Chapter 4: Whatever You Decide, We'll Support You

Sophia's POV

I'm sitting on this beat-up folding chair, staring at my ancient laptop screen in the dim light of my basement apartment. The video title makes my stomach turn: "Check Out This 'Classical Musician's' Real Skill Level."

There I am, three years ago at Blue Moon, playing my jazz arrangement of "Moonlight Sonata." But this isn't the version I remember. Someone's butchered the footage, keeping only the most improvised, free-flowing parts and slapping some jarring background music over it. They've turned my artistic interpretation into a circus act.

My hands are shaking as I scroll down to the comments section. Each one hits like a physical blow.

"This is Lincoln Center's standard? My dog plays better than her."

"What a bastardization of classical music. Absolutely disgusting!"

"No wonder she needed a sugar daddy. With skills like that, she definitely needs 'special talents' to get on stage."

The green in my eyes is clouding over with tears, but I'm biting down hard on my lip, refusing to let them fall. These people don't understand. When I was playing in that bar, I was fighting to survive, not showing off. That freedom in my interpretation was exactly what showed my understanding of music.

I slam the laptop shut and bury my face in my hands. The only sounds are my upstairs neighbors screaming at each other and car horns honking in the distance.

The next afternoon, I'm sitting across from Dr. Harrison in his pristine office at one of Manhattan's most prestigious music academies. Classical music posters line the walls, and everything smells like old wood and tradition.

"Ms. Blake, we did receive your resume," he says, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses. "Your educational background is quite impressive. A Juilliard graduate..."

I lean forward slightly, hope flickering in my chest.

But then his tone shifts completely. "However, to be frank, we've recently seen some concerning... controversies surrounding you."

"What controversies?" My voice comes out sharper than I intended. "If you're referring to those videos online, they're maliciously edited, taken completely out of context."

Dr. Harrison clears his throat uncomfortably. "Ms. Blake, we're a music academy with a century of history. We simply cannot hire teachers with questionable reputations. I'm sure you understand. The parents would have concerns."

"So you won't even give me a chance to demonstrate my teaching abilities?"

"I'm afraid not. And frankly, I'd advise against applying to other institutions as well. We all move in the same circles."

My eyes widen in disbelief. This gentle-looking professor has just told me I've been blacklisted from the entire music education industry. I'm staring at him, trying to process that this is really happening.

I slowly stand up, my hands trembling as I gather my resume papers. Dr. Harrison doesn't even bother to stand or escort me out. He just keeps his head down, shuffling through other documents like I've already vanished.

A week later, I'm sitting on the floor of my basement apartment, surrounded by a spread of bills. Electric company notice, rent past due, credit card statements. My bank account balance: $127.34.

I walk over to my mini fridge and open it. Three packets of instant ramen and a carton of milk that expires tomorrow. That's it. I pick up one of the ramen packages and look at the price sticker: $0.99. This is going to be my dinner tonight.

As I put the noodles on my tiny electric burner, the bubbling water sounds unnaturally loud in this cramped space. Through my small basement window, I can see people's feet walking by on the sidewalk above. I used to be one of them, wearing elegant dresses, living in a luxury apartment, never worrying about where my next meal would come from.

At eight o'clock, my phone rings. "Mom" flashes on the screen. I hesitate before answering.

"Sophia, sweetheart, how are you doing? We've been hearing some rumors..." Mom's voice sounds strained.

"I'm fine, Mom. Everything in New York is going well."

Dad's voice comes through in the background. "Sophie, people in town are talking about you. Mrs. Peterson says she saw some video online..."

"We just want you to be safe and happy," Mom says, and I can hear her voice breaking. "New York is so brutal. You don't have to torture yourself just to prove something..."

"Mom, I'm not torturing myself. I'm just dealing with some professional challenges."

"Sophie," Dad's voice comes on clearer now, "you know the school district here just had a music teacher position open up. The salary isn't much, but it's stable. You could consider coming home, starting fresh here."

The suggestion hits me like a punch to the gut. Going back to Cleveland would mean completely giving up on my music dreams, admitting total failure.

"Dad, let me think about it, okay?"

"Whatever you decide, we'll support you," Mom says. "But remember, the door's always open for you to come home."

After the call ends, I'm staring at my phone screen, and the tears I've been holding back finally start falling.

It's eleven PM now, and I'm sitting in front of the secondhand electronic keyboard I bought for fifty dollars. The sound quality is harsh and tinny, nothing like the Steinway grand I used to play. It's like comparing a whisper to a symphony.

I place my fingers on the keys and try to play Chopin's "Nocturne," but every note sounds hollow and powerless. It's not a technical problem. Something inside me has broken.

Three years ago when I was playing at Blue Moon, my heart was full of pure love for music. And now? I can't even finish a simple piece. Am I still that talented Sophia Blake?

I'm seriously considering Dad's suggestion now. Go back to Cleveland, teach music at a high school, live an ordinary, stable life. At least then I wouldn't face humiliation and failure every single day.

I let my head fall forward onto the keys, creating a discordant cluster of notes. I stay there, letting my tears drip onto the black and white keys.