Abigail – POV
It’s 4 P.M., and Sebastian still hasn’t texted back. Classic. After yesterday’s Luau stunt—ghosting the whole party—I decided it was time to drag Sam into my very important mission: Figure Out What’s Up With Brooding Basement Boy.
“I bet he’s still asleep,” I muttered as we climbed the mountain path to the carpenter’s house. “Or writing tragic poetry and pretending he doesn’t feel anything.”
“Or both,” Sam added helpfully, sipping on a Joja soda.
Inside, Robin was tidying up her counter, purse slung over one shoulder, clearly ready for her Friday night Saloon ritual with Demetrius.
“Hey Mrs. Robin!” I greeted with a smile. “Is the cryptid awake?”
Robin laughed. “Hi, Abigail. Hi, Sam. Nope—still in bed, I think. Maybe you can pry him out. And by pry, I mean forcibly remove.” She winked and gestured to the basement.
“On it,” I said with the cheerfulness of someone absolutely prepared to emotionally interrogate their best friend.
Sam and I crept down the basement stairs. Sebastian was sprawled across his bed like a sad rockstar in a crime documentary—eyes closed, earbuds dangling, surrounded by a snowstorm of notebook paper.
I picked up one sheet without thinking, instantly curious. Sam did the same, holding his paper like it was radioactive but too interesting not to read.
“These are lyrics,” I whispered, squinting. “Like… actual, intense lyrics.”
“Whoa,” Sam said. “He never writes lyrics. That’s your thing.”
We exchanged a glance. Intrigue activated.
I've been scared of sleeping with the lights off24Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡXUyPn5tt5f
When they turn on, I know she won't be there24Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡzQCKziSu1a
She's off somewhere in her mind again24Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ7Ys8EU32j6
And I don't have a map for that terrain
Let's not play make believe—24Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡSXZ9ANl7ev
These demons, they are following me24Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡhUltWdodKC
I can't wake up for the life of me24Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡAJDGBeh6pl
I only know one tune.
My jaw literally dropped. The words were gutting—raw, poetic, way too honest. I held the paper like it might crumble from sadness.
“Read this,” I whispered, handing it to Sam like a sacred relic.
He took it, brows furrowed, while I grabbed another page.
Salt enters the wound,24Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡMEOgFiJMhJ
Yet my thoughts are simple—24Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡgmOs1PepQe
You’re made of poise,24Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ8utbLWXo1C
I’m made of poison.
You're the map,24Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡUq7ha1CcJO
I'm the maze.24Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡp91XbAaGpm
Salt enters again24Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡKnhQf5zg0o
When your eyes meet my gaze.
He must’ve been up all night. I looked at his sleeping form and felt a knot twist in my stomach. So much bottled-up grief. So much he won’t say. So much he feels—but only on paper.
“These are amazing,” Sam breathed. “Like... hauntingly good. Our Band-level good.”
“Shhh!” I hissed. “If he catches us, we're dead.”
Too late.
Sam, in his infinite grace, tripped over the corner of Sebastian’s keyboard and hit a random button. The speakers burst into life with a blaring freestyle hip-hop beatbox demo.
The entire room turned into a dance club for three seconds.
Sebastian sat up, eyes half-lidded, hair a disaster. “...What the actual hell.”
Sam, still on the floor, blinked at the keyboard. “Oh. That’s what that button does. Good to know.”
I froze with one foot halfway out the door, guiltily turning around. “Heyyyy…”
Sebastian narrowed his eyes, taking in the scattered papers, the still-glowing speakers, and Sam trying to look innocent while still very much lying on the floor.
“Let me guess,” he said flatly.
“We just got here,” I said, poorly.
“I was… taking a nap. Definitely not reading anything. Especially not lyrics that could make a grown man cry,” Sam added, with the sincerity of a toddler covered in cookie crumbs saying he hadn’t been in the kitchen.
Sebastian glared, then snatched the papers back up in a flurry and sat on the edge of the bed, arms crossed.
