Chapter Text
The night at the local plaza was alive long before the band even stepped onstage.
Crowds filled every corner of the open space, their chatter blending into one loud, excited hum. Laughter spilled from food stalls, sneakers scraped against pavement, and anticipation hung thick in the air. Everyone—whether near the stage or lingering at the back—was caught up in the same electric energy. Tonight wasn’t just another event.
It felt like something you’d remember.
Then—
Footsteps echoed from the side of the stage.
The crowd caught the sound instantly. A ripple of cheers broke out, swelling louder and louder as silhouettes appeared under the dim lights. People pushed closer, phones lifted, hearts thudding in sync with the rising noise.
The band walked out to center stage.
Stage lights flared on one by one—warm golds melting into electric blues—washing the plaza in color. Shadows stretched behind them dramatically. One member adjusted the mic stand. Another rolled their shoulders loose. The drummer tapped their sticks together in a soft, nervous rhythm.
For a split second, everything held still.
Then the lead stepped forward.
She looked like she had walked straight out of a punk-rock poster—dark eyeliner, scuffed boots, a jacket that moved sharply with every breath she took. She gripped the microphone, and the crowd leaned in. A slow grin curved across her lips—half confidence, half adrenaline.
The drummer counted in.
“One… two… three—four!”
The opening riff ripped through the speakers—sharp, bold, unmistakable.
♫ “Oh, make me over!” ♫
The crowd exploded.
Recognition hit like lightning. Cheers surged forward in waves. Bodies moved instinctively—heads nodding, hands raised, voices already joining in.
♫♫ “I'm all I want to be!” ♫
♫ “A walking study…” ♫
♫ “In demonology!” ♫♫
Her voice was raw yet bright, powerful without trying too hard. It carried that reckless, fearless confidence the song demanded.
♫♫ “Heeeeeyyyyy!”
“So glad you could make it!”
“Yeeeaaahhhh!” ♫♫
She moved like the stage belonged to her.
One boot planted on a monitor. A sharp turn of her shoulders. Her jacket shifting with every deliberate step. She didn’t just perform—she commanded.
“…now you really made it!”
♫♫ “Heeeeeyyyyy!”
“…so glad you could make it now!” ♫♫
Her guitar snapped into rhythm, strings screaming under her fingers. The bassist stepped closer, laying down a low, steady groove that grounded the chaos. The drummer hit harder now—each strike clean, intentional, driving the pulse forward like a racing heartbeat.
Lights flashed white and violet in perfect sync with the beat.
The plaza transformed into something louder. Grittier. Alive.
“Oh, look at my face!”
“My name is Might Have Been…”
She sang like she’d done this her whole life. Confidence poured out of her—every glance, every smirk, every shift of her stance screamed professional. There was no hesitation in her chords, no doubt in her tone.
“My name is Never Was…”
“My name’s Forgotten!”
She paced the stage, hair catching the light, eyes scanning the crowd as if daring anyone to look away. It felt effortless—like this song had been living inside her long before tonight.
♫♫ “Heeeeeyyyyy!”
“So glad you could make it!”
“Yeeeaaahhhh!” ♫♫
Despite the song’s rough edges, she was smiling—bright, almost playful—like she was singing something sweet instead of something sharp and biting.
“…now you really made it!”
♫♫ “Heeeeeyyyyy!”
“…so glad you could make it now!” ♫♫
The bassist matched her energy, stepping in sync as the groove deepened. They exchanged a quick glance.
She winked at him mid-lyric, widening her grin.
He winked back, still playing flawlessly.
The music tightened—louder, stronger, more controlled. The drummer pushed the tempo just enough to keep hearts racing, cymbals crashing like sparks thrown into the air.
“When I wake up in my makeup…”
“It’s too early for that dress…”
“Wilted and faded somewhere in Hollywood…”
The crowd was fully hooked now. People jumped and shouted, moving as one. It was like the plaza itself had started breathing with the beat.
