the third row beside Emory. She doesn’t turn around. He does.Barely.But enough to look guilty.Or maybe curious.Or both.

“I hope your solo entrance was worth interrupting an entire lecture,” the professor continues, voice rising.

I force a smile. Tight. “Sorry. Got… held up.”

He gestures to the back row with a sweeping motion. “Take a seat. Quietly this time.”

I move quickly, slipping into an empty seat by the window and dropping my bag like it personally offended me.

The professor returns to his rant about some historical theory I’m too tired to process.

I stare blankly at the board.

The whispering starts almost immediately.

Low. Sharp. Familiar.

“Wasn’t she the one in the band with Isaac?”“I heard she yelled at Emory last semester.”“Isn’t that the girl who dipped for two weeks and came back like nothing happened?”

I exhale slowly, trying not to react.

I can feel Isaac glance back again.

I pretend not to notice.

I pull out my notebook, flip to a random page, and pretend to care about whatever’s being scribbled on the projector.

But all I can think about is the weight in my chest.

The fact that I’m here. Present. Visible.

And still feel like I’m nowhere.

I tap my pen against the corner of my notebook, eyes unfocused on the half-written sentence in front of me. Something about colonial theory. Or conflict. Or maybe it’s cultural diffusion. I honestly couldn’t care less.

The whispers eventually die down, fading back into the dull hum of lecture, but the weight of them lingers.

I sit there, back straight, eyes forward — doing everything I’m supposed to.And still…

“Miss Y/L/N.”

Of course he says my name again.

I blink. “Yes?”

Professor Hawthorn is standing at the front of the lecture hall with his hands folded behind his back, smug like he’s caught a mouse chewing through the cereal box.

“Maybe you can explain how Weber’s theory of social stratification might apply to pre-industrial societies?”

I open my mouth. Pause.

I could answer. I know the basics.But that’s not the point.

He didn’t ask me because he thought I’d know.He asked me because he knows who I am.

I clear my throat and answer mechanically — textbook-perfect — just to get it over with.

Hawthorn nods, clearly disappointed I didn’t choke. “Right. Very good.”

He moves on.

But I don’t.

I stare at the board, pretending to take notes, but inside, I’m spiraling.

There are over a hundred students in this lecture.

A hundred people breathing the same air, blending into one another like a sea of hoodies and clicky pens and overpriced laptops.

But I’m the one who gets singled out.I’m the one who gets called out by name, even after walking in late.

Because my last name isn’t just a name.

It’s a flag.

Y/L/N.

It’s written on buildings.On donation plaques.On scholarship forms and media headlines.

It’s whispered in staff lounges and parent meetings.It’s thrown around like a badge — or a warning.

And no matter how quiet I stay, how low I sink into my hoodie, how far back I sit in this damn room…They’ll always see me first.

Not because of me.But because of them.

My family.

Their money.Their status.Their polished teeth and lies dressed in silk.

I’m not invisible.

Not because I don’t want to be — but because I’m not allowed to be.

And I hate that more than anything.