Chapter 2 The Only Thing That Makes Sense

The mornings always start the same; fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, the hum of the refrigerator units, and the smell of burnt coffee from the convenience store pot that's older than me. I clock in at 5:57 a.m. sharp, just to prove to myself that I can still be dependable at something, even if it's folding newspapers and mopping aisles that never stay clean.

The store is quiet this early, the kind of quiet that feels like the world hasn't woken up yet. I like it. It gives me time to breathe before the rush of commuters start their day with sugar, caffeine, and cigarettes. I hum to myself while I straighten a shelf of candy bars, soft and under my breath. No one's here to hear me anyway.

By 6:10, the regulars begin to arrive gradually.

"Morning, Vera." Mr. Dawson pushes through the door, his voice gravelly from age and too many years of smoking. He always buys the newspaper and a pack of gum. I've never seen him chew it, not once. He sets the items on the counter and gives me a nod.

"Morning, Mr. Dawson. Big headlines today," I say, holding up the folded front page.

He grunts, pays in cash, and leaves. It's our daily routine. Comfortable. Predictable.

At 6:30 sharp, Claire from the flower shop down the street stops by. She's younger, only a couple of years older than me, with her hair tied up in a messy bun and streaks of pollen dusting her jeans. She grabs an energy drink and a bag of pretzels, plopping them on the counter.

"You look tired," she says, like always.

"I am tired," I answer, like always.

"Don't kill yourself chasing whatever it is you're chasing," she teases, though there's a little concern under her smile.

I just shrug. She doesn't get it. Most people don't.

The morning rush dies down, and I'm left alone with the buzzing lights and my own thoughts. I scribble in my little notebook between customers; lyrics, half-formed ideas, fragments of songs that might never be finished. They're messy, coffee-stained, written in every margin I can find. But they're mine. My secret.

By noon, I'm free. My manager waves me off without a second glance, already on the phone with his supplier. I pull off my apron, fold it neatly, and step out into the sun.

It's only a fifteen-minute walk to my apartment, but I take the long way, weaving through streets full of vendors, artists, and noise. The city feels alive in a way my old hometown never did. Back there, the walls were too close, the whispers too loud. Here, I can disappear if I want to, or stand out if I try hard enough.

When I reach my apartment, I toss my keys onto the counter and change out of my store uniform. The smell of fryer oil lingers in the fabric no matter how many times I wash it. I pull on jeans, a soft T-shirt, and grab my guitar from its stand in the corner. The second my fingers brush the strings, the world shifts. The weight in my chest eases.

I practice for hours. Sometimes I play songs everyone knows; sometimes I lose myself in melodies I've written but never shared. Today, I work on one I wrote last week, my voice low and aching.

I'm running, always running

From the shadow in the mirror,

But the music pulls me forward,

And it's the only thing that's clear...

The words catch in my throat. I stop, shake my head, and scribble something new in the margins.

By late afternoon, I'm exhausted but restless. That's how it always is, the kind of exhaustion that comes from wanting more than you have. I make myself noodles, eat them standing at the counter, and glance at my phone. Sunday.

Right on time, it rings.

"Hi, Mom," I say, balancing the phone between my shoulder and ear.

"Sweetheart! How are you? Eating enough? You sound thin," she says in one breath.

"I'm fine. I'm eating. Just had lunch, actually."

"That's good. Your father's here too. Say hi, honey."

There's a pause, then my dad's voice: "Vera."

"Hey, Dad."

"How's the job?" he asks, like it's the most important part of my life.

"It's fine. Pays the rent."

"And... the music?" His sigh drifts down the line, heavy. "Still chasing?"

I bite my lip. "Still chasing."

My mom jumps in, her voice softer. "We just want you to be realistic, sweetheart. You're talented, yes, but maybe you should consider-"

"I know," I interrupt, sharper than I mean to. "I know you want what's best. But this is what's best for me."

Silence. Then, "We love you, Vera. Just... be careful."

When the call ends, I stare at the ceiling for a long time. They love me. I know they do. But they'll never understand why I'd rather scrape by for a chance at this dream than settle into something safe. Music isn't a hobby,it's oxygen.

The past taught me that much.

I shake the thought away before it settles. No use digging up old ghosts.

That night, I head to an open mic at a small café. Naomi meets me there, my best friend, my biggest supporter, the one person who knows how hard I've been fighting. She hugs me like I've been gone for years, not just a day.

"You've got this," she says, her eyes shining.

The café is dim, filled with people who half-listen while they sip coffee and scroll on their phones. My hands tremble as I step onto the tiny stage, adjusting the mic. I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and let the first chord ring out.

For three minutes, I'm not the girl who works at a convenience store, or the daughter who disappoints her parents, or the shadow of who I used to be. I'm just me, my voice, my song, my heart on display.

When I finish, there's polite applause. Nothing wild, nothing earth-shattering. But Naomi's clapping loud enough for the whole room.

And for a moment, that's enough.

On the walk home, I whisper the same promise I make every night: One day, it'll be more than this. One day, they'll really listen.

I just have to keep trying.

Because music is the only thing that makes sense.

Right?