Chapter Text
Schroeder’s hands felt heavy on the piano keys. The melody should have come effortlessly—he had mastered it a week ago—but now, each note felt sluggish, out of sync with the rhythm in his head.
He had been playing for as long as he could remember, the piano’s keys becoming an extension of himself, each note a pulse in sync with his heartbeat. His mind, sharp and instinctual, could trace every rise and fall of a melody, like an intricate map laid out before him.
By the time he was twelve, he was already a name in the local music scene, racking up first-place trophies at nearly every competition his parents entered him in. He traveled to different states across America, his performances flawless, his fingers gliding over the keys with precision that seemed to defy his age. The moment he sat down at the piano, the audience could feel it—the electricity in the air, the expectation that something great was about to unfold.
Within his region, he was respected. Admired, even. His reputation as a prodigy grew with each competition, each performance that left spectators in awe. He was the golden child of the piano world, destined for greatness. And yet, even with all the accolades and recognition,
It wasn’t enough.
Schroeder knew talent when he heard it, and compared to the virtuosos in Europe and Asia, he was still a step behind. “ Just not yet. ” He told himself. He would catch up. He had to.
Because Juilliard was waiting for him.
Or at least, that’s what he hoped.
For years, it had been the plan—the only plan. Juilliard was the next step, the stepping stone to something greater. He had envisioned it so many times: the acceptance letter, the moment his future solidified, proof that all of this—every sacrificed hour, every lost childhood memory in favor of practice—had been worth it.
But now, it was senior year. The weight of it all was starting to settle in, a slow, suffocating pressure that followed him everywhere—every piano key, every competition, every interaction, every moment. He was no longer just chasing a dream; he chasing the thing that dictated the rest of his life.
Perfection was the only thing that mattered. Every flaw, no matter how small, was something to be corrected. And even the things he did flawlessly? Nope. Never good enough. Never quite right.
So why, after years of refining every note, did the music feel… empty?
Schroeder squeezed his eyes shut, searching for the flaw, the thing that made the piece sound wrong. There had to be something—some imperfection, some mistake. But no matter how many times he played the notes, they echoed back at him like ghosts of every error he had spent years correcting.
Why, all of a sudden, did he sound bad ?
His eyes snapped open. He watched his hands move over the keys, analyzing, adjusting— fixing. Anything to make it sound the way it had just days ago.
Had his talent vanished overnight? No, that wasn’t possible. It had to be the piano—maybe it was out of tune. Or maybe the composer had arranged the piece poorly. There had to be some other explanation.
It wasn’t him. It couldn’t be him.
Then why did it feel like something inside him had just come undone?
"What’s wrong with you?" The words echoed in his mind, relentless.
It was a question that had haunted him since childhood. No one had ever asked it outright—not in so many words—but he had seen it in their eyes. The hesitation. The quiet concern.
He had always been different. Silent, withdrawn. As a child, he had barely spoken—his words were few and far between, just enough to show he could talk, but never enough to ease the worry that something was off. His parents had taken him to psychologists, specialists, anyone who might give them an answer. They never got one, at least not the kind they wanted. Some children were just quiet. Some were just difficult. He wasn’t impaired, just… distant. That’s what they had been told. He knew his parents never really accepted that explanation.
His mother, especially, seemed to take it personally, as if she had somehow failed in raising him to be the kind of child who spoke freely, who laughed easily, who filled the room with warmth. She had always been obsessed with perfection —in her appearance, in her home, in the way the family was perceived. Everything had to be flawless, polished, without a single crack to expose any imperfection beneath the surface. And Schroeder, with his quiet nature and distant stares, was the one thing she couldn’t refine, no matter how hard she tried.
And his father, though quieter in his concerns, had expectations that were just as heavy, if not heavier. A man who had once played a variety of instruments, he had dedicated his life to music in every form. But after an accident left the right side of his body paralyzed from the neck down, he could no longer play, no longer create. Now, he sat in a wheelchair, relying on government assistance, a check that barely covered the bills, let alone the life he had once envisioned for his family.
To Schdoedor’s father, everything had to serve a function, had to become something greater. And his son, with his untapped potential, was no exception.
So when Schroeder was eight years old, and his father brought home tickets to a classical music recital, the last thing he wanted to do was go.
He didn’t fully understand why his father had decided on it, atleast not yet.
He assumed that maybe it was one of those forced family outings that parents did when they were trying to bond with their children. Maybe his father thought it would teach him something about culture or discipline. Whatever the reason, Schroeder didn’t want to go. He had never liked crowded places, never liked being surrounded by strangers, never liked sitting still for long periods of time when his mind felt restless. But it wasn’t as if he had a choice.
He remembered the feeling of walking into the recital hall, how small he felt in the vastness of it. The high ceilings, the polished floors, the low murmur of conversation before the performance began. The air smelled of polished wood and something faintly metallic, like the instruments themselves had left their mark on the room. His dress shoes pinched at his toes, and the stiff fabric of his button-down shirt felt foreign against his skin.
His parents sat on either side of him, their presence a silent reminder that this was important , even if he didn’t yet understand why.
As they took their seats in the accessibility section, his father turned to him, his voice low but firm. “I remember being up there,” he murmured, his gaze fixed on the stage. “Not this stage exactly, but one like it. Playing for a full house, just like this.”
Schroeder didn’t need to be reminded. He had heard the stories before—how his father had once been a pianist himself, how he had played with the kind of skill that could have taken him anywhere. Until the accident. Until the hand that had once glided effortlessly over the keys had become still, unmoving.
His father never spoke of it much. Never talked about what it had felt like to lose something so vital. But Schroeder noticed the way his father’s fingers twitched sometimes, like they still remembered what it was like to play, even if they never could again.
“I was nervous at first,” his father continued. “The lights were so bright, I could barely see the audience. But the second I started playing, I forgot about everything else. That’s what music does—it takes over, fills the space around you until there’s nothing left but the sound. That’s the kind of power it has.”
Schroeder followed his father’s gaze to the gleaming black piano at the center of the stage, its surface reflecting the glow of the chandeliers above.
His father’s voice dropped lower. “One day, I want you up there too, Schroeder. Not just watching, but performing . Playing music in front of a grand audience. This is where you belong.”
Schroeder hesitated. The idea of being on a stage, of so many people watching him, made his stomach twist. He didn’t want to be watched. He didn’t want anyone looking at him, expecting something from him.
But he knew what this meant to his father. Knew that whatever dreams had been ripped from him were now resting on Schroeder’s eight year-old small, untested hands.
So he just nodded. Not because he agreed, but because it was easier than arguing.
He slumped into his seat, arms crossed, expression unreadable. He expected to be bored. Expected the music to be nothing more than background noise to his own wandering thoughts.
But then, the first note rang out.
And everything changed.
