Chapter Text
Graduation is loud in the way school always is, just dressed up in nicer clothes.
Ashlyn sits in a folding chair on the gym floor with her cap sliding down the back of her head and her earplugs shoved in so far her jaw aches. It helps. It doesn’t fix it. Every cheer still finds its way through, a blunt hit that makes her shoulders jump.
She keeps her hands folded in her lap like she’s trying to convince her body to behave.
Taylor sits a few rows over with Tyler. Their tassels are crooked in the same direction. Tyler looks like he’s actively offended by the entire concept of ceremony. Taylor keeps smiling anyway, the kind of smile that makes Ashlyn’s throat tighten for no good reason.
Aiden is behind them with Ben, doing his best to sit still. It’s a losing battle. His knee bounces so hard his gown rustles. Ben is next to him, looking like he's actively ignoring him, hair neat like someone threatened him into it. He looks bored. Bored but present.
Logan is somewhere near the back, twisting his diploma folder in his hands like it might float away.
The principal talks. The microphone squeals. Ashlyn flinches and immediately regrets not replacing the tips of her earplugs a week ago.
She tries to focus on the banner stretched over the bleachers. SCHOOL PRIDE, some paint-splattered slogan that never meant anything to her until she realized it’s almost over. She should feel relieved.
Mostly she feels tired.
Her name gets called.
She stands. The gown swishes against her legs. The applause hits. It presses in on her skull. She keeps walking anyway because her body knows how to do this kind of thing. Ballet drilled it into her bones. Smile here. Step here. Don’t trip. Don’t fall.
She takes the folder, shakes the principal’s hand, turns for the photo.
On the way back she catches Tyler watching her. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t make a face. He just gives a small nod like he’s checking she made it across without breaking.
Ashlyn nods back, quick. It’s stupidly comforting.
Taylor, when Ashlyn sits again, leans sideways and mouths something across the rows. Proud of you. Ashlyn’s chest does a weird little squeeze and she looks away fast, staring at her own knees like there’s something interesting there.
Aiden’s voice, somewhere behind, whispers “YESSS” like this is a sports win. Ben elbows him lightly. Aiden whispers louder. Ben elbows him harder.
The cap toss happens and everyone screams like they just escaped prison. Ashlyn keeps her cap in her hands. She doesn’t throw it. The yelling is too much. Her ears are burning under the plugs. She holds her breath through it, waiting for the moment to pass.
When it finally ends, the gym turns into chaos. Parents with cameras. Flowers shoved into hands. People hugging and crying and laughing in the same breath.
Taylor finds her first.
She’s sweaty, hair sticking to her face, eyes bright. She throws her arms around Ashlyn without warning.
Ashlyn freezes for half a second—then returns it, careful. Taylor smells like shampoo and the sticky heat of the gym. Ashlyn’s heart trips over itself.
“You did it,” Taylor says, pulling back but staying close.
Ashlyn’s voice is already rough. “So did you.”
Taylor rolls her eyes. “Yeah, but I mean… you.” She says it like it’s obvious.
Ashlyn hates that she can’t come up with a normal reply. She settles for, “We all did.”
Taylor’s smile softens instead of dimming. “Yeah,” she says. “We did.”
Aiden barrels into them next, nearly taking out someone’s grandma with his gown sleeve. “SENIORS!” he yells, and the word hits Ashlyn’s ears hard enough that her vision spots. She flinches.
Aiden notices immediately. His grin falters for a heartbeat. “Sorry,” he says, quieter. Then the grin comes back because he’s incapable of leaving a moment alone. “But also—WOOO!”
Tyler shows up behind Taylor, cap tilted, looking like he’s already tired of aiden,“Stop yelling,” he mutters.
Aiden points at him. “You can’t stop me. I’m educated now.”
Ben’s phone voice chirps, flat: “We graduated. Please stop screaming.”
Aiden beams. “No.”
Logan jogs up like he’s been running for his life, hair a mess, gown half off one shoulder. “I didn’t fall,” he says immediately, breathless. “I didn’t fall. I almost did. But I didn’t.”
Taylor laughs. “We saw. You looked terrified.”
“I was,” Logan admits, then looks embarrassed like that was too honest.
