𝐀𝐍𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐒𝐈𝐀 𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐒
People always ask who hurt me after I sing. Like pain is the only thing capable of making a woman sound believable. I never know what answer they want, because most of the time, nobody did.
Not like that, anyway.
The last note leaves my mouth slow, carrying through the little campus auditorium before it disappears somewhere above the stage lights. For a second, everything is quiet. Not awkward quiet. The good kind. The kind where I can still feel the song sitting in the room with me.
Then somebody whistles.
Applause follows right behind it.
I smile before I can stop myself, lowering the microphone while the band eases out of the last few chords behind me.
“Thank y’all.”
My speaking voice always catches people off guard after they hear me sing.
I know because I see it happen.
My voice is naturally soft, a little raspy around the edges, and I’ve been told more than once that I sound sweeter than people expect. Apparently, whatever happens when I sing makes everybody assume I’m about to come offstage talking like somebody’s forty-year-old auntie with three divorces and a cigarette habit.
Instead, I’m twenty-one.
I have an eight-thirty class tomorrow.
And I’m already thinking about whether I left my pink bonnet on the bathroom counter.
The lights dim while I step toward the side of the stage, careful with my heel because I already almost ate shit walking up the stairs earlier. A girl from the student activities board meets me near the curtain with both hands over her chest.
“Oh my God.”
I laugh softly. “What?”
“Who hurt you?”
There it is.
I shake my head while accepting the bottle of water she hands me.
“Nobody.”
She stares at me.
“Girl.”
“I’m serious.”
“That second verse?”
“What about it?”
“You sounded like you had to block that man on everything, unblock him, take him back, catch him cheating again, and then find out he got somebody pregnant.”
A laugh slips out of me so fast I almost choke on the water.
“That is extremely specific.”
“Because that’s what it sounded like.”
“I made it up.”
She just looks at me.
I shrug.
“Mostly.”
“See!”
“Mostly does not mean somebody ruined my life.”
“You got issues.”
“That, I’ll accept.”
She laughs and moves out of the way when one of the musicians comes through carrying a guitar case.
Tonight is nothing major.
The university hosts these little showcases every couple of months for music students, local artists, and whoever the student board can convince to perform for cheap. The auditorium might hold two hundred people if every seat is filled, and tonight maybe a little over half are occupied.
I’m not getting paid.
Nobody important is sitting in the crowd.
No label rep is waiting backstage.
No viral clip is about to change my life before midnight.
And I still gave that song everything I had.
That matters to me.
It always has.
I grab my bag from the little table backstage and check my phone.
Seven texts.
Three are from the group chat.
One is from my professor reminding everybody that tomorrow’s assignment is due before class.
Three are from my mother.
Mama:You sing yet?
Mama:Your daddy said he found the livestream.
Mama:He got it on the living room TV like you at the Grammys 😭
I smile.
My thumbs move over the screen.
Me:tell him please turn me off that big ass tv 😭
The dots appear almost immediately.
Mama:Watch your mouth.
Then:
Mama:You sounded beautiful baby.
My smile softens.
Me:thank youuu 💕
Another message comes through before I can lock my phone.
Daddy:Proud of you, Stasia.
I stare at that one a little longer.
My father is not a paragraph texter.
He doesn’t send heart emojis or write inspirational speeches in the family group chat. He is an architect. Everything with him is measured, intentional, and probably aligned to an invisible grid only he can see.
So four words from him can carry a lot.
Me:love you daddy.**
I tuck my phone away and start toward the exit.
One of the other singers catches me before I make it.
“Stasia.”
I turn.
He’s leaning against the wall with his hands inside the front pocket of his hoodie. I know him from two classes, but not enough that we speak outside of school unless one of us needs notes.
“That was hard.”
“Thank you.”
“You wrote that?”
“Mhm.”
“You selling it?”
I smile. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s mine.”
He laughs. “That don’t mean you can’t sell it.”
“I know.”
I do know.
I know songs get placed every day.
I know writers make money without ever standing in front of a microphone.