“Beautiful garbage, beautiful dresses…”
“Can you stand up or will you just fall down?”
Lights strobed faster, casting fractured silhouettes across the stage, making every movement feel larger than life.
“I’m glad I came here with your pound of flesh…”
“No second billing ’cause you’re a star now!”
“Oh Cinderella, they aren’t sluts like you…”
As the performance continued, the bassist stepped in front of the lead singer, turning to face her while still playing flawlessly. A mischievous grin spread across his face as he started making exaggerated, ridiculous expressions—clearly trying to throw her off.
She noticed.
And for a split second, she was completely caught off guard.
Her eyes widened. She almost lost her focus, nearly stumbling over the next line. The crowd probably didn’t notice—but she did. Quickly, she composed herself, straightened her posture, and leaned back into the mic like nothing had happened.
Meanwhile, the bassist never missed a beat. His fingers moved smoothly along the strings, confident and steady, like he hadn’t just tried to sabotage her mid-song. If anything, he looked proud of himself.
For that moment, he was stealing the spotlight—
And he knew it.
Somewhere Before…
Back at the plaza, in the middle of the crowd—
A boy pushed his way toward the front, determined.
He slipped past groups of laughing teens, excused himself between shoulders, and finally found a small opening near the barricade. From there, he looked up at the stage.
And froze.
His expression shifted into pure awe. The energy from the band poured over the crowd like a storm—loud, bright, unstoppable. The music wasn’t just sound; it was something physical. It vibrated in his chest, climbed up his spine.
Then the lead singer glanced his way.
Her gaze locked with his, sharp and alive, and something inside him jolted. It wasn’t just admiration—it was impact. Like being struck by lightning without the burn.
She looked away just as quickly, turning back to the crowd.
But it was enough. A spark ignited inside him. Small at first. Then growing.
He raised his hands with everyone else, shouting along, letting himself get carried by the wave of cheers and flashing lights. Whatever hesitation he had walked into the plaza with was gone.
The cheers rolled on, swelling and crashing against the stage like waves. He joined the chorus without thinking, without fear.
That night changed something.
Days later…
An audition was called at a small, enclosed building. Fluorescent lights. Folding chairs. Amps humming faintly.
The boy stepped through the door with his electric guitar in hand. He moved to his designated spot alongside two other guitarists. They tuned quietly, the room filled with scattered notes and muted strums.
Anxiety lingered in the air. One guitarist wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans. Another kept strumming absentmindedly, like muscle memory alone could calm him. The third stared forward, jaw tight, eyes unfocused.
But the boy, was steady and confident.
Across the room sat the judges—members of a well-known local band, respected in town. Their expressions were flat, uninterested. Like they had already seen too much and expected nothing new.
Even the assisting bassist and drummer behind them looked indifferent.
A judge leaned forward.
“Alright,” he said plainly. “Same rules as always. One minute. Show us what you’ve got.”
The drummer assisting them shouted—
“THREE, TWO, ONE—!”
They began playing The Power of Love by Huey Lewis and the News.
The bass and drums locked in smoothly, clean and controlled.
All three guitarists joined in.
The sound filled the room—competent. Timed correctly. Safe.
It was the kind of performance the judges had probably heard all morning.
Sweat rolled down temples. Fingers pressed carefully against strings.
Then—
The first guitarist slipped.
He lost the rhythm entirely, panic flashing across his face as he tried to recover. The smooth melody cracked.
The judges reacted for the first time—but not positively. A low chuckle passed between them.
The second guitarist noticed.
His strumming tightened. Smaller. Quieter. He faded into the background, hiding behind the bass and drums just to avoid standing out.
But the boy, he didn’t react.
His eyes stayed locked on his guitar.
Then something shifted.
That spark from the plaza—
It flared.
He looked up.
Straight at the judges.
They flinched.
Without breaking rhythm, he stepped forward.
His strumming grew heavier. Bolder. The clean melody twisted into something raw, alive. Not reckless—intentional.