Ashlyn looks at them all clustered there in the gym, and for a second it feels almost normal. Not safe, not simple, but normal in the way the rest of the world assumes their lives are.
The graveyard doesn’t care about graduation.
Their bodies still will be dragged out of bed tonight.
But right now, in the middle of the noise and the flowers and Aiden’s endless energy, there’s this small pocket of something that feels theirs.
Aiden claps his hands once. “Okay,” he says, and Ashlyn winces because he’s still loud. “After this… we’re recording.”
Logan blinks. “Recording?”
Aiden points at him like it’s settled. “Your stuff. Your little nerd interface. Your laptop. We’re doing the demo.”
Tyler’s eyes narrow. “Tonight?”
Aiden nods like a man on a mission. “Tonight.”
Ashlyn’s stomach flips. Her notebook under her bed feels heavier just thinking about it.
Taylor’s gaze slides to Ashlyn, quiet question. You still want to?
Ashlyn swallows. Her ears are already screaming. Her throat is already raw from the ceremony and the dry gym air.
She nods anyway.
Taylor smiles, small and bright. “Okay,” she says softly, and somehow that word makes it feel possible.
Aiden’s garage smells like warm dust and laundry detergent and whatever Ben sprayed in the corner to pretend it’s clean.
There’s a crooked “CONGRATS GRADS!” banner taped to the wall, half peeled off on one side. Aiden probably put it up five minutes ago. There are cookies on a paper plate that someone’s mom dropped off, already missing half of them because Aiden treats sugar like fuel. Ben is sitting on an overturned bucket with a cookie in his hand, chewing like he’s doing it on purpose to be annoying.
Logan’s equipment is spread across the folding table in the middle as if he’s setting up for surgery. A laptop. A small interface with knobs. A mic stand. A handheld recorder he keeps touching and then not touching again.
“This is not professional,” Logan says, for maybe the tenth time.
Taylor sits on the concrete floor with her bass in her lap, looking relaxed in a way that feels fake because everyone’s exhausted. “We’re not professional,” she says, like that answers it.
Aiden, behind his kit, spins a stick and immediately drops it. “We are so professional,” he says, bending to grab it. “We are graduates. That means we are adults.”
Tyler snorts. “You can’t even do your own laundry.”
Aiden points at him. “That’s because I’m an artist.”
Ben’s phone voice plays from his lap: “Aiden cannot separate colors.”
Aiden gasps. “BEN.”
Ben doesn’t look up.
Ashlyn stands near the workbench with her guitar case open at her feet. Her notebook is in her hands. The pages feel too exposed under the garage light. Her earmuffs hang around her neck. Her plugs are in. The ringing from graduation has not calmed down. It’s sitting there, loud, stubborn, like her skull is holding a note and refusing to stop.
Taylor notices Ashlyn’s grip on the notebook and shifts closer. Not obvious. Just enough that their shoulders nearly touch when Ashlyn leans.
“You ready?” Taylor asks, low.
Ashlyn wants to say no. She nods anyway.
Aiden’s eyes flick to the notebook and his expression changes, just for a second. Less loud. More careful. “Those are the songs,” he says.
Ashlyn’s face heats. “Don’t make it weird.”
Aiden lifts both hands. “Not making it weird.” He pauses. “I’m making it… important.”
Tyler rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t cut in with a joke. Logan stops fussing with the mic stand long enough to look at Ashlyn, then quickly looks away like he got caught.
Ben taps his phone and plays, as if it’s an official announcement: “Ashlyn wrote songs.”
Ashlyn glares. “Traitor.”
Ben’s mouth twitches. That’s his version of laughter.
Logan steps to the folding table and sets both hands on the edge, solid, like he’s claiming the space. When he talks now, his voice doesn’t wobble. It’s the same voice he uses when he’s explaining something in class and knows he’s right.
“Okay,” he says. “Here’s what we’re doing.”
Aiden freezes, actually quiet for once.
Logan points with one finger at the laptop. “We’re recording into this. I already set up a session. Click is ready if we need it, but I don’t think we’ll use it unless Aiden starts sprinting.”
Aiden opens his mouth.
Logan looks at him.
Aiden closes his mouth.