I know technically I could send songs out, pitch them, try to get placements, build writing credits while I figure out the artist side.
I’ve thought about it.
I just don’t want to give my favorite ones away yet.
Maybe that’s selfish.
Maybe it’s stupid.
But every time I write something I really love, I hear it in my own voice first.
“Let me know if you change your mind,” he says.
“I will.”
I won’t.
At least not about that one.
By the time I make it outside, the night air has cooled enough that I regret not bringing a jacket.
Spring is almost here.
Not really here yet, but close enough that I can feel it trying.
I love every season for different reasons, but spring has always been mine.
Winter gets too dark too early.
Summer is beautiful until the heat starts disrespecting everybody.
Fall is cute, but it always feels like something ending.
Spring feels like the world remembering itself.
Flowers come back.
The sun stays longer.
Everybody starts sitting outside again.
I can wear yellow without looking like I’m trying too hard to manifest happiness.
My apartment is only a few minutes from campus, so I decide to walk instead of waiting for the shuttle.
That decision lasts exactly four minutes before I regret wearing heels.
“Stupid,” I mumble to myself.
Still, I keep walking.
Music plays through one AirPod while the other stays tucked inside its case. I don’t like having both ears blocked when I’m outside alone at night.
The beat playing isn’t a song.
Not yet.
Just something a producer friend sent me earlier with a text that said:
thought this sounded like you.
I disagreed immediately.
Still downloaded it.
Still listened to it six times.
Still started humming something over it while I was getting dressed.
That’s the problem.
I hear music everywhere.
In turn signals.
Washing machines.
The little ding the elevator makes before the doors open.
Somebody tapping their nails against a desk.
I can be watching TV and miss an entire scene because a commercial used a chord progression I liked.
My brain doesn’t know how to leave music alone.
By the time I reach my building, I have the beginning of a melody.
I open the voice recorder on my phone before I even make it through the lobby.
“Mmm...”
I stop recording.
Terrible.
Delete.
Try again.
This one is better.
I save it under:
idea 184
There are already three other recordings called idea 184.
That is tomorrow’s problem.
I unlock my apartment door and immediately step out of my shoes.
They stay right beside the entryway.
Always.
I don’t understand people who walk through their whole house in shoes they wore outside. Gas stations. Bathrooms. Sidewalks. Restaurants. Grocery stores.
Then straight across the bedroom carpet?
Absolutely not.
I toss my keys into the little yellow ceramic bowl on the entry table and lock the door behind me.
Home.
My apartment isn’t big, but it feels like me.
That is probably why I love it so much.
Two bedrooms. Two bathrooms. Cozy living room. Small kitchen with just enough counter space for me to complain about it every time I cook. The furniture doesn’t all match perfectly, but it works together somehow.
Pink throw blanket.
Yellow vase.
Cream couch.
A record player my parents bought me for my nineteenth birthday.
Framed album covers.
Candles everywhere.
A coffee table with books I swear I’m going to finish.
The second bedroom started as a guest room and lasted maybe a month before I turned it into my music room.
Nobody visits enough to deserve a whole bedroom anyway.
I drop my bag on the dining chair and head straight toward my bedroom.
Then stop at the doorway.
Outside clothes.
I look down at the jeans and fitted top I wore tonight.
Absolutely not.
I turn around and head for the bathroom instead.
My clothes come off before I get anywhere near my bed. I toss everything into the hamper, wrap my hair up, and turn the shower on hot.
I love baths more, but tonight I don’t have the patience for the whole process.
If I take a bath, I have to shower first.
People tell me that defeats the purpose.
I tell them sitting in water with everything you collected on your body throughout the day defeats the purpose of getting clean.
We usually agree to disagree.
The shower runs long enough that the mirror fogs.
By the time I step out, my shoulders finally feel like they’ve dropped from somewhere near my ears.
I moisturize, do my skincare, pull on a huge pink T-shirt and clean shorts, then finally climb onto my bed.
My body melts into the mattress.
“Oh my God.”
I could sleep right now.