The sound thickened, distorted just enough to snarl.
The assisting bassist blinked in surprise, then grinned and leaned in to match him. The drummer hit harder, crash cymbals sharper, kicks heavier.
The energy changed.
The other two guitarists disappeared from the moment. One froze completely. The other kept playing—but no one could hear him.
The boy stepped closer to the judges, boots echoing faintly against the floor. Then, He added a riff. Not in the original song. It was bold, unnecessary yet perfect at the same time.
He bent a note slowly, making it cry, holding it just long enough to make the room uncomfortable—then dropped cleanly back into rhythm. The room vibrated from its presence.
The judges weren’t expressionless anymore.
He pushed further. The fire inside him took control.
His guitar swallowed the room. The bassist and drummer struggled to keep up, then slowly faded. One by one, they stopped playing.
The other guitarists lowered their instruments.
It was just the boy.
The final note rang out, hanging in the air like it refused to die.
He let it fade naturally.
Then his fingers tore down the fretboard—fast, sharp, unapologetic. Without backing instruments, every mistake would’ve been exposed.
He made none.
The guitar cried. Laughed. Screamed.
One judge’s pen slipped from his hand and clattered to the floor.
No one moved to pick it up.
The boy planted his feet and struck one final chord—clean, deliberate, controlled.
He muted the strings.
Silence.
His chest rose and fell, sweat dripping onto the body of his guitar.
He didn’t look away meeting the judges’ eyes.
Their surprise lingered… before slowly fading back into neutral expressions.
One judge crossed his arms.
“…We said one minute,” he said flatly. “Not over it.”
Another leaned forward, chin resting on her palm.
“…You’re too loud.”
“…And you made it about yourself,” another added. “Like you’re a solo act.”
The first judge sighed. “You’re auditioning to be a guitarist in a band. Not the lead.”
The female judge glanced at his name tag.
“Mike, right? Your talent… isn’t what we’re looking for.”
Mike stayed still. Listening.
“…What did I do wrong?” he asked calmly.
A pause.
“—You’re not fit,” one judge said firmly. “To be a guitarist.”
Mike blinked. “Why?”
“Because you play it like it’s a bass guitar,” another replied.
“The distortion buried the melody,” the first judge added. “We couldn’t hear the song anymore.”
“…The song disappeared,” the female judge finished.
Silence returned.
The low hum of the amps suddenly felt louder. Mike looked down at his guitar. His fingers still tingled.
Like the strings had burned themselves into his skin.
He nodded slowly.
Absorbing every word.
Later…
Mike stepped into his room and shut the door behind him with his foot.
His walls were covered in posters of famous musicians—guitar legends frozen mid-performance, sweat-drenched and fearless under stage lights. Some posters were old and crooked, corners peeling, barely clinging to the wall with tired tape. Others were newer, pinned carefully and straight—like promises he wasn’t ready to give up on.
Shelves packed tightly with CDs lined one side of the room, their spines worn from being pulled out and shoved back in too many times.
He gently leaned his electric guitar against the wall.
Silence followed him inside.
Time passed. The silence stayed.
After changing his clothes, Mike sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the electric guitar where he had placed it. His shoulders sagged.
He sighed, shifting his eyes to the bass guitar resting beside it.
His expression fell even more.
“Like a bass, huh?” he muttered disappointed.
He lay back on his bed, staring up at the ceiling.
“I guess that’s it…”
“My hopes of rocking onstage…” He swallowed. “…are over.”
He turned his head slightly, eyes landing on the poster beside his bed.
“I’m sorry, Brian May,” he whispered. “I’ll never play with my Queen.”
The room stayed quiet after that. His words hung in the air like an unfinished chord.
Outside, a faint streetlight filtered through his curtains, casting pale stripes across the walls. The face in the poster seemed to stare down at him—mid-performance, guitar raised high, forever fearless.
Mike blinked slowly.
“…That’s stupid,” he muttered after a while.