Logan’s eyes flick over the mic stand in the middle of the garage. “One mic in the room,” he continues, calm. “We’re going for a live take first because it’ll sound like you. That’s the whole point. If something’s off, we can punch in parts after. Vocals especially, because—” his gaze flicks to Ashlyn’s mouth, not unkind, “—your throat’s probably wrecked from today.”
Ashlyn’s cheeks warm, but Logan doesn’t sound embarrassed saying it. He just sounds practical.
He taps the interface lightly. “This is fine. It’s not fancy, but it’s clean. I’ve recorded the robotics club presentations on worse. We just have to keep levels out of the red, and we’re good.”
Taylor’s eyebrows lift, impressed.
Tyler mutters, “Nerd,” under his breath, but there’s no bite.
Ben’s phone voice says, “Logan is in his element.”
Logan ignores all of them and keeps going, unbothered. “Aiden, I’m putting a towel over the kick drum mic stand so you don’t knock it over with your foot.”
Aiden looks offended. “I don’t—”
Logan raises an eyebrow.
Aiden sighs. “Fine.”
Logan points at Tyler. “Tyler, keep your amp where it is. Don’t turn it up halfway through because you feel dramatic.”
Tyler’s mouth twists. “I don’t do that.”
Taylor snorts.
Logan points at Taylor. “Taylor, you’re fine. Your tone’s perfect. Don’t change anything.”
Taylor smiles, pleased. “Thank you.”
Logan’s gaze lands back on Ashlyn. “Ashlyn,” he says, still steady, “if your ears start screaming, tell me. We can adjust where the mic is. We can take breaks. This doesn’t have to be misery.”
Ashlyn swallows. It’s so direct it makes her throat tighten. She nods once.
“Okay,” Logan says, satisfied. Then he claps his hands once, quieter than Aiden ever does. “Set your stuff. Tune. When you’re ready, Ashlyn counts us in. I hit record. We do one full run and we don’t panic if it’s messy.”
Aiden lifts a stick like he’s about to salute. “Yes, captain.”
Logan just gives him a look.
Aiden grins and lowers the stick.
Ashlyn watches Logan sit behind the laptop, hands moving fast and sure, and something in her chest eases. Logan looks different when he’s doing this—still Logan, still soft around the edges, but anchored. Like for once there’s a part of their life he understands completely.
“Ready when you are,” Logan says, and he means it.
Ashlyn raises her hand because she’s the one who does the count-ins now. She hates that. She does it anyway.
“One,” she says.
“Two.”
“Three.”
“Four.”
The first song comes in rough and loud in the small space. Even through the earmuffs, Ashlyn can feel the drums in her chest. Her ears flare with pain anyway, deep and hot. She keeps her face still, like she’s trained to do. She sings into the mic and hears her own voice coming back through the monitors, flattened by the room.
It isn’t perfect. It isn’t supposed to be.
Aiden holds tempo. Taylor’s bass stays steady. Tyler’s guitar slices through, sharp. Logan’s mix is a little too loud, then he adjusts and it settles.
Ashlyn gets to the end and her throat scratches. She swallows and keeps going.
When the song ends, Aiden lets out a loud “YES” and Logan nearly knocks his water bottle over.
“Again,” Aiden demands immediately.
Tyler glares at him. “We’re not doing this all night.”
Aiden points at the graduation banner. “We graduated. We can do whatever we want.”
Tyler opens his mouth, then shuts it again like he forgot that’s true.
Taylor laughs. “He’s not wrong,” she says, and Tyler looks at her like she’s betrayed him. She just grins wider.
Ashlyn flips to the next page in her notebook and feels her stomach tighten.
The poppier song sits there in ink, innocent on paper. On the demo it sounds clean. In Ashlyn’s head it sounds like a mistake waiting to be mocked.
She clears her throat and winces.
“Next,” she says.
Aiden nods, sudden seriousness creeping in around the edges. “Okay.”
They play it.
Tyler’s distortion stays lower. Aiden plays lighter, controlled. Taylor’s bass line moves like it has room to breathe. Logan stops messing with the knobs and just listens.
Ashlyn sings the chorus and her voice wavers for a second, not because she can’t hit it, but because she can feel herself being heard. Even in a garage. Even by them. Especially by them.