It wasn’t just sound. It wasn’t just music. It was something more—something that filled the air around him and seeped into his skin, into his very bones. The piano was unlike anything he had ever heard before. It wasn’t just an instrument; it was a voice, speaking without words, shaping emotions out of nothing. It was powerful, sweeping, full of meaning.
For the first time in his life, he felt something.
It was as if all the words he had never been able to say had been transformed into music, and suddenly, everything made sense. He didn’t need to speak. He didn’t need to explain himself. Because the piano already knew.
He didn’t tell his parents his interest that night. He didn’t need to.
They saw the way his eyes stayed fixed on the pianist the entire time, how he barely blinked, how he barely breathed. They saw the way his fingers twitched, as if itching to touch the keys himself. They saw how, for once, he wasn’t lost in his own world—because the music had become his world.
His father, a man who spent his life around instruments, must have recognized something in him that night. Because a week later, without much discussion, a small toy piano appeared in their house.
And from the moment he touched it, he knew.
It was crude and simple, not nearly enough for what he wanted to create, but it was his. And as soon as his fingers pressed the keys, he felt something he had never felt before. Control. Clarity. A way to speak without speaking. A way to exist in a world that had never quite made space for him.
His parents took it as a sign. If music was what finally reached him, then music was what they would give him. And so, they did.
They nurtured it. Pushed him. Encouraged him. At first, it was gentle—lessons, practice sessions, small concerts. But soon, it became more. More lessons. More competitions. More expectations.
More pressure.
It wasn’t long before piano became his whole life.
Lessons turned into hours upon hours of practice. His schedule filled up with recitals, rehearsals, auditions. His parents made sure he had the best teachers, the best tutors, the best everything. And somewhere along the way, his passion was replaced with something else—something heavier, something more suffocating.
Expectation.
Because it was no longer just about playing. It was about winning. About proving himself. About being the best.
And he was the best.
At least, that’s what he had always believed. That’s what he had been raised to believe.
When he was eleven, his parents started thinking about the future—not just next year’s competitions or the next big recital, but the next step. College. His career. His entire life, planned out before he even had the chance to form his own dreams.
Juilliard. That was the only option. The only path that mattered. They made that clear to him early on—there would be no distractions, no wasted time, nothing that would steer him away from what was expected of him. His talent was too rare, too valuable. And if he wanted to succeed—if he wanted to make something of himself—there was no room for anything else.
His father had gone to Juilliard. It was the pinnacle of everything he had worked for, the institution that had shaped him into the musician he had once been—before his accident, before his body had betrayed him. His father never spoke much about those years, but Schroeder knew enough. He knew that Juilliard wasn’t just a school to his father. It was proof of worth. A symbol of everything he had achieved. And now, it was Schroeder’s turn to carry that legacy.
By the time he was eleven, his future had been mapped out in front of him, rigid and unwavering. And as the years passed, that path only grew narrower.
At first, his mother had still spoken up for him. Had still tried, in her own way, to remind his father that he was a child before he was a pianist. “He’s a child!” she would argue when his father demanded longer practice hours, stricter discipline.
“He’s a prodigy!” His father would snap back. “He needs to practice.”
And so, practice he did.
But as time passed, her focus shifted. With her husband disabled and prices rising, she was busy with work, trying to provide for her family on her own. She found herself stretched thin, unable to fight with his father. By the time he was twelve, it was clear that his father’s word was starting to become final. By thirteen, his mother had stopped pushing back altogether. By fourteen, it was like she had given up entirely.
At some point, she had accepted that this was how it had to be. Maybe she told herself that it was for the best, that Schroeder had a gift, that this was simply what life demanded of him. Maybe she believed it. Maybe she didn’t. But either way, she stopped fighting.
And Schroeder?
He stopped expecting her to.
His days were dictated by piano. Morning practice before school. Afternoon lessons. Evening rehearsals. On weekends, when other kids went outside, when they rode their bikes through the neighborhood or wasted hours at the mall, he sat in front of the keys. His hands memorized the weight of them, the movement, the precision. His body learned discipline, muscle memory, perfection.
His father called it dedication. His mother called it necessary.
But Schroeder never called it anything at all.
Because what was there to say?
That was what he wanted.
Wasn’t it?
None of that matters right now.
What matters is perfecting this piece . But he can’t .
“Why can’t I…” The words slip out in a whisper as he stares down at his hands, his long, veined fingers hovering uselessly above the keys.
He glanced at the clock hanging on the wall behind the piano. It was late, the chill of fall creeping in through the open window. School was just around the corner.
Schroeder exhales sharply through his nose, pressing his fingers against the bridge, trying to will away the frustration clawing at his chest. He inhales deeply. Holds it. Then lets it go.
It doesn’t help.
Annoyed, he shuts the piano lid with a quiet finality and rises to his feet.
Without another thought, he steps out of the music room, hands slipping into his pockets. His face is blank, unreadable.
But inside, something feels off.
And for the first time in a long time, he doesn’t know how to fix it.
Schroeder’s feet move on their own, guiding him past the living room, through the hallway, and up the stairs. His bedroom door creaks open as he stands in the doorway, surveying the room.
The shelves are lined with trophies—none above his bed. He’s always had this strange, nagging fear that one day, one of them might come crashing down on him in the middle of the night. A ridiculous thought, but one that still lingers.
The trophies stand proudly beside framed pictures of his idols: Bach, Mozart, Beethoven—names he can only dream of reaching.
Juilliard would get him there.
He clings to that thought as he steps inside and collapses onto his bed. The mattress creaks under his weight, and for a moment, the quiet comforts him.
But sleep doesn’t come.
His fingers twitch as if playing invisible piano keys, the melody of the piece still echoing in his mind. He runs through it again and again, but no matter how many times he plays it in his head, it’s wrong. It doesn’t feel right.
Frustration gnaws at him. He flips onto his side and stares at the ceiling, feeling a weight settling deep inside him.
Something is wrong. Not just with the music. Not just with his hands.
With him.
When morning comes Schroeder is exhausted.
He moves through the motions—shower, breakfast, grabbing his worn brown leather sling bag, packed with sheet music, notes, and other academic necessities.
Then, before he knows it, he’s stepping through the school doors, his mind still tangled in a haze of unfinished melodies and restless thoughts.
Schroeder moves through the hallways like a shadow, head down, steps measured. He’s not trying to disappear, exactly—but blending in has never been an option. At 6’2”, he stands out whether he wants to or not, the product of a middle school growth spurt that left him all limbs and awkward angles before he had a chance to catch up with himself. He’s skinny, pale, the kind of boy who looks like he could fade into the background, but somehow never does. His pale skin contrasts sharply with the dark hallways, making him seem even more out of place, as if he’s just waiting for the world to stop noticing.
He remembers the teasing, the way his friends used to nudge him and joke about how he should join the basketball team. He’d learned to smirk, to shrug, to play along—even when he hated the attention.