He rolled onto his side and pushed himself upright, elbows resting on his knees. His gaze drifted back to the two instruments against the wall.
The electric guitar—the one he poured everything into.
And beside it, the bass, quieter, heavier and overlooked.
He groaned, rubbing his face with both hands.
“I should’ve stayed cool instead of showing off…”
He exhaled sharply.
“What am I gonna do now?”
Mike stood up abruptly and began pacing the small space between his bed and the wall. The floor creaked under his steps, familiar and grounding.
He stopped in front of the instruments again.
The electric guitar gleamed faintly in the dim light, untouched since the audition.
The bass looked simpler. Solid. Like it didn’t need attention to matter.
Without thinking too much, he crouched and picked it up.
It felt different in his hands—wider neck, thicker strings.
He rested it against his leg and plucked a single string.
The note was low. Warm.
Mike blinked.
He plucked another note. Then another.
Slowly, a rhythm began to form. Uneven at first—but then steadier. His foot tapped without him realizing it.
The room didn’t feel as empty anymore.
He kept playing, letting the sound settle into him. As the rhythm deepened, he closed his eyes.
And suddenly—
He was back at the plaza.
The lights. The roar of the crowd. The way the music didn’t just sit on the surface—it moved through people.
His fingers slowed, then found the groove again.
He remembered the lead singer—the way she commanded the stage, how the entire town seemed to pulse with her voice. The electrifying rush of it all surged through him as he imagined himself there again—not as the loudest sound.
But as the foundation.
The groove deepened, settling into his chest like a second heartbeat.
His fingers moved with more certainty now. Each note felt intentional. Placed exactly where it needed to be.
In his mind, the band formed around him. Drums locking in, guitar soaring above.
And him—
Holding it all together.
His shoulders loosened. His posture straightened.
A grin slowly spread across his face.
Then the imagined song ended.
The cheers in his head faded, replaced by the soft hum of his room.
Mike let the last note ring out—low and steady—until it dissolved into silence.
He exhaled, realizing he’d been holding his breath.
He looked down at the bass in his hands. Then up at the posters on his wall.
This time, they didn’t feel like unreachable dreams. They felt… possible.
He nodded to himself slowly.
“…Hell yeah.”
A small, satisfied smile tugged at his lips.
“Facing the music?” He adjusted his grip on the bass. “Nah, I ain’t hearing none today…”
Next day…
Weekdays had a rhythm of their own. Students in neat uniforms filled the sidewalks, walking in clusters, laughing too loudly for so early in the morning. Buses, mini-vans, and jeepneys lined the road, unloading half-awake teenagers carrying backpacks that looked heavier than their mood.
Then—
A motorcycle cut through the traffic.
It wasn’t loud enough to be obnoxious, but it was noticeable.
The rider stood out immediately. A purple helmet. Black hoodie. A guitar case strapped securely across her back. She maneuvered smoothly past vehicles, steady and controlled, heading straight toward the school gates.
Some students glanced at her as she passed.
Others stared.
She didn’t slow down.
The motorcycle rolled into the parking area, engine rumbling low before she eased off the throttle. She parked neatly near the fence and cut the ignition.
For a moment, the ticking of cooling metal blended with the hum of morning chatter.
She removed her helmet.
Black hair fell free, blunt bangs framing her face, dyed tips catching the light. She shook it out briefly before tying it into a short ponytail. Her eyes scanned the campus—dull pastel buildings, bulletin boards drowning in flyers, the familiar chaos of a weekday morning.
Helmet tucked under her arm, she adjusted the strap of her guitar case and walked toward the main gate. Her shoes clicked confidently against the pavement, cutting through the sea of polished shoes and pressed uniforms.
Inside the campus—
The bell rang.
Sharp. Echoing.
Students groaned and scattered, rushing toward classrooms. She moved against the current effortlessly, weaving through backpacks and chatter like she’d done this a thousand times before.
Later…
The classroom door opened.
She stepped out, guitar still slung across her back.
“YO! Kate!”
She paused and turned.