Taylor looks up mid-chorus and meets Ashlyn’s eyes, and Ashlyn’s chest does that stupid squeeze again. She almost loses the next word. She finds it anyway.
When the song ends, the garage goes quiet.
Aiden exhales. “That one’s good,” he says, softer.
Tyler shifts his weight, jaw tight. “It’s… fine,” he mutters.
Taylor’s eyebrows lift. “Fine?” she repeats, amused.
Tyler glances at her, then away. “It’s good,” he corrects, grudging. “Whatever.”
Ashlyn’s fingers tighten on her pick.
Logan turns the laptop around so they can see the waveform. “We got it,” he says, voice steady. “We actually got it.”
Aiden leans over Logan’s shoulder like a kid looking at a fish tank. “We’re recorded,” he says. “We exist.”
Ben’s phone voice says, “Regrettably.”
Aiden laughs. “I love you.”
Ben’s phone says, “Stop.”
They record the rest in pieces. A scratch take. A second pass when Ashlyn’s voice cracks on a line and she swears under her breath, then immediately feels guilty because she’s technically in someone else’s house.
Tyler smirks. “Language.”
Ashlyn glares at him. “Shut up.”
Taylor laughs, warm and quiet.
Logan keeps saying “sorry” even when nothing goes wrong. Ben keeps flicking the clamp light on and off until Logan tells him to stop.
By midnight Ashlyn’s ears feel bruised under her plugs. The ringing has climbed. It’s loud enough that when the garage goes quiet between takes she can hear it above everything.
Taylor pushes a water bottle into her hand. Ashlyn drinks and tries not to think about the graveyard, about the way the shift will hit regardless of what they’re doing.
At 9:58, Logan hits export and looks up like he just survived something.
Aiden whispers, dramatic, “Demo,” like he’s in church.
Tyler groans. “Don’t.”
Aiden whispers louder anyway. “Demo.”
Ben’s phone voice says, “We should sleep.”
Aiden’s grin softens. “Yeah,” he says. “We should.”
Ashlyn closes her notebook with careful hands. The songs feel fragile now that they’re outside her head.
She doesn’t know if the demo is good.
But she knows it exists.
Maybe thays enough.
The shift hits not long after, dragging them into the graveyard with the same cruel routine. Ashlyn’s ears hate the sudden quiet. The ringing gets louder out there. Logan complains. Aiden talks anyway. Taylor sits beside Ashlyn on a bus step and leans her shoulder against her for a minute until Ashlyn’s breathing slows.
It feels almost peaceful.
It isn’t.
They put the demo out the week after graduation.
“Put it out” means Logan builds a page in one night with shaky hands and too much caffeine. Taylor makes a cover image at the kitchen table in her house while Tyler complains about the font. Ben chooses a font by pointing at one and refusing to budge. Aiden tries to name the demo something dramatic and gets shut down immediately.
At some point between Logan hitting “publish” and Taylor fixing the spacing, Aiden also makes them a Tumblr without asking, because of course he does—phantoms-band-official—and announces it in the group chat like he just invented the internet.
They email it to every local label they can find.
Aiden drafts the email and writes something about “youthful raw energy” that makes Tyler gag. Taylor edits it into something that doesn’t sound like they’re begging. Logan removes the exclamation points. Ashlyn adds a line that says thank you and then stares at it for ten minutes like it’s going to betray her.
They hit send.
Aiden checks his inbox so often that the group chat becomes unbearable.
Aiden: ANYTHING
Aiden: ANYTHING
Aiden: ANYTHING
Tyler: you’re going to wear a hole through your screen
Logan: please stop refreshing
Logan: it doesn’t make people email faster
Taylor: it’s been one day, aiden
Ben: Aiden is a hamster in a wheel.
Aiden: I AM AN ARTIST
Aiden: HAMSTERS ARE ALSO ARTISTS
Ashlyn watches from the side, phone glowing too bright in her hands, and pretends she isn’t checking too.
She checks anyway.
Nothing.
A week passes.
Nothing.
Two weeks.
Nothing.
The silence starts to feel personal.
Aiden stops making jokes about going platinum and starts making jokes about being ignored, and the jokes come out harsher, like he’s trying to spit the disappointment out before it can stick.
Tyler goes quieter.