And then there’s his face. He’s heard the comments before, tossed at him in passing—something about sharp cheekbones, the dirty blonde hair, the whole “brooding musician” vibe. An old friend once told him he could be a model, like it was an objective fact, like it was something he should care about. He just rolled his eyes.
But it’s not just his appearance that turns heads. It’s his music.
A prodigy, they call him. A young pianist who’s traveled across the country, collecting trophies like they’re nothing. To some, he’s a name, a reputation.
But to him? It’s just another reason to keep his head down. Schroeder never liked too much attention, at least not directly. It wasn’t that he had social anxiety, but he just didn’t feel comfortable in the spotlight outside of his music. In public, he preferred to blend in, to go unnoticed. His quiet, reserved demeanor was a defense mechanism—he never liked standing out among his peers. He wanted to be like everyone else, not the one everyone stared at.
Yet when he was on stage, it was different. The moment his fingers hit the keys, the world around him seemed to melt away. The tension he felt in everyday life faded into the music. On stage, he didn’t have to be anything other than the person playing the piano. It wasn’t about him. It was about what he could create, the perfect sound he could produce through each note. It was the one place where he felt truly himself—untouched by expectations, freed from the pressures that came with his reputation.
He stood tall, not because of who he was offstage, but because of what he could do.
2nd and 3rd periods go by quickly, the hours bleeding into each other. The hallways grow louder—voices overlapping, footsteps echoing, laughter bursting from every corner as students settle into their rhythm for the day. Friends reunite between classes, couples walk hand-in-hand, and groups huddle together as if the world outside of high school doesn’t exist.
Schroeder scoffs under his breath. He doesn’t get what they’re all so excited about. But still, when he sees Charlie Brown and Shermy waiting near his locker, he forces a small, polite smile.
Charlie Brown perks up. "Hey, Schroeder! How’s the piano world treating you?"
Shermy nods, looking—well, like he always does. Like a human placeholder in the background of someone else’s story.
Schroeder shrugs, shifting his bag on his shoulder. He doesn’t dislike Charlie and Shermy. They’re harmless, predictable. Charlie Brown’s always a mess of self-doubt and existential dread, and Shermy—well, Shermy doesn’t really do anything.
Maybe that’s why Schroeder likes them. They don’t expect much from him.
Schroeder reaches for his locker, his fingers brushing against the cold metal handle when his phone buzzes in his pocket. The sound cuts through the noise of the hallway, sharp and intrusive. He barely registers the voices of passing students, the slamming of lockers, the occasional bursts of laughter from excited conversations. Everything narrows down to the small vibration in his pocket.
He pulls out his phone. The screen lights up.
[New Email: Juilliard Admissions]
His stomach tightens. His hand freezes.
For a moment, all he can do is stare at the words, his brain refusing to process what they mean. This is too soon. It’s too early for an acceptance letter. Which means—
No. No, it could be anything. A follow-up. A confirmation. A request for more materials. Something— anything but what he knows, deep down, it has to be.
His pulse pounds against his skull as he swipes open the email.
Dear Mr. Schroeder,
His eyes dart ahead.
We regret to inform you—
The world stops.
The breath in his chest locks in place, refusing to move. He doesn’t read the rest. He doesn’t need to. Those four words are enough.
His vision blurs at the edges. The fluorescent lights overhead seem too bright, the chatter in the hallway turning sharp, every noise cutting into his skull like static. His head feels light, like he’s suddenly detached from his body, floating somewhere just above himself, watching from a distance as everything tilts just slightly off balance.
This isn’t happening. It’s a mistake.
"Juilliard said no."
The words loop in his mind, over and over, pressing against the inside of his skull, demanding to be acknowledged.
"Juilliard said no."
It’s impossible. It has to be a mistake. He’s skilled—no, seriously skilled. He’s spent years working for this, hours upon hours perfecting his technique, sacrificing every free moment to get better, to be undeniable . People had assumed he’d get in. He had assumed he’d get in. It wasn’t supposed to be a question.
"Juilliard said no."
Someone says his name. A muffled voice—distant, like it’s coming from underwater.
Charlie Brown.
Schroeder barely registers him leaning over, eyes flicking toward his screen. “You okay?”
Schroeder doesn’t answer.
The rejection email is still open, glaring up at him from the phone screen like a wound that refuses to close.
His thoughts spiraled, a relentless storm of panic and shame. What would his mother say? His father? He could already picture their faces—his mother’s cold, assessing stare, his father’s quiet, crushing disappointment. He could never tell them. Not in a million years. Not when Juilliard was the foundation they had built his entire life upon, the only path they had ever allowed him to see.
He shoves the phone into his bag, burying it beneath his sheet music, his notebooks, anything to make it disappear. His jaw locks so tight it aches, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. The weight in his chest grows heavier, pressing down, squeezing, suffocating—
But he can’t break.
Not here. Not in the middle of the hallway with Charlie Brown and Shermy standing beside him, with too many people around, too many eyes that might notice .
So he swallows it down, forcing the panic into the deepest part of himself—the part that knows this isn’t just about Juilliard.
It’s about everything. Every hour spent at the piano, every sacrifice, every moment he let himself believe that if he was perfect enough, if he worked hard enough, he could earn his future.
But perfection wasn’t enough. Hard work wasn’t enough. He wasn’t enough.
But he can’t fall apart. Not here.
So he just slams his locker shut and keeps walking, as if nothing has changed. As if he still knows where he's going.
By the time Schroeder drags himself into fourth-period music theory, the rejection still sits heavy in his chest, pressing against his ribs like a too-tight corset. It’s suffocating. Lodged in his throat. Juilliard said no.
He keeps his head down, barely listening as the lesson drifts by in fragments—something about harmonic progressions, a discussion about composers he should care about. The classroom is filled with the soft rustling of sheet music, the occasional clatter of a dropped pencil, but Schroeder doesn’t really hear it. His mind keeps circling back to the email, to the way the words sat on his screen, cold and final.
It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.
"Schroeder."
His head snaps up. Mr. Larson’s gaze is locked onto him from across the room, his expression unreadable. The final bell rings, and students begin packing up, scraping chairs against the floor, chattering as they filter toward the door. Schroeder moves to follow, but—
" Stay back for a second. "
The words land like lead in his stomach.
Slowly, he lets his bag slide back over his shoulder, fingers twitching against the strap. He watches as the last student disappears into the hall before the door swings shut, sealing them in. The room is suddenly too quiet.
Mr. Larson doesn’t speak right away. Instead, he studies Schroeder with the same critical look he gives when a student plays a piece incorrectly—except Schroeder never plays anything incorrectly. His fingers are too well-trained, his technique too precise. That’s why this moment makes his skin itch. He knows something is coming, something he’s not prepared to hear.
