Tune of My Heart

The squeak of rubber soles against polished hardwood echoes through the gym as I dive. My body moves on instinct, arms outstretched, fingertips grazing the volleyball before it can kiss the floor.

"Mine!" I call, sending it arcing perfectly toward our setter.

Dawn light cuts through high windows, casting long shadows across the court. Most of campus still sleeps at 5:30 AM, but here in this space, we're already two hours into practice. Sweat clings to my practice jersey, the gold and blue of Crescendo University's colors dulled with exertion.

"Better, Lin!" Coach Barrett nods, clipboard clutched against her chest. "But your reaction time is still a half-second off. That'll cost us against Westlake."

I nod, wiping perspiration from my forehead with the back of my wrist. No excuses, no explanations. Just fix it.

Jade lands beside me after a particularly vicious spike, her dark ponytail whipping around as she turns. "You sleeping on your right side again? Your left shoulder's dropping."

"I'm fine."

"Bullshit," she whispers, eyes never leaving the next server. "You're favoring it."

Before I can respond, the whistle blows. Another serve rockets over the net, this one spinning viciously. I track its path, feet shuffling automatically into position. The pain flares hot in my shoulder as I connect and send the ball floating perfectly to position. No one notices my wince.

"That's it, Ava!" Coach Barrett makes a note on her clipboard. "Do that consistently in trials, and that scholarship is yours."

If I can do it consistently. If my shoulder holds. If I don't overthink everything. If I don't let my family down. If, if, if.

Practice ends with suicide sprints, then team stretching. While others chat about weekend plans, I slip my small notebook from my gym bag, scribbling in the margins while pretending to check my phone.

Echoes bounce off empty walls

Praise that never quite reaches my ears

How many times can you vanish

Before you forget how it feels to be seen?

"Is that your chem homework? Because sacrificing sleep for o-chem is peak Ava energy."

I snap the notebook shut to find Jade peering over my shoulder, her gym bag already slung across her body.

"Just random thoughts."

She narrows her eyes. "Looked like lyrics. Let me guess, another ballad about unrequited pining for tall, dark, and musical?"

Heat floods my cheeks. "It's not about him."

"Sure, and I'm not gunning for team captain." Jade rolls her eyes, but her smile is genuine. "Come on. Hit the showers. I need coffee before my nine o'clock lecture, and you're buying."

"Can't. Kinesiology lab report due—"

"That you finished three days ago. Nice try." She yanks my gym bag upward, forcing me to stand or risk having my belongings scattered across the gym floor. "Besides, The Crescendos are playing at The Amp tonight. Small crowd, intimate setting."

My heart skips. "It's a Thursday."

"Which means fewer people watching you make heart eyes at Leo Martinez."

"I don't make..."

"You absolutely do." She pulls me toward the locker room. "Plus, you've been working yourself into the ground. One night off won't kill your GPA."

I want to argue, but Jade knows all my weak spots. Especially the one named Leo Martinez.

Eight hours later, after classes, physical therapy exercises for my shoulder, and a half-hearted attempt at eating dinner, I find myself perched on a stool at The Amp. The venue is small, repurposed from an old amplifier factory near campus, with exposed brick walls and strings of Edison bulbs casting warm light over mismatched furniture.

"He's not even that good," Jade says, sipping her seltzer as we watch the band set up. "You just like his arms."

"His voice," I correct automatically before catching myself. "I mean, his technical range is impressive."

"Mhmm." Jade smirks. "Technical range. Is that what we're calling it?"

I'm saved from responding when the lights dim and the crowd's chatter dies down. My fingers tighten around my drink as four figures take the stage. Noah on bass, Riley on drums, Zack on keyboard, and then...

Leo.

He steps to the microphone, guitar slung low across his hips, dark curls falling across his forehead. His fingers brush the strings experimentally, and something inside me tightens. The crowd leans forward as one.

"Hey, Crescendo U," he says, voice like smoke over gravel. "We're The Crescendos. Let's make some noise."

The first chord hits like a physical force. I've heard their songs before—on campus radio, at parties I hover at the edges of—but never like this. Never close enough to see the way Leo's eyes close when he hits the high notes, or how his fingers dance across the fretboard with practiced precision.

The set blazes by. Each song bleeds into the next, punctuated by bursts of applause and Leo's easy banter with the crowd. I find myself mouthing lyrics I didn't realize I knew, caught in the undertow of his performance.

The final song winds down, and Leo steps back from the mic, breathless and grinning. Sweat gleams on his neck as he runs a hand through his hair.

"Thank you all for coming out tonight," he says. "We've got one more song for you, but first—anyone write music? We're always looking for fresh material."

My heart stops. My notebook sits heavy in my bag, pages dog-eared from constant reading.

"Go up there," Jade nudges me, her voice cutting through my paralysis.

"What? No."

"Yes." She pushes harder. "You've been writing songs about this guy for a year. He just asked for material."

"They're not about—"

"Ava." Jade's eyes lock onto mine. "When are you going to stop hiding?"

The question hits like a spike to the chest. When had I become so comfortable with invisibility? On the court, I'm essential but unseen, the libero who saves plays but rarely makes headlines. In class, I'm the quiet student with perfect notes but no voice. And with my music...

Before I can overthink it, I grab my notebook and stand.

"That's my girl," Jade whispers, raising her glass in a silent toast.

The distance between our table and the stage feels endless. Each step requires more courage than the last. Leo is talking to the crowd, laughing at something someone called out, when he notices me approaching. His smile falters slightly, confused.

I reach the edge of the stage, clutching my notebook so tightly my knuckles turn white. People are watching now, curious about the interruption. Leo Martinez, golden boy of Crescendo University, stares down at me—ball-chaser, background player, nobody.

"You said you were looking for material?" My voice sounds thin, even to my own ears. I hold up my notebook, pages filled with pieces of my soul. "I write lyrics."