“Justin.”
He jogged up to her with a grin. “Hey.”
They began walking down the hallway together.
“It’s audition day,” Justin said. “What are we looking for?”
She kept her gaze forward. “Anything decent. But specifically? We need a bass player.”
“Bass again, huh?” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “The club always loses its bass. Even our seniors.”
“Kuya Dan was our eighth bass player in one year,” she replied dryly, glancing at him briefly.
“Yeah…” He exhaled. “Hopefully this one lasts more than a week.”
She rolled her eyes. “I hope.”
Justin raised an eyebrow. “I’m hoping you won’t be such a hardass this time.”
She shot him a look.
He continued, sighing. “We’re not getting new members if you keep rejecting everyone.”
“Kuya Ben left me in charge,” Kate said firmly. “So, what I want for the club matters.”
“It’s been weeks since the seniors left. We’re still just the two of us.”
“Then sorry if they’re not good enough.”
“…Of course.”
They walked in silence for a few seconds.
Then Justin suddenly stopped.
“Hey. Look.”
He pointed toward the faculty building across the courtyard.
Kate followed his gaze.
The building doors opened.
A boy stepped out—face blank, expression tired, like this was just another routine trip.
“WHOO!” Justin cheered quietly under his breath, laughing.
Kate groaned.
“I won.” Justin held out his hand.
Kate checked her pockets. “Later. I’ll treat you instead.”
She started walking again.
“You better,” he called after her. “That’s four out of two now!”
She sighed. “I don’t get why that guy is still here.”
“Teachers must love him.”
“Or he’s got a really good lawyer.”
“Imagine being his class president.”
“Must be a pain…”
They shared a quick smirk before heading toward their clubroom.
Later, they reached the Rock Band Club room sat awkwardly between a storage closet and a regular classroom. The sign on the door was crooked; letters faded from years of sun and rain.
Justin pushed it open with his shoulder.
Inside, it looked like a small, chaotic music shop. Posters overlapped across the walls—some peeling, some freshly taped. Instruments rested wherever space allowed. Cables coiled on the floor like sleeping snakes.
It felt lived in.
Kate dropped her bag onto a chair and leaned her guitar case against the wall. Her posture shifted almost instantly—relaxed to serious.
“Alright,” she said. “Let’s set up.”
They rearranged a table, adjusted amps, cleared space in the center.
After a few minutes—
“Boom!” Justin spread his arms. “The clubroom feels new again.”
“You moved one table,” Kate said flatly.
He clapped his hands. “Let’s start!”
The Auditions began, students filed in one by one, instruments in hand.
Guitars. Drumsticks. A keyboard. Even one flute.
Kate sat at the front with her arms crossed, expression unreadable.
Justin tried to look encouraging.
One performance ended.
“Not good,” Kate said.
Next.
“Not enough.”
Another.
“Not good enough.”
Another.
“Not.”
“—Good.”
“—Enough.”
Her tone barely changed each time.
Justin sighed loudly after the sixth rejection.
“Kate.”
“Mm?”
“Do you even hear yourself?”
“Yes.”
He rubbed his face. “How are we supposed to get members if you keep acting like a hardass?”
She finally looked at him, eyes sharp. “I’m being honest.”
“Honest? You’re saying the same thing to everyone!”
“Because they’re doing the same thing!”
Justin leaned forward. “You really believe that?”
“What we need,” she said firmly, “is real talent. Not part-fillers.”
“Part-fillers?” He spread his arms. “We’re a band, Kate. There’s no ‘one person’ onstage. It’s supposed to be all of us.”
She looked away, crossing her arms.
“It’s like you’re treating these auditioners like you’re already some big shot,” he continued. “Like you didn’t start as part filler too.”
She frowned at him.
Justin softened slightly. “Kate… whatever you’re dealing with? It’s not just you. We’re trying to keep this club alive. If it’s just a lead guitarist and a drummer, it won’t work.”
He held her gaze.