Schroeder shifts uncomfortably under the weight of Mr. Larson’s gaze, then takes a hesitant step forward, closing the distance between them. His polished shoes click softly against the wooden floor, the sound echoing in the otherwise silent room. He stops just short of the desk, his hands twitching slightly at his sides as if unsure what to do with them.
Finally, Mr. Larson sighs. He leans against the edge of his desk, arms crossed, his expression unreadable but his eyes never leaving Schroeder’s face.
" Look, I’ve been meaning to talk to you. " His voice is steady, calm, but there’s something weighted in the way he says it. Like this is a conversation he doesn’t want to have.
" You’re talented—one of the best I’ve taught—but I need to be honest with you. "
Schroeder doesn’t move. He doesn’t even breathe. The rejection from Juilliard is still fresh, raw, a gaping wound he hasn’t even begun to process. And now this?
" You play perfectly, " Larson continues. " But it’s empty."
The word slams into him like a hammer to the chest.
What— Empty?
He’s never been called that before. He’s been called gifted. Extraordinary. Technically flawless. He has played for packed concert halls, has felt the hush of an audience right before he touched the keys, has seen their stunned expressions when he played. People have cried during his performances. How could that be empty ?
" Technically, you’re gifted. You can play anything. But there’s no feeling behind it. You’ve trained your hands, but you haven’t trained your heart." Larson leans forward slightly, his brows knitting together. " If you want to survive in this industry, you need to do more than hit the right notes. "
Schroeder’s grip tightens on the strap of his bag. His nails dig into the leather, his knuckles going white.
He wants to argue. To say that music is feeling, that perfection is emotion. If something is played flawlessly, shouldn’t that be enough? Shouldn’t it speak for itself? He’s studied every note, dissected every rhythm, spent hours perfecting the dynamics, the articulation, the phrasing. How could someone listen to him play and not hear the emotion?
Because some part of him, the part he’s tried to ignore for months, knows that Larson is right.
The weight in his chest deepens. It’s one thing for Juilliard to say no. It’s another thing entirely to be told—so plainly—that his music has nothing in it. That he has nothing in it.
Mr. Larson sighs again, rubbing a hand over his jaw. "Just think about it, alright? I’d hate to see talent like yours go to waste ."
And suddenly, there’s this lump in his throat, rising too quickly, suffocating. His hands curl into fists at his sides. His chest feels tight. He doesn’t want to say it, but it forces itself out anyway.
“ I didn’t get accepted into Juilliard .”
The words feel foreign leaving his mouth, like they don’t belong to him. Like they were never supposed to exist at all.
Larson’s eyes flicker with something—surprise? Sympathy? But he doesn’t react the way Schroeder expects. He doesn’t apologize, doesn’t offer empty reassurance, doesn’t tell him that Juilliard made a mistake.
Instead, he just nods.
And for some reason, that’s worse.
Because Schroeder realizes, in that moment, that Larson isn’t shocked. He isn’t scrambling for an explanation.
He’s not even surprised .
“I know what it looks like, Schroeder.” Larson’s voice is quiet but firm. “I’ve seen pianists like you before—geniuses with perfect technique but no connection to the music. They burn out. Or worse, they spend their whole careers trying to convince themselves that perfection is the same as passion. It’s not.”
Schroeder grits his teeth, his pulse thrumming in his ears.
The words cut deeper than he expected. Pianists like you . That’s what Larson said, and it felt like a blanket, one that tried to pull him into a group he didn’t belong to. They —those people who played just for the sake of perfection, just for the praise, but not for anything real. Schroeder wasn't like them.
He knew the discipline, the hours of practice, the relentless pursuit of flawless technique, but he was different.
He didn’t need the applause, didn’t want to fit in with their world of hollow perfection.
He played because it was the only place he felt truly in control, the only place that mattered.
Right?
"But people love my playing," he says, his voice sharper than intended. "I’ve won basically every competition I’ve ever entered. I’ve been playing professionally since I was twelve."
The words hang in the air, defensive and raw, but inside, he's furious. Furious that Larson’s trying to box him into something he isn’t. That despite all his success, all the hours he’s poured into this, Mr. Larson still sees him as just another prodigy doomed to fade.
“I know,” Larson says simply. “And it’s why you’re at a crossroads right now.”
Schroeder hates the way his stomach twists at that.
Larson leans forward slightly. “Listen to me,” he says, his voice lower now, more deliberate. “I’ve worked with enough musicians to know that skill can only take you so far. The greats—the ones who don’t just play music but become it—they have something more. And right now? That’s what’s missing from your playing.”
Schroeder swallows, hard.
Larson isn’t just his teacher—he’s been a concert pianist. Before he became a mentor, he performed with symphonies across the world, had a career that Schroeder used to dream about. He knows what the industry is like. He knows what it takes to survive in it.
And the worst part is that Schroeder believes him.
He believes that his playing, no matter how technically perfect, lacks something vital—something raw, something human. That all the years he spent chasing perfection, training his hands to master every note, might have left him empty in ways he never considered.
Schroeder doesn’t trust himself to speak, so he nods once—sharp, stiff—and turns on his heel before Larson can say anything else.
His feet carry him out of the classroom on autopilot. He doesn’t register the students filling the hall, the chatter, the clatter of lockers slamming shut. His vision tunnels.
Somehow, he makes it to the bathroom before the shaking starts.
His hands tremble as he grips the sink, staring at his reflection in the mirror. His face is blank. No emotion, no reaction—just a pale imitation of himself, as expressionless as one of the portraits hanging on his bedroom wall.
But inside, he’s hurt.
The cafeteria is too loud.
Schroeder wasn’t planning to sit with Charlie Brown and Shermy. In fact, he had every intention of slipping away, of finding some quiet corner to drown in his own thoughts. But they caught up with him before he could disappear, and now he’s stuck at the edge of the lunch table, surrounded by noise.
Laughter rings out from another table—high-pitched and unfiltered. A tray slams onto plastic, rattling cheap utensils. Someone shouts across the room, and somewhere in the chaos, the sharp screech of a chair being dragged against the linoleum floor cuts through him like a knife.
His head pounds.
His hands twitch against the cold metal of his fork, but he barely registers the movement. The food on his tray is nothing more than a blur of colors, shapes that mean nothing to him. He lifts the fork to his mouth, but there’s no taste. Just pressure. Just motion.
"We regret to inform you—"
The words loop in his head, hitting harder than they did when he first read them.
"It’s empty."
"You haven’t trained your heart."
The voices around him blur together, a suffocating wave of sound pressing in from all sides. Charlie Brown and Shermy are talking—he can hear them, but the words don’t reach him. They’re distant, muffled, like he’s hearing them from underwater.
He sets his fork down. Stares at his hands.
They feel wrong.
The same hands that have won dozens of competitions. The same hands that have played on grand pianos across the country, filling concert halls, making audiences cry. The same hands that, just days ago, felt unstoppable.