He never asked for the demo to be perfect, but he wanted it to do something. He wanted it to be the thing that made people look their way. He wanted proof that this wasn’t just a hobby they’re clinging to because the rest of their lives are weird.
Now the demo sits out there in the world and nobody answers.
Ashlyn hears Tyler in their group chat less. When he does type, it’s short.
Tyler: any emails?
Aiden: no
Tyler: cool.
Taylor tries to keep the mood up. She texts memes. She drags Tyler into conversations. She asks Ashlyn about lyrics in that gentle way she has, like she’s trying to make Ashlyn talk without cornering her.
Ashlyn mostly nods. Her ears are worse lately. Normal sounds cut too sharp. The fridge hum is too loud. The neighbor’s dog barking makes her flinch so hard her shoulders ache afterward.
She keeps telling herself it’ll calm down now that they’re not playing shows as often.
It doesn’t.
The ringing keeps following her.
She sits in her room some nights with her earmuffs on and her hands pressed against them, waiting for the pain to drop down to something manageable. Sometimes it does. Sometimes it doesn’t. She still has to wake up the next day and act normal.
One afternoon, after they’ve been ignored for long enough that Aiden’s jokes aren’t funny anymore, Tyler finally says it out loud.
They’re in Aiden’s garage, sitting in a loose circle on the floor with instruments scattered around them. It’s too hot. The fan in the corner rattles.
Tyler stares at his phone and mutters, “This was supposed to do something.”
Aiden looks up from tightening a drumhead. “It did,” he says, defensive. “We put it out. That’s a thing.”
Tyler’s jaw clenches. “No one responded,” he says. “Not even to say no.”
Logan fidgets with a cable. “Labels get a lot of—”
Tyler cuts him off. “We’re not invisible,” he snaps, then immediately looks away like he hates that he snapped at Logan.
Taylor’s hand settles on Tyler’s knee for a second, steadying. “We’re not invisible,” she repeats, softer.
Ashlyn looks at the floor. Her notebook is in her lap. The poppier song’s chorus is scribbled on the page like it’s daring her to regret it.
Tyler’s eyes flick to her. “That song,” he says, and his voice is careful in a way that almost makes it worse. “The clean one. You think that’s why?”
Ashlyn’s stomach drops.
Taylor’s fingers tighten on Tyler’s knee. “Tyler,” she warns.
Tyler’s gaze stays on Ashlyn. “I’m asking,” he says. “Not blaming. I just—”
Ashlyn’s throat tightens. “You think we sold out,” she says, quiet.
Tyler’s mouth twists. “We didn’t sell out,” he says. “We’re not selling anything. We dont have anything to sell out of”
Aiden snorts, humorless. “We sold out my bank account,” he mutters, then shuts up when Taylor shoots him a look.
Tyler rubs his face with both hands. “I don’t care if it’s different,” he says, voice muffled. “I care that we sent something out and it got swallowed.”
Ashlyn’s ears throb. The fan rattles. The garage feels too small.
“I wrote it,” she says. Her voice is rough. “It came out that way. I didn’t… plan it.”
Tyler’s gaze drops. “I know,” he mutters. “I know you didn’t.”
Aiden stands up abruptly like he can’t sit anymore. “Okay,” he says. “So we do the thing we always do. We play it live.”
Logan blinks. “Play it live?”
Aiden nods, eyes bright with that stubborn heat he gets. “We play shows with the demo songs,” he says. “We see if people hate it. We stop guessing.”
Tyler’s jaw tightens. “Or we confirm that everyone hates it.”
Taylor’s eyes narrow. “Why are you assuming that,” she asks.
Tyler looks away, shoulders tense. “Because nobody answered,” he mutters.
Ashlyn’s fingers tighten on her notebook. Her ears burn. The thought of more shows makes her stomach twist. The thought of staying still makes her feel worse.
“Okay,” she says finally, soft but firm. “We do it.”
Everyone looks at her.
Taylor’s face softens immediately. Logan’s relief is obvious. Aiden grins like she just gave him oxygen.
Tyler’s mouth opens, then closes. He looks away like he can’t decide whether to argue.
“Fine,” he mutters. “Fine. Whatever. Let’s get it over with.”