“We need people. Isn’t that what you want? To build a band? To prove something?”
Her expression faltered.
“…To prove you’re going to be someone someday?”
She turned away. “Whatever.”
Silence settled between them.
Justin waited.
Then he turned toward the door and called out—
“Next!”
The door opened almost immediately.
Like whoever was outside had been listening the whole time.
The door creaked open.
Mike stepped in, electric guitar strapped across his chest.
And then—
He froze.
His eyes widened the second he saw Kate.
Starstruck.
He stopped just a few steps inside, the door still half-open behind him.
Justin blinked at him. “…Uh. Over here?”
Mike jolted slightly at the sound of Justin’s voice and quickly stepped fully inside. The door clicked shut behind him.
“S-Sorry,” he muttered, adjusting the strap of his guitar. His eyes kept flicking back to Kate, like he wasn’t entirely convinced she was real.
Kate noticed.
“Yeah?” she said flatly.
Mike swallowed. “H-hey…”
“Do I know you?” she asked.
“No… but… I know you.”
She raised an eyebrow and glanced at Justin.
“…must’ve been the concert last week,” Justin whispered to her.
“Oh.” Kate looked back at Mike. “You here for an autograph?”
Mike flushed instantly. “I—uh—”
Kate crossed her arms. “Audition. One minute. Play.” She said, firmly, straight.
Mike swallowed hard but nodded. He stepped forward and plugged his guitar into the amp. The low hum filled the room, suddenly loud in the silence.
“You good?” Justin asked casually.
Mike inhaled deeply. Exhaled slowly. “Yeah.”
Kate didn’t say anything. She just watched.
“Whenever you’re ready,” Justin said, giving him a thumbs-up.
Mike closed his eyes briefly.
Then, he played.
The first notes came out clean and careful. Not flashy. Not loud. A simple progression—steady, controlled. Like he was laying a foundation before building anything on top of it.
His fingers trembled slightly, but the rhythm anchored him.
Justin nodded subtly, tapping a light beat against the table.
Kate remained still, arms crossed, one foot lightly bopping to the tempo. Her face blank.
Mike noticed.
For a split second, doubt flickered across his expression. There was no second guitar answering him.
He swallowed and kept going.
He refined the progression—tightened here, softened there. Instead of getting louder, he shifted dynamics. Showing control rather than force.
The tremble in his hands began to fade.
Then he realized.
He was playing it safe.
He glanced at Kate. Her bored expression felt like a challenge.
If he stayed here, he’d just be another ‘part filler.’ His fingers slid up the neck. A sharp trill cut through the room’s hum. He began weaving a counter-melody into Justin’s faint tapping. Imperfect yet alive.
Kate’s expression shifted—barely. From bored… to blank.
Her eyes dropped to his hands.
She narrowed them slightly.
Mike didn’t see it—but Justin did.
Then Mike shifted again.
He dropped into a heavy, blues-distorted riff—gritty, bold, raw. It had more bite than any of the earlier auditionees.
He clipped a string near the end. He didn’t stop.
Justin straightened. “Whoa…”
He began tapping harder, syncing to Mike’s rhythm.
The room changed.
Kate’s foot stopped moving.
Mike felt it.
That weight in the room wasn’t pushing him away anymore. It was watching.
He leaned into the riff, bending a note just a fraction too long. The amp growled in response. He closed his eyes briefly—then snapped into a rough, risky transition. It could’ve fallen apart. It didn’t.
Justin leaned forward, grinning. “Ohhh, okay—”
Now Mike was fully in it.
The room disappeared.
It was just him and the guitar.
His chest burned. His fingers moved instinctively. Passion poured into every note.
And then—
He struck the final chord.
Muted the strings sharply.
Silence.
The amp hummed softly.
Mike stood there, breathing hard, face flushed red.
He didn’t look starstruck anymore. He looked spent.
“Alright!” Justin clapped.
Mike gave a small smile. “Thanks…”
Kate remained composed. But this time—She wasn’t uninterested.