Now they feel useless.
Weak. Unfamiliar.
His fingers flex slightly, but there’s a disconnect, as if the nerves have been severed, as if they don’t belong to him anymore. Panic starts to creep into his chest, coiling around his lungs like a vice.
He needs to leave.
Now.
Schroeder shoves back his chair. The legs scrape loudly against the floor, a jarring sound that cuts through the din of the cafeteria. He sees a few heads across the cafeteria turn, a couple of whispers come from around him, but no one says anything. No one stops him.
His feet move on instinct, carrying him through the cafeteria doors and into the hallway before his brain can even catch up with what’s happening. The walls close in around him, the air too thick, too heavy. The noise intensifies with each step—shouting, laughing, lockers slamming shut, footsteps in a blur of motion. They’re not his footsteps. Students pass him in flashes of color, absorbed in their own worlds, too busy to notice the storm brewing in his chest.
He’s drowning in it.
The rhythm of the world around him distorts, every sound sharper, louder, more invasive. His fingers twitch at his sides, ghosting over invisible piano keys in an attempt to ground himself, but it does nothing. He blinks hard, trying to shake off the sluggish, thick fog clouding his thoughts.
“ If I can just play, ” he thinks, “ if I can just sit at the piano and let the music take over, I’ll be okay. That’s all I need. Just the piano. ”
The thought anchors him, even as the chaos around him grows louder. He heads for his locker, his steps quickening. The sheet music is there, the one he’s been practicing for weeks. If he can just get to it, if he can just play, he can steady himself.
But then the noise crescendos again as he approaches his locker. The slam of a locker door. Someone’s voice barking a joke. Laughter—so loud, so sudden, it feels like it’s stabbing him in the ears. His hands go clammy. The weight of his bag feels unbearable, digging into his shoulder, and his throat tightens.
"Why is this getting to me?"
His fingers fumble with the lock, his brain unable to focus enough to catch the combination. He misses it twice. A sharp exhale. His heartbeat picks up, thudding heavily in his chest.
The lock clicks open on the third try, but the moment of relief never comes. Instead, a loud crash behind him—the sound of a textbook hitting the floor—sends his body stiff with tension. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to block out the world, but it’s too much. Too loud. Too overwhelming. He pulls out the sheet music from his locker with a trembling hand, the crumpled corners of the paper a reminder of the pressure he feels.
His breathing is rapid, shallow now. His chest rises and falls in jagged motions. The fluorescent lights above him feel blinding, like a spotlight on his panic, and the walls feel like they’re closing in.
He needs to get out.
Without thinking, his feet carry him down the hall, past the crowds of students, through the maze of classrooms. Every step feels like a struggle, but when he spots the empty practice rooms by the music wing, he slips inside the nearest one. He shuts the door behind him with a quiet finality.
Silence.
He presses his back against the door, letting out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. For a moment, he simply stands there, eyes closed, trying to calm the storm inside his chest. When he opens them again, he slowly moves toward the piano bench, sitting down with a heaviness he can’t shake. His fingers hover over the keys, unsure, disconnected.
His breathing steadies after a minute, but the emptiness lingers. He stares at the keys, as if searching for something that isn’t there.
Finally, he presses a key. Then another. A simple scale, one he’s played a thousand times before, but this time, it feels different. The notes are technically correct, but they’re hollow. They don’t feel like they belong to him. His fingers don’t feel like his own.
A tightness forms in his jaw as he plays, the same sequence of notes repeating, yet never quite right. His hands curl into fists on his lap, the tremble in his fingers refusing to stop.
“ What do they know? ” he thinks bitterly, the words seething in his mind. “ None of them have done as much as I have. None. ”
Not Mr. Larson. Not the Juilliard committee. They don’t know what it’s like to give everything, to sacrifice so much and still come up short. He’d worked harder than anyone else—his resume was spotless, his grades respectable, his achievements beyond what many his age could ever dream of. His SAT scores weren’t perfect, but who’s were? His essay had been brilliant. His English teacher cried over it. He’d earned his place.
So why wasn’t it enough?
His throat tightens, the tears slipping from his eyes before he can stop them. It’s not just the rejection. It’s the realization that maybe, just maybe, he’ll never be perfect enough. Never good enough. The weight of it crushes him from the inside out, leaving him raw, exposed.
He wipes his eyes, but the tears keep coming, hot and relentless. All the years of practice, all the competitions, all the trophies—it’s not enough.
What more do I have to do?
To be perfect. To be everything they want. To make them see.
But he’s not perfect.
And maybe, just maybe, he’s never going to be.
The music room is silent, but it presses in on him, heavy and suffocating. His fingers rest on the keys, still trembling, but the sounds they produce feel more like echoes—distant, empty. He could play a thousand more scales, a hundred more arpeggios, but it wouldn’t change how he feels inside.
Schroeder stares at his hands again, as if they’ve betrayed him. He could fix it, couldn't he? Just practice more. Push harder. The problem is his—his flaw, his weakness. But what if it’s something deeper? What if the answer is just… out of his reach?
His breath is uneven, shaky. The pressure in his chest hasn’t lessened; it’s only grown worse. He presses his palms hard into the sides of the piano, trying to hold himself together, to stop the world from slipping through his fingers. He tries to remember the music—his connection to it, the joy that used to come with each note. But the harder he tries, the more distant it feels, like it’s slipping away.
As the tears continue to fall from his face, soft knock at the door breaks through his fog.
He doesn’t want to answer, doesn’t want anyone to see him like this. But the door creaks open anyway, and his gaze flickers up to find Mr. Larson standing there. His expression is softer now, not the stern teacher from earlier, but something more understanding. Concerned, even.
Schroeder wants to look away, to shut down, to pretend this isn’t happening. But something in Mr. Larson’s eyes stops him.
“You all right?” Mr. Larson’s voice is quieter than usual, steady but not intrusive. The door clicks shut behind him. He doesn’t push, doesn’t demand an answer. He just waits.
Schroeder’s fingers hover over the piano keys, but they don’t press down. His hands feel useless, like they don’t belong to him anymore. The question lingers in the air, and for a second, he considers lying. Saying he’s fine. That everything’s fine.
But it’s not.
“ I don’t know how to fix it. ” His voice barely breaks above a whisper, and it sounds foreign even to himself—hoarse, strained, like it was pulled from somewhere deep in his chest. “I don’t know what to do anymore.”
There. It’s out. But saying it doesn’t make him feel any better. If anything, it makes the tightness in his chest worse.
Mr. Larson exhales, a soft sigh, not of frustration, but something else. Something almost like relief. “You don’t have to fix anything right now,” he says, his tone quieter, gentler. “You’re allowed to feel this. It’s okay to have moments where everything feels… wrong. ”
Schroeder’s jaw tightens. Wrong. He hates that word. It makes him feel out of place, like he’s out of step with the world, like nothing will ever line up the way it should.
