Page 1 of Hidden Fates

Chapter One

My life is a cycle of getting lost in the music and choking on regret.

When the volume gets too low, my emotions too overwhelming to face on my own, I come here. To the suburban garage where my bandmates still practice.

These guys are so damn young. So full of hope.

They aren’t using music to chase demons; they’re chasing dreams.

Sometimes I question if I’m pulling them down. Hindering their rise to stardom with my shit mental health and even shittier outlook.

“You good, dude?”

I shrug, letting Joey step back into position so we can run through the song again. Getting lost in the beat of the drums and the rhythm of the guitars, the words pour from my lips. An intro full of emotion to draw listeners in, and then my voice drops, chest rattling with deep, growling screams.

Elation sweeps the angst away, finally letting the tension bleed from my body as I pour my soul into the music.

Matt takes over, belting out the chorus in his smoother, dulcet tone. His voice fades, and it’s back to me. Another verse to bring my heartbreak to life.

I love this feeling.

The high that comes with performing.

As soon as my voice tapers off, the guys slam into action, dropping into a breakdown that rattles the windows. The sound ricochets through my body, and for a moment, I’m free. Weightlessly floating in a cloud of heavy bass, drum kicks, and guitar harmonics.

I’m not the man who wakes up hating himself, nor am I the one who goes to sleep filled with regrets. The burdens of my mistakes and the what-ifs can’t reach me here.

The instrumentals drop back into their normal rhythm, shattering my temporary bubble of peace. I move on instinct, taking the mic in hand and falling into the bridge with the same intensity as my bandmates.

As soon as it’s over, I’m ready to dive back in.

To find a way to make that feeling last forever.

“We’re awesome.” Matt cheers, double high-fiving our drummer, Lee.

“Hell yeah, we are.” Lee tosses his drumsticks in the air and catches them, rattling out a short burst of beats. He slumps on his stool and levels them at me. Sweat drips from his shoulder-length hair, soaking into the top of his lime-green t-shirt. “Great job, man, but I’m calling it. I’m starving.”

Disappointment briefly fills my heart, but I push it aside. I would be a jackass if I demanded they keep going when they clearly need a break.

My stomach rumbles, reminding me I haven’t eaten today. “Yeah, sounds good.”

We unhook our equipment and pack it into Joey’s van. The guys tease each other, talking shit like good friends do. I move between them, silently helping tear everything down.

Do I belong here? In their pack?

When I was younger and imagined what finding my pack would feel like, it wasn’t this. In those daydreams, I wasn’t an uncomfortable outlier, always standing at the edges of the group, but an integral part of the pack itself. There was laughter, friendship, and love.

My reality is jarringly different. Was I naïve to believe forming a pack would be effortless? That we would fit together with no bumps or bruises?

“Pizza?” Matt asks, bumping into my side to get my attention. His dark green eyes study me intensely.

Instead of joining them for food, maybe I’ll head to the gym. Running for a bit might help clear this funk I’m in.

Shoving my hands into my pockets, I follow him to my car. Only two of us fit in the van, so we split up to head back to our apartment in Starburgh.

Halfway back, my phone rings with a call from our band manager.

“Good evening, boys,” Bea chirps into the phone. “Since I know some of you don’t check your phones, I thought I’d call to confirm you received my email about the meeting tomorrow.”