Aiden claps his hands once and Ashlyn flinches. He notices and drops them. “Sorry,” he says, quieter. “Okay. I’m gonna book shows.”
Tyler groans. “Oh god.”
Aiden smiles. “You love it.”
Tyler flips him off.
Aiden beams.
The first show is small. A basement that smells like sweat and old carpet. The ceiling is low enough that Aiden keeps banging his shoulder on exposed pipes. Somebody painted a smiley face on the wall in the corner and it looks like it’s mocking them.
Ashlyn’s ears start hurting before they even plug in.
She wears earplugs. She wears earmuffs. She still feels the sound in her jaw.
Taylor notices her wincing while Logan checks cables. Taylor pulls a new box of plugs from her pocket and slides it into Ashlyn’s hand like it’s casual.
Ashlyn’s fingers brush Taylor’s. Her stomach flips. She hates her own body for doing that when she’s trying to focus.
“Thanks,” Ashlyn murmurs.
Taylor nods once, eyes steady. “Anytime.”
Aiden counts them in.
They play the heavier songs first because it’s easier to hide behind noise. Tyler’s guitar bites. Aiden’s drums hit hard. Taylor’s bass anchors. Ashlyn sings into the mic and keeps her eyes on the far wall.
When the poppier song comes, Ashlyn’s stomach knots. She can feel the room’s attention shift, like people are waiting to decide how they feel about this part.
Aiden glances back at Ashlyn from behind the kit. His grin is gone for a second. He looks nervous. It’s almost funny, seeing him nervous.
Tyler keeps his face blank.
Taylor looks at Ashlyn, quick, and gives the smallest nod. It feels like a hand on Ashlyn’s back.
Ashlyn starts singing.
No one groans. No one laughs. The room doesn’t turn on them. A couple people sway. Someone near the front starts nodding with the beat. It’s subtle. It’s enough to make Ashlyn’s chest loosen.
They finish the song and there’s clapping. Real clapping.
Aiden looks startled and delighted at the same time. Tyler’s mouth twitches, almost a smile, then disappears again.
After the set, someone tells them, “That one was my favorite.” They point at the song in the setlist like it’s nothing, like it’s normal to like it.
Ashlyn says thank you with a voice that barely works.
Tyler looks down at his shoes and doesn’t say anything. His shoulders loosen a fraction.
They do another show the next week. Same songs. Same nerves. Same pain in Ashlyn’s ears that follows her home and sits with her when the lights are off.
The crowd likes it again.
It starts to feel possible that the demo isn’t a mistake.
It starts to feel possible that Tyler’s fear is just fear.
Then the heckler happens.
It’s a Friday in a cramped room that used to be a dance studio, judging by the mirrors on the wall. Someone covered half of them with black cloth, but there are still sections where Ashlyn can see the crowd reflected. It makes her feel exposed in a way she can’t explain.
Her ears are already screaming.
She keeps her earmuffs on. She keeps her shoulders stiff. She keeps her eyes above the crowd.
They’re halfway through the set when she hears a boo.
It’s blunt. It’s aimed. It lands in her stomach.
Her hand slips on the chord for half a beat. She corrects it. Her heart is hammering.
They finish the song. There’s clapping, mixed with murmurs.
Then the boo comes again, louder.
“Poser shit!” a voice shouts from the back. “Nobody wants this!”
Ashlyn’s breath catches so hard her voice almost doesn’t come back for the next line.
She keeps going because stopping feels like dying.
When the song ends, the room goes tense. People shift. Someone near the front turns around like they’re trying to locate the voice.
Aiden steps toward the mic, eyes bright with anger. “You good?” he calls, voice sharp. “You having fun back there?”
The heckler laughs. “Play something real,” he shouts. “This shit is fake!”
Ashlyn’s stomach drops. Her head feels hot. The ringing spikes under her earmuffs, fed by adrenaline.
Taylor leans close to Ashlyn, voice low. “Don’t look,” she whispers.
Ashlyn doesn’t look. She can’t. She stares at the mic stand, at her own hands on the guitar, at the tape on the floor marking where someone wanted them to stand.
Tyler steps forward so abruptly it makes Ashlyn flinch.
He doesn’t grab the mic. He doesn’t need it.
“Get out,” Tyler says, flat.