The word echoes in his mind, sharp and unrelenting, and for a moment, it takes him back to when he was thirteen, standing in the living room with his hands trembling at his sides. His father’s voice had been sharp too, cutting through the air like a knife, shouting at him for missing a note during his practice.
“How did you get it wrong again? How can you mess up something so simple? Do it again. Get it right!”
The word should sting, but somehow, in this moment, it brings him an odd sense of comfort. Back then, the pressure to be perfect felt like a weight crushing him, but now, hearing Mr. Larson say it’s okay to feel this way, to be imperfect, to be wrong —it’s like a small crack in that weight.
He presses his palms into his lap, fingers curling against the fabric of his pants. He wants to say something, but his throat feels tight, like the words would get stuck if he tried. So he stays quiet.
Mr. Larson doesn’t fill the silence. He just shifts slightly, then sits down beside him on the bench, the wood creaking under his weight. He doesn’t say anything right away, doesn’t tell Schroeder to snap out of it or push through it. He just lets the silence settle between them, like he’s letting Schroeder have the space to breathe.
And for once, Schroeder actually does.
“You’re one of the most talented students I’ve taught in a long time,” Mr. Larson finally says, his voice steady. “But you’ve got to remember that there’s more to music—and to life—than being perfect. You don’t always have to win. You don’t always have to prove something. You’ve got to live with the music, feel it, let it come through you, not just from you.”
Schroeder exhales slowly, staring down at his hands. He knows those words are supposed to mean something. They probably do. But all he can think about is how much he’s sacrificed for this. How much time, how much effort, how much of himself he’s poured into every note, every performance. And now, after all of it, it’s still not enough.
His throat feels thick. He swallows against it, but the feeling stays. Then, before he can stop himself, the words slip out.
“What if… what if I’m not enough? ”
His voice is so quiet, so raw, that he almost hopes Larson doesn’t hear him. But of course, he does.
Larson studies him, not with pity, not with disappointment, but with something that looks almost like understanding. He considers his words, “That’s something we all face,” he says. “But believe you’re missing the point, Schroeder. You’re already more than enough. You just have to start believing it for yourself. You don’t have to be perfect to be incredible.”
Schroeder stares at the keys, at the reflections of the overhead lights on their polished surface. His hands are still trembling, just slightly. The pressure in his chest hasn’t disappeared, but somehow, it feels… lighter. Not gone. But not unbearable, either.
The silence stretches between them, but it’s not suffocating. It’s not another weight pressing down on him. It’s just there, like an unspoken understanding.
Finally, he looks up at Mr. Larson. His voice is hoarse, barely audible, but he manages to say, “Thank you.”
And for the first time in a long time, he almost means it.
Mr. Larson nods, offering a small, understanding smile. “Anytime, Schroeder. Anytime.” He speaks softly, then stands to leave, gently closing the door behind him. The room falls back into its quiet stillness, leaving Schroeder alone with his thoughts.
The weight of Schroeder’s frustration isn’t gone, but it’s lighter. The conversation hasn’t solved everything, but it’s cracked open something inside him—a small shift, a tiny crack in the fortress he’s built around himself. It’s a beginning.
He sits there for a moment, staring at the piano keys, his fingers resting lightly on the edge of the bench. The faint hum of the school’s HVAC system fills the silence, a low, steady drone that usually helps him focus. But before he can fully settle into the calm, his phone buzzes in his pocket.
Schroeder hesitates, then pulls it out. The screen lights up with a text from his dad.
“How’s school going? You’d better not be slacking off. You know what’s at stake.”
The words hit him like a punch to the gut. His jaw tightens, and he feels the fragile sense of calm he’d just started to build begin to crumble. He stares at the message, his fingers hovering over the keyboard, unsure how to respond.
Before he can decide, another message comes through.
“I saw the program for the recital next week. You’re playing Beethoven’s Sonata No. 14, right? That’s a beginner piece. Why aren’t you challenging yourself? You’re not going to stand out playing something so simple.”
Schroeder’s chest tightens. He can hear his dad’s voice in his head, sharp and disapproving, just like it had been all those years ago.
He types out a quick reply, his fingers trembling slightly. “It’s not a beginner piece. It’s a classic. I spoke with Mr. Larson last April, he thinks it’s a good choice.”
The response comes almost immediately.
“Mr. Larson? That’s your teacher, right? Don’t let him coddle you. You need to push yourself harder if you want to be the best. You’re not going to get anywhere playing it safe.”
Schroeder’s grip on his phone tightens. He wants to throw it across the room, to scream, to do something—anything—to release the frustration building inside him. But he doesn’t. Instead, he takes a deep breath and types, “I’m not playing it safe. I’m playing what I’m comfortable with.”
His dad’s reply is swift and cutting.
“Comfortable? Comfortable won’t get you noticed. Comfortable won’t get you into competitions. You need to be better than comfortable. You need to be exceptional.”
The words sting, and Schroeder feels the familiar ache of inadequacy settle in his chest. No matter what he does, it’s never enough. He could play perfectly, hit every note with precision, and still, his dad would find something to criticize.
He shoves his phone back into his pocket without responding. The room feels smaller now, the walls closing in around him. He stands abruptly, the bench scraping against the floor, and paces the length of the practice room.
Mr. Larson’s words from earlier echo in his mind. “ You don’t have to fix anything right now. You’re allowed to feel this. It’s okay to have moments where everything feels… wrong. ”
But how can he believe that when his dad’s voice is so much louder? When every word feels like a reminder that he’s not good enough, that he’ll never be good enough?
He stops pacing and leans against the piano, his head bowed. The weight of his frustration is back, heavier than before. He thought talking to Mr. Larson had helped, but now it feels like all that progress has been undone.
When he finally stands to leave, he feels Larson’s previous critique sting. “ Empty. ” he had said. And the words keep echoing, sour and raw. Schroeder can’t shake the feeling that Larson doesn’t understand the pressure he’s under.
But, for now, it’s not the music or the critique that matters most. It’s the growing frustration gnawing at him, the realization that he still doesn’t get it—this whole “emotion” thing. The idea of playing with heart, of feeling the notes, is stupid. He’s been training for years, perfecting every note, every movement. And now, suddenly, it’s not enough? What’s the point if that’s what it takes? It doesn’t make any sense. Maybe there’s more to this than just hitting the right notes, but right now, it feels like a waste of time.
Schroeder storms down the hallway, the sounds of footsteps and voices around him muffled by the pounding in his ears. Larson’s words still echo relentlessly in his mind, and with each step, the frustration builds. " You haven’t trained your heart. " How is he supposed to understand that? It doesn’t make sense. After everything, after all the hours he’s spent perfecting every note, playing until his fingers bled, now he’s supposed to feel it?