I should sleep right now.
I have class at eight-thirty.
Which means I should be unconscious by eleven-thirty at the latest.
I check the time.
11:46.
Close enough.
I plug my phone in.
Turn the TV on.
Lower the volume.
Open Instagram.
Ten minutes.
That is all I’m giving myself.
Ten minutes becomes twenty-three.
I watch somebody organize a refrigerator I cannot afford.
A makeup tutorial.
Three clips from a reality show I don’t watch.
A girl I went to high school with announce her pregnancy.
A producer breaking down how he made a beat.
That one gets me.
I replay it.
Then again.
Then I lock my phone because I know exactly where this is going.
“No.”
I set it facedown.
The beat from earlier starts playing in my head.
“No.”
I close my eyes.
One line comes.
Not even a whole line.
Half of one.
I open my eyes.
“Damn it.”
My laptop is in the other room.
If I get up, I’m not coming back anytime soon.
I know myself.
I stay still for another thirty seconds.
Then throw the blanket off.
Twenty minutes later, I’m cross-legged in the chair inside my music room with my laptop open, headphones on, and the beat looping quietly.
The room is my favorite part of the apartment.
Not because it looks impressive.
It doesn’t.
There’s a keyboard against one wall, a small microphone setup I saved for months to buy, two shelves full of records, notebooks stacked everywhere, and a corkboard filled with pictures, lyrics, colors, ticket stubs, random phrases, and magazine clippings.
Messy enough to look creative.
Organized enough that I know where everything is.
Usually.
I replay the beat.
The melody from my voice note comes back.
I hum it.
Change one note.
Change it back.
Write four lines.
Delete two.
Rewrite one.
Hate all of them.
Start over.
At 12:41, I have a verse.
At 1:08, I decide the verse is trash.
At 1:22, I bring half of it back.
At 1:49, I’m watching an episode of a sitcom because I got irritated.
At 2:17, I’m scrolling Instagram again.
At 2:38, the hook comes to me while I’m reading comments underneath a post that has absolutely nothing to do with music.
I sit up.
“Wait.”
My phone almost slips out of my hand while I scramble for the notebook beside me.
The words come faster now.
Not perfect.
But close enough that I can hear where they want to go.
I don’t sing loudly because I have neighbors.
Instead, I keep my voice low, almost whispering the melody into the recorder.
Soft.
Raspy.
Barely there.
Still emotional enough that I feel the lyric in my chest.
That part has always been easy.
Feeling things that haven’t happened to me yet.
Sometimes I think that’s what songwriting really is.
Borrowing emotions from versions of yourself that don’t exist.
At 3:47 a.m., I finally look at the clock.
I stare.
“No fucking way.”
My class starts in less than five hours.
I save everything twice because I don’t trust technology or myself, close my laptop, and drag my tired ass back to my room.
Before climbing into bed, I wash my hands again.
Then my face.
Again.
Because I touched my laptop and phone after doing skincare.
Annoying.
Necessary.
I turn every light off, crawl beneath the covers, and put my phone facedown on the nightstand.
My eyes close.
Then open.
I reach for my phone.
“No.”
I snatch my hand back.
Close my eyes again.
This time I force myself to stay there.
My alarm goes off at 6:45.
I consider dropping out.
Not seriously.
But spiritually.
By 8:23, I’m walking across campus with an iced coffee in one hand, my tote bag over my shoulder, and sunglasses covering the fact that I got approximately two hours and forty minutes of sleep.
I like early classes.
Normally.
Get everything important done while the day still feels fresh, then I can breathe later.
Today, however, I hate every decision I have ever made.
I slide into my seat with three minutes to spare.
Professor Mercer looks at me over the top of his glasses.
“You look refreshed.”
I set my coffee down.
“Thank you.”
“You know I was being sarcastic.”
“I know.”
A couple people laugh.
Professor Mercer shakes his head and turns toward the board.
He’s one of my favorite professors, even when he gets on my nerves.
Especially when he gets on my nerves, probably.