The room goes quiet enough that Ashlyn hears her own heartbeat inside her earmuffs.
The heckler laughs again. “Make me.”
Tyler’s face doesn’t change. “You heard me,” he says. “Get out.”
Aiden points toward the door like he’s directing traffic. “Door’s right there,” he adds. “Go be miserable somewhere else.”
Someone in the crowd—older guy, maybe a friend of the venue—moves toward the back. A couple people shift with him. The heckler mutters something, an insult that Ashlyn doesn’t catch fully, and then he’s being shoved toward the exit with a firm hand on his shoulder.
The door slams.
A beat passes where nobody moves.
Then someone claps, slow at first, awkward. Another person joins. It turns into a wave, more clapping than the band deserve honestly.
Ashlyn’s throat tightens. Her eyes sting.
Aiden turns back to the mic, breathing hard. “Okay,” he says, voice rough. “Anyway.”
Tyler steps back into place, jaw clenched. Taylor’s cheeks are flushed with anger. Logan looks pale. Ben’s expression is unreadable, the way it always is.
Aiden counts them in.
They play the next song.
Ashlyn sings through the lump in her throat.
The crowd claps after, loud, trying to cover what happened.
It doesn’t erase it.
The heckler’s words stick anyway. They slide under Ashlyn’s skin and curl around the places she’s already insecure.
When the set ends, she stumbles offstage into a hallway that smells like dust and old perfume and sweat.
The moment she’s out of view, she yanks her notebook out of her bag like it’s a reflex. Pencil. Page. Lines.
She starts crossing things out hard, rewriting words she’s written a hundred times, trying to carve the heckler’s voice out of her own.
Taylor grabs her wrist.
Not hard. Just enough to stop the pencil.
“Ash,” Taylor says, quiet and firm. “Stop.”
Ashlyn’s voice comes out sharp, too sharp. “I have to fix it,” she rasps. “I have to—”
Taylor’s eyes don’t move. “No,” she says. “You don’t.”
Ashlyn’s throat closes. “He said—”
“I heard him,” Taylor cuts in. Her voice stays calm anyway. “He wanted you to freak out. Don’t hand him your songs.”
Ashlyn’s fingers tremble under Taylor’s grip. The urge to rewrite everything is still there, hot and desperate. Her ears ring so loud it makes her teeth hurt.
Taylor’s thumb rubs once over Ashlyn’s knuckles, grounding. “Be mad,” Taylor says. “Hate him. Don’t change anything for him”
Ashlyn stares at the half-crossed-out line.
She doesn’t erase it.
She doesn’t finish rewriting.
She closes the notebook slowly, like it’s fragile.
Taylor doesn’t let go right away. She waits until Ashlyn’s fingers stop shaking.
Behind them, Aiden is talking too loudly to someone in the hallway, angry in his own way. Tyler’s voice cuts in, sharp, then drops low again. Logan keeps hovering, holding a water bottle like he wants to help but doesn’t know how. Ben sits on a chair with his hood up, watching the hallway.
Ashlyn swallows hard.
“I’m fine,” she lies.
Taylor doesn’t call her on it. She just keeps standing there, close enough that Ashlyn can feel her heat through the air.
The parking lot afterward is quiet and cold, and it makes Ashlyn’s ears hurt more because there’s nothing to mask the ringing.
No one says the heckler’s words out loud.
They still hover.
Aiden paces in tight circles, angry energy spilling everywhere. Tyler stands with his guitar case at his feet, shoulders still tight, jaw clenched. Taylor stays close to Ashlyn like she’s making a point with her body. Logan keeps glancing toward the venue door like he expects the guy to burst back out.
Ben breaks the silence.
He doesn’t announce it. He doesn’t try to comfort her.
He just taps his phone and plays the voice.
“I liked the song,” it says.
Ashlyn’s chest tightens. The kindness hits her in the exact spot the heckler dug his nails in.
Her mouth moves before her brain can stop it.
“Yeah, well, you’d like anything,” she snaps.
The words land and immediately rot.
Ben’s expression doesn’t change much. It never does. His eyes shift slightly, though, like something in him flinched.
Ashlyn feels it in her gut.
Taylor’s hand tightens around her bass strap. “Ash—” she starts, warning.