The hallway feels impossibly narrow, the fluorescent lights overhead too harsh. He grips the strap of his bag tighter, as if the pressure will somehow calm the storm inside him. It’s all so stupid. What did Larson even mean by that? He’s worked so hard to be perfect, to master every piece, to push himself beyond limits. And now? Now, it’s not enough. Not because he’s lacking something in his music, but because he’s missing… emotion?
The anger surges again, hotter than before. He doesn’t get it. The critique makes no sense. How could someone who’s been perfecting his craft for years suddenly be told he hasn’t put his heart into it? What was he supposed to do? He’s done everything right, everything the way they told him to. And still, it’s not enough. Nothing he does will ever be enough.
Schroeder’s jaw tightens as he quickens his pace, his heart pounding in sync with his furious footsteps. The hallway feels like it’s closing in on him, the walls pressing tighter with each step. The fluorescent lights above buzz relentlessly, a constant hum that mirrors the growing anger inside him. He wants to shout, to throw something, to just release the storm building in his chest. But instead, he keeps his head down, his gaze fixed on the floor, pretending like he doesn’t hear Larson’s words still echoing in his mind.
It’s all just… so stupid.
He feels stupid.
Stupid for thinking he could BE something. Stupid for even letting himself believe that Larson’s words—some kind of help —could fix anything. He’s still mad, still angry, and worse, he doesn’t know how to handle it.
The truth is, Schroeder doesn’t take criticism well. Never has. All his life, he’s pushed himself, perfected every note, every movement, striving for something that was never just right . Now, after all the years of effort, after all the sacrifices, someone dares to say he’s missing something? Heart? What does that even mean? How do you just add heart to music? It’s not something you can practice, something you can measure. It doesn’t make sense. It’s like they’re telling him everything he’s worked for doesn’t matter.
And that… that just makes him feel more stupid than anything.
Schroeder had zoned out the rest of his classes, the hours slipping by in a blur of disconnected thoughts. He shoved his headphones in, shutting out the world. Normally, he’d drown himself in classical music, using it to unwind, to steady his restless mind. But today, it felt like a futile attempt. The music didn’t comfort him. It didn’t carry the usual weight of peace. Instead, he kept hearing Mr. Larson’s words echoing in his head, the question of emotion that seemed so foreign to him now.
He shifted the dial, searching for that connection. Beethoven’s symphonies filled his ears, their melodies sweeping across him, but it didn’t matter. There was no feeling behind it. It all felt... hollow. Empty.
For the past few years, the piano had been his everything—his escape, his anchor, his path forward. It had helped him cope with things that were too heavy to carry alone, a constant companion in his battles with depression, anxiety, and the uncertainty of the future. Music had set him on a path, a clear one that led to something better. Or so he thought.
Now, it was all uncertain. It was as if the very thing that had held his world together was slipping through his fingers. How was he supposed to find emotion in the music if he couldn’t even find it within himself?
Lost in his thoughts, Schroeder barely noticed the familiar footsteps behind him until a voice boomed in his ear.
"Hey, Schroeder."
He jumped, startled, and spun around to see Charlie Brown grinning at him, his goofy smile plastered on his face.
“You haven’t been answering your phone,” Charlie continued, his tone light but laced with concern. “Me and Shermy got nervous. Glad to see you’re okay now.”
Schroeder’s stomach twisted. He didn’t want to deal with this. Not now, not when everything was already a mess. Why was everything in his life so stupid right now?
“I’m fine, Charlie,” Schroeder muttered, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Just lost myself for a second. I was so focused I didn’t even check to see if anyone had texted me.”
It was a lie, of course. After receiving that rejection email, Schroeder had hardly been able to pull himself away from his phone. He’d kept refreshing his inbox, hoping for something—anything—that would prove the rejection was a mistake, a misunderstanding. But nothing came. And now here he was, pretending like everything was fine, pretending like he could still function the way he used to.
He felt stupid. He felt lost. And Charlie, with his stupid grin, wasn’t helping.
“Schroeder, can I be honest with you?”
Schroeder blinked, pulled from his thoughts, his fingers still ghosting over the smooth surface of the piano keys. He didn’t look up right away, didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he let the silence stretch, pretending to be more focused on the instrument than the question lingering in the air.
Charlie Brown’s voice was soft, almost hesitant, as he glanced down at his shoes for a moment before lifting his gaze back to Schroeder. His eyes, usually filled with optimism, now carried a weight of concern that he couldn’t quite hide.
Schroeder raised an eyebrow, looking at Charlie with a mixture of confusion and suspicion. “What’s up?”
Charlie took a deep breath, steeling himself before he continued. “I don’t think you’re doing so well, man.”
Schroeder’s chest tightened. He hadn’t been expecting that, and the words felt like an unexpected jab. He shifted uncomfortably, gripping the strap of his bag a little too tight, trying to mask the tension in his body.
Charlie leaned forward slightly, searching for the right words. “Let me explain. Ever since the start of junior year, you’ve seemed... different. And I get it, you’ve been busy—competitions, practicing, all that stuff. But it’s not just that. It’s like you’ve closed yourself off from everyone. You used to talk to all of us, even to the girls, you know? But for the past few months, it’s just been me and Shermy.”
Schroeder stiffened, not sure where this conversation was headed. He felt the words pushing at his chest, but he didn’t want to deal with this right now—not with Charlie, not with anyone. He could feel his mind going blank, shutting down to avoid the discomfort.
Charlie’s words came a little more carefully now, as if trying to understand the full scope of it. “I’m not saying it’s a problem, Schroeder. I like hanging out with you, don’t get me wrong. But, man, when’s the last time you talked to Franklin? Or Lucy?”
Schroeder’s stomach twisted, and the mention of Lucy made his heart stutter. He could feel the familiar rush of discomfort flood through him, a sharp, unsettling sensation that made him want to recoil. His breath hitched, his body betraying him.
"Stop," Schroeder interrupted, his voice quieter than intended, but sharper. The words came out too quickly, almost like a reflex, but he couldn’t help it. He shut his eyes for a brief moment, willing the name to vanish from his mind, willing himself to calm down.
A shiver ran down his spine at the thought of Lucy—her smile, her voice, everything about her had a way of pulling him into a whirlwind of confusion. The memories of their past, of how things had unraveled between them, were still too raw.
“I get it, Charlie. I’ve just... been busy.” His voice sounded forced, dismissive, even to his own ears. He didn’t want to go back there. Not now.
Charlie paused, watching Schroeder carefully. There was a flicker of understanding in his eyes, but also a tinge of worry. “Okay, I’m just saying... maybe it’s time to check in with people, you know? I’m here for you, man, but we all miss the old you.”
Schroeder could feel the weight of Charlie’s words sink in, even though he didn’t want to admit it. He shifted uncomfortably, trying to shake off the uneasy feeling in his chest. But deep down, he couldn’t deny that Charlie was right. Things had changed. He had changed.