He doesn’t praise people just because they sound good.
Doesn’t care how pretty your runs are if the song doesn’t say anything.
Doesn’t let people hide behind talent.
Which means I have spent two years simultaneously appreciating him and wanting him to mind his business.
“Final projects,” he says.
Everybody groans.
He ignores us.
“You’ve all had enough time in this program to learn technique. I don’t need another demonstration that you understand chord progressions. I don’t need twelve key changes because you finally learned what modulation is.”
Somebody laughs behind me.
Professor Mercer keeps going.
“I want something that sounds like you.”
My pen pauses.
“Not what’s popular. Not what you think labels want. Not what you heard somebody else do successfully. You.”
He walks slowly between the first row of desks.
“Some of you still don’t know what that sounds like.”
His eyes land on me for half a second.
I sit back.
Oh.
Okay.
That felt targeted.
“For your final project, you’re creating an original body of work. Minimum four records. Maximum six. Produced, arranged, recorded, mixed. Complete.”
My stomach flips despite already knowing a major project was coming.
Complete is different from written.
I have songs.
I have plenty of songs.
Finishing them properly is the problem.
My bedroom microphone is good enough for demos.
My production skills are good enough to communicate what I want.
Good enough is starting to irritate me.
Professor Mercer talks for another twenty minutes about deadlines, grading, documentation, collaboration rules, ownership, and expectations.
I take notes.
Actual notes.
Not the kind where I write one sentence and pretend I’m listening.
By the time class ends, I already have three songs in mind.
Maybe four.
The new one from last night could become something.
Maybe.
Everybody starts packing up.
I close my notebook and reach for my bag.
“Anastasia.”
I look toward the front.
Professor Mercer is gathering papers from his desk.
“Yes, sir?”
“Stay a minute.”
I sit back down.
Everybody else filters out.
Once the room is mostly empty, I walk toward his desk.
He flips through a folder, pulls out something, then sets it in front of him.
My songwriting analysis from last week.
A ninety-four.
I noticed.
“What?”
He leans against the desk.
“You ever worked with a real producer?”
My eyebrows lift.
“I’ve worked with producers.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
I shift my weight.
“That sounded disrespectful.”
“It wasn’t intended to be.”
“It still managed.”
The corner of his mouth moves.
“You’re talented.”
I wait.
Because with Professor Mercer, there is always abut.
“But?”
“You know too much.”
I stare at him.
“That is the first time anybody has ever said that like it’s a problem.”
“You think while you sing.”
“I’m supposed to think.”
“Not about whether the note is correct while you’re in the middle of giving it.”
I fold my arms.
“My notes are correct.”
“That’s my point.”
I don’t like where this is going.
He continues before I can respond.
“You know how to make people feel something, Anastasia. But sometimes I can hear you controlling it.”
My lips press together.
He isn’t wrong.
I hate that most.
“You need somebody who knows when to leave you alone and when to make you uncomfortable.”
“That sounds terrible.”
“It probably will be.”
I laugh softly.
“Very encouraging.”
Professor Mercer reaches for his phone.
“I have somebody in mind.”
“For the project?”
“Mhm.”
“Who?”
Instead of answering, he scrolls through his contacts.
I watch his thumb stop.
He looks at the screen.
Then at me.
“He owes me.”
I blink.
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“No.”
“Professor.”
He smiles.
“Go to your next class, Anastasia.”
I stare at him.
“You’re irritating.”
“I’ve been told.”
I gather my bag.
At the door, I look back.
He already has the phone against his ear.
I hesitate.
“Who are you calling?”
Professor Mercer lifts one finger toward me.
Dismissed.
I roll my eyes and leave.
The door closes behind me.
I make it halfway down the hall before my phone buzzes.
A message from him.
Professor Mercer:Clear Thursday evening.
I stop walking.
Me:Why?
His response comes immediately.
Professor Mercer: Studio.
I stare at the word.
Then another message appears.
Professor Mercer: And bring your best song.
I smile despite myself.
- add to your library’s 🖤