Aiden stops pacing and looks at Ashlyn like she just kicked a puppy. Tyler’s gaze snaps to her, startled.
Ashlyn’s face goes hot. “I—” she starts, then stops because nothing good is coming out.
Ben looks away and taps at his phone again, slower, like he’s deciding whether it’s worth speaking more.
Aiden steps closer, voice softer than usual. “He meant it,” Aiden says quietly, like he’s reminding Ashlyn Ben isn’t joking.
Ashlyn swallows hard. “Sorry,” she croaks. It comes out ugly. “I didn’t mean that.”
A beat.
Ben’s phone voice plays.
“It is okay,” it says.
Then, after another beat, as if he can’t help it:
“You are mean.”
Aiden snorts a laugh that sounds mostly like relief. Taylor lets out a breath. Logan’s shoulders drop.
Ashlyn’s throat tightens again, and this time it isn’t just shame. Ben didn’t have to forgive her. He did anyway.
“Yeah,” Ashlyn murmurs. “I know.”
Ben nods once, tiny.
Someone from the venue approaches them—woman in her early twenties with tired eyes, cigarette tucked behind her ear. She looks at them like she’s seen this exact scene too many times.
“You guys were good,” she says. “That dude was looking for a fight. Don’t let him ruin your night.”
Taylor nods. “Thanks,” she says, because Taylor always knows what to say when Ashlyn can’t speak.
The woman’s gaze flicks over their cases. “You’ve got something,” she adds. “Keep it. You could get big if you don’t eat each other alive.”
Aiden laughs too loudly. “We’re great at eating each other alive,” he says, then winces like he knows it wasn’t funny.
The woman smiles anyway, like she’s not fooled. She taps her cigarette pack against her palm and glances back toward the venue door.
“There was a guy in the back tonight,” she says casually. “Asked who you were. Took a picture of the flyer. Might be nothing.”
She shrugs, already stepping away. “Just… don’t stop.”
Then she walks off, leaving the sentence on the pavement like she dropped it by accident.
Ashlyn’s brain catches on a guy in the back and then loses it again because her ears are screaming and the heckler’s voice is still lodged in her ribs.
Aiden doesn’t seem to notice. He’s still angry. Tyler’s still tense. Logan’s still shaken. Ben’s still quiet.
Taylor’s hand brushes Ashlyn’s sleeve, subtle. “You did good,” Taylor murmurs.
Ashlyn swallows. “I feel gross,” she admits.
Taylor nods. “Yeah,” she says. “Me too.”
The compliment doesn’t erase the heckler.
It helps anyway.
A little.
They keep the song in the set.
Ashlyn thinks about cutting it on the drive home after every show. She thinks about stripping it down, changing the chorus, hiding the parts that sound too open. She thinks about rewriting it until nobody could call it fake.
Then she remembers Taylor’s hand on her wrist. She remembers Ben’s flat “I liked it.” She remembers the way the room clapped before the heckler spoke.
Her ears get worse anyway.
It’s the constant cost. The ringing that follows her into quiet rooms. The way normal sounds feel sharp when she’s tired. The way she wakes up in the morning and already feels bruised.
Logan starts carrying extra earplugs without saying anything. Ashlyn finds them in his backpack one day when she’s looking for a cable and pauses with the packet in her hand.
Logan sees and flushes. “Just… in case,” he mumbles.
Ashlyn nods, throat tight. She doesn’t say thank you. It feels too big.
Tyler starts speaking softer around her without making a show of it. He’ll catch himself mid-sentence and lower his voice, then pretend he didn’t. It’s almost funny. It’s also the kindest thing he does without admitting it.
Aiden tries. He fails, but he tries. He’ll stop mid-yell sometimes, see Ashlyn’s earmuffs, and drop his volume like it physically pains him. He does it anyway.
Ben just watches, quiet.
The labels still don’t respond.
Tyler gets more bitter as days pass. He doesn’t explode. He doesn’t rant. He just goes quieter, and that silence gets heavier.
One night after practice, Ashlyn catches him staring at his phone in the driveway, jaw clenched.
“Anything?” Ashlyn asks, voice rough.
Tyler doesn’t look up. “No,” he says. “Of course not.”
Ashlyn nods. