Page 99 of What Goes Around

Marissa set the cup down with more force than necessary.

“Deadlines. Clients. Expansion talks. You know how these things go.”

Apple accepted that instantly, nodding and returning to her phone without a second thought.

I didn’t.

“Must be exhausting,” I said softly.

Marissa’s jaw tightened. “It is.”

I leaned back in my chair, studying her.

Did she have a clue?

Was she afraid of history repeating itself?

Chapter 31: You’re So Annoying

Music had always stayed with me.

Not in the way it was for Apple, loud, competitive, meant to be witnessed, but in a quieter, more private way. Something internal. Something that didn’t ask for applause.

Even after the accident.

Even after my hand stopped obeying the way it once had.

Even after the piano in our living room was sold off like an inconvenience we no longer needed.

I still found my way back to it.

Sometimes during lunch. Sometimes after school. I slipped into the music room when it was empty and sat at the old Steinway by the window. The keys were chipped, yellowed with age, the upper register permanently out of tune. None of that mattered. I played simpler pieces now, slow ones. Music that didn’t demand speed or brilliance, only intention.

Music wasn’t about proving anything to me anymore.

It was a place to put the things I couldn’t say out loud.

A few weeks ago, our music theory teacher announced an optional composition assignment. A written score only. No performance. It would be judged on structure, emotional coherence, and storytelling.

Apple had smiled the moment it was announced. She always did when music was involved. She was a performer. A prodigy. This was where she thrived.

“It doesn’t matter,” she had said lightly. “Everyone knows who’s going to win.”

I didn’t tell anyone I was submitting anything.

I worked quietly at home, taking my time.

I didn’t aim for complexity. No fast passages. No unnecessary flourishes. I stayed within my limits, the way pain had taught me to.

The composition was simple, but deliberate. Quiet. Controlled. Built around loss, around pauses that said more than sound ever could. A melody that knew when to stop.

Apple’s piece was beautiful on the surface, but empty underneath. Decorative. Like a room with no doors.

Now, weeks later, on one of the final days of the school year, the results were being announced.

The classroom buzzed. Our teacher stood at the front, papers in hand. Apple sat ready, already certain of the outcome.

“This year’s submissions were remarkably strong,” she said. “However, one composition stood apart.”