“So you break into my room, read my private stuff, and then wake me up with DJ Tragedy’s Greatest Hits?”
“Okay,” Sam said, still very much horizontal, “but in our defense, that beat slapped.”
Seb sighed heavily and grabbed his bong. He lit it without a word. A puff of smoke clouded the air—and immediately began a full-on attack on Sam’s lungs.
“Sebastian, come on,” I said, crouching near his feet. “Those lyrics are incredible. You’re so good. You make your sad feeling so beautiful and artistic, Let’s use them. Let’s—”
“No,” he interrupted, exhaling. “I write them to get them out of my head. Not to parade them around at a gig like I’m bleeding out on stage for applause.”
“But Seb, we could bring your feelings to life—”
“Yeah,” he said dryly, “and that’s exactly what I don’t want. A public performance of my internal collapse. Yay.”
“You’re being dramatic,” I muttered.
“I am dramatic. That’s why I write instead of talk. Now get out.”
Sam finally sat up, eyes watering. “Totally fair. But also… we are stealing some of these for the band.”
Sebastian didn’t answer. He just leaned back, eyes on the ceiling, like maybe if he stared long enough, he could fall right through it and vanish.
And honestly?
That scared me more than anything else.
-------------------------------------------------
Sam and I stepped out of the basement quietly, the door clicking shut behind us like a secret being sealed away. I exhaled, my heart still thudding from the close call. I knew Sebastian would be pissed if he found out we read his lyrics—but honestly? It was worth it. His words were raw, aching, brilliant. They weren’t just lyrics; they were confessions he didn’t know how to say out loud.
“Sam,” I said, stopping on the front path. “We have to turn those into music. Not just for the band—” I looked up at him, “—for him.”
He gave me a sheepish grin and pulled out his phone. “Already on it. Snapped pics of the best ones before he rolled over. Risked my life for these, you’re welcome.”
I squealed and squeezed his arm. “Now that’s what I’m talking about. You’re finally thinking like a true emotional investigator!”
“Calm down, Sherlock Gail,” he said, laughing and shoving his phone in his pocket. “But for real, this is tricky. These aren’t your typical ‘heartbreak in four chords’ type of lyrics. They’ve got teeth. I don’t know if I can sing the way these words need to be sung.”
“You have an incredible voice, Sam. It’s why you’re our lead. The fans swoon, the elderly clap, Sebastian pretends not to care—it’s perfect.” I crossed my arms, nodding as if that settled the matter.
He looked at the ground, dragging the toe of his sneaker across the dirt. “Yeah, but... they’re his words. I don’t want to steal them. You saw how private that stuff was. It felt like reading a journal entry he’d never show anyone, not even himself.”
I softened, placing a hand on his shoulder. “We’re not stealing. We’re showing him it’s okay to say the quiet things out loud. He doesn’t have to carry all of it inside. And once he hears it—once he hears you breathe life into it—he’ll get it. I promise.”
He shook his head but smiled anyway. “You’re the only person I know who could make scheming a heartfelt emotional intervention.”
“I try,” I said with a wink. “And worst case, if he flips out, I’ll take the blame. I’ll tell him I hypnotized you with my witchy rage powers.”
“Oh, good. Classic Abigail defense,” Sam said with mock relief. “Blame the drama queen.”
“Hey,” I pointed at him, “this drama queen just might be saving his entire emotional landscape.”
He laughed again, and the sound felt like a small win.
We stood in silence for a moment, watching the sky shift into a late spring twilight. Somewhere inside that house, Sebastian was probably still curled up with those pages, not realizing how much he needed to be heard.
“We’ll start slow,” I said finally. “Pick one song. Work on a melody. No pressure. And when it’s ready, we show him. Gently. No ambushes.”
Sam nodded. “Deal. But if he throws a chair at me, I’m blaming your emotional landscape.”
“Fair.”
And with that, we turned toward town, the beginning of something real flickering between us—like maybe, just maybe, the music could say what Sebastian couldn’t.
24Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡGOon6FL3kI