"I don’t need your pity, Charlie," Schroeder snapped, the words coming out harsh, but the edge in his voice betraying the frustration building up inside him. "I’m fine. Stop acting like I’m some... some broken thing you need to fix."
Charlie’s eyes widened at the outburst, and for a moment, he was silent, processing. “I’m not trying to fix you, Schroeder. I just want you to talk to us. I get that you’re going through stuff, but pushing everyone away won’t help.”
Schroeder’s chest tightened again, but this time, he didn’t speak. The silence between them grew heavy. He had no more words to defend himself, nothing to explain away the mess he was in. But he wasn’t ready to let Charlie in, not now
“I don’t want to talk about this anymore.” His voice sounded forced, dismissive, even to his own ears.
Charlie paused, watching Schroeder carefully. He looked unconvinced.
“I’m fine, Charlie, really,” Schroeder muttered, avoiding his gaze. “I just... need some space, alright?”
Charlie continued to study him for a long moment, his expression softening but still filled with concern. “I get that, man. Just don’t shut us out, okay? We’re here when you’re ready.”
Schroeder could feel the weight of Charlie’s words sink in, even though he didn’t want to admit it. He shifted uncomfortably, trying to shake off the uneasy feeling in his chest. But deep down, he couldn’t deny that Charlie was right. Things had changed. He had changed.
And maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t all because of the competitions or the practice sessions. Maybe it was something else. Something he didn’t want to face.
But for now, all he could do was keep walking, keep pretending like it wasn’t eating away at him.
The school day had finally ended, but Schroeder barely felt any relief. His feet dragged him towards his front door, each step feeling heavier than the last. He fumbled with his keys, the little metal charms jangling as his hand shook. His keychain was a strange collection of mementos: small musical notes, some with faded engraving, and one that stood out—an old charm that Lucy had given him years ago on Beethoven's birthday. His fingers brushed over it, but the memory it stirred only made his chest tighten.
With a sigh, he slid the key into the lock, the familiar sound of the door opening barely registering. For the first time in a long while, he didn’t immediately head for the piano. Instead, he walked past the living room, the space quiet and foreign to him in its stillness. He felt oddly detached from everything in his own house.
His footsteps were slow, methodical, as he made his way upstairs to the bathroom. The moment he stood in front of the mirror, the reflection stared back at him like a stranger. His eyes, usually sharp and focused, now looked tired, shadowed with the weight of sleepless nights. The dark bags beneath them were a cruel reminder of how much he had been pushing himself. He scoffed, shaking his head as if to shake off the reflection, but the frustration lingered. He turned away, staring at nothing in particular, trying to breathe through the thick fog in his mind.
He sat at the piano, fingers hovering over the keys, waiting for the sound of the melody to fill the air. He’d practiced this piece a thousand times, each note once as natural to him as breathing. Yet now, the keys felt unfamiliar, cold beneath his fingertips. He pressed down on one, then another, but the sound was flat. No vibrancy. No life.
He pulled his hands back, staring at the piano as if it had betrayed him. His breath caught in his throat as he tried again, this time forcing his fingers to move with the mechanical precision he’d built up over years of practice. But each note was disjointed, awkward, as if the music refused to flow through him the way it always had.
“What is wrong with me?”
He clenched his jaw, shaking his head slightly, trying to shake off the growing panic. But it wouldn’t leave. He tried to steady his hands, but the tremble was there, too subtle to notice at first, but undeniable. It wasn’t the music that was off, he realized. It wasn’t the piano, or the room, or even the piece he was playing. It was something inside him.
And then, like a rush of cold air, the realization struck him—of course— it’s the emotion . The music had always been his way of expressing everything he couldn’t say. It was how he processed the world, how he sorted through the mess of thoughts and feelings he kept buried deep inside. But now, it was just notes, hollow and empty. He wasn’t playing with his heart anymore—he was playing with his head.
A bitter laugh escaped him, and he ran a hand through his hair in frustration. He felt like he was chasing something he couldn’t catch, like a shadow dancing just beyond his reach. The melody should have been a reflection of his soul, a release, but now it was like trying to grab air with his bare hands. He had spent so much of his life honing the technical perfection of his music, but in doing so, he had forgotten how to feel it.
He let out a long, shaky breath, the weight of his realization pressing down on him. “ What am I doing?”
He slammed his hand against the keys, the loud, jarring sound echoing through the empty room. But the frustration didn’t go away. Instead, it just sat there, swirling around him like an ever-present fog. He looked down at his hands—hands that had once seemed capable of anything. But now they felt heavy, like they were betraying him.
His fingers trembled as he pressed down on the keys again, but this time, it wasn’t a mistake. This time, the music came out—slow, uneven, and unsure—but it was there. It wasn’t perfect, but it was real. The ghost of the melody, distorted but still present, reverberated through the room.
For the first time in days, he felt something—a flicker of the connection he once had with the music. But it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t what he wanted.
The silence that followed felt even louder than the noise before. He sat back on the bench, staring at the piano as if it were a puzzle he couldn’t solve. “ What happened to me?”
In that moment, Schroeder felt more alone than he ever had before. It wasn’t the piano that was missing something—it was him. He didn’t recognize the person he was becoming, and the worst part was that he didn’t know how to fix it. He had spent so much of his life building up this idea of who he was supposed to be—an image of success, of mastery, of someone who had everything figured out. But that image had started to crack, and with it, everything he had relied on, everything he had used to define himself, had begun to feel meaningless.
He glanced around the room, the familiar shelves lined with sheet music, the portraits of his idols hanging on the walls. Beethoven. Mozart. Bach. Icons. He had spent years worshipping their genius, their perfection. But now, the thought of living up to that weight seemed impossible.
“Juilliard. I need to get into Juilliard.” The words had once been his north star. But now, they felt hollow. Like a dream he wasn’t sure he even believed in anymore.
The weight of everything—the music, the pressure, the expectations—pressed down on him, suffocating. He closed his eyes, letting his hands rest in his lap. For a moment, he felt like he couldn’t breathe, like everything he had worked for had led him to this point: a place where nothing made sense, and all the noise in his head drowned out everything else.
A deep breath. Then another. His hands clenched into fists before loosening again, fingers trembling slightly against the fabric of his jeans.
He wanted to believe this was just a phase, that he could push through it like he always had. That if he practiced harder, longer, it would fix itself.
He wasn’t sure if effort alone would be enough.
His eyes drifted back to the piano, its polished surface reflecting the dim light of the room. It used to feel like a part of him. Now, it felt like something separate. Something distant.
Schroeder swallowed, his throat tight. He raised his hands, hovering them over the keys, waiting for the instinct to take over—for his body to remember what his mind refused to grasp.
Nothing.