“So?” Justin asked, turning to her. “What do you think?”
Kate didn’t answer immediately.
She stared at Mike’s hands resting on the guitar—fingers curled slightly, like they were reluctant to let go.
The silence stretched.
“…Kate?” Justin prompted.
She finally looked up.
“You rush when you get excited,” she said.
Mike stiffened. “S-sorry, I—”
“You clipped a transition,” she continued. “Your timing almost slipped near the end.”
His shoulders lowered slightly. “Yeah. I know.”
“And the way you play your electric?” she added. “It leans toward how a bassist would structure rhythm. It makes the guitar line inconsistent.”
Mike’s eyes widened slightly.
“And most of all—”
“I played overtime,” he cut in quietly.
Kate blinked, surprised.
“…Sorry,” he added. “I got carried away.”
Silence returned.
Kate leaned back, crossing her arms again.
Justin looked at her, already knowing. “Come on, Kate…”
She looked at Mike.
“Sorry,” she began.
“—Mike, ate,” he corrected softly.
“Mike,” she repeated. For the first time that morning, her expression softened.
Mike already knew what was coming.
“But we can’t take you in,” she said gently. “You have potential. But it’s not what we’re looking for right now.”
Justin frowned slightly. “Kate…”
“Sorry,” she said again.
“Sige po, ate,” Mike said quietly.
He bowed slightly and picked up his guitar. He turned toward the door.
Justin looked at Kate, disappointed but silent.
Mike took one step.
Then paused. The fire in his chest hadn’t gone out.
He turned back.
“Ate… Kuya…”
Kate and Justin both looked at him.
He hesitated.
“I—I can play bass.”
Silence.
“…If that’s what you’re looking for.”
Justin’s eyebrows shot up. He turned to Kate with a grin that screamed See?
Kate didn’t answer immediately.
“Why don’t we let him try bass?” Justin suggested.
Kate glanced at Mike’s hands again. Remembering.
“You can show us,” Justin added. “Grab the bass over there.” He pointed toward the shelf.
Relief flashed across Mike’s face. He stepped toward it—
“You’re in.”
He froze mid-reach.
His fingers hovered inches above the bass strings.
Slowly, he turned.
“…What?”
Justin blinked. Then broke into a wide grin. “Wait—what?”
Kate met Mike’s eyes directly this time.
“You heard me. You’re in.”
“But—I thought—”
“I’ve already seen enough,” she said calmly. “The way you play won’t change just because you switch instruments.”
She glanced at Justin briefly.
“And we really need a bass.”
Mike swallowed, nodding quickly. “I—I won’t disappoint you.”
Justin beamed.
Kate rolled her eyes, slightly embarrassed. “You happy now?”
“After weeks? Yeah,” he said proudly.
“Shut up,” she muttered.
He laughed. “Finally. We got a bassist.”
Kate rubbed the back of her neck, avoiding Mike’s eyes.
“Thanks for coming in today, Mike. We were actually hoping for a bass.”
“T-Thank you, ate. Kuya,” he replied earnestly.
Kate straightened slightly. “You may have the spot for now. But if someone better shows up—”
She trailed off.
“We hope you stay,” Justin finished smoothly. “Okay?”
Mike nodded firmly. “I will.”
“Want to stick around? Watch the rest of the auditions?” Justin asked.
Mike looked sheepish. “No, thank you po… I have class in an hour.”
“Oh, alright. See you tomorrow!”
“See you, po.”
He turned and walked out.
The door clicked shut behind him.
Mike stood there for a second longer than necessary, hand hovering near the handle.
He exhaled slowly.
“I’m in.”
The words still felt unreal.
He adjusted the strap on his shoulder and began walking down the hallway. Lockers slammed. Students laughed. Clubs chattered in nearby rooms.
But everything felt lighter, like gravity had loosened its grip.
A small smile formed on his face.
“I will,” he murmured to himself.
And for the first time in a long while—
Mike walked like he knew exactly where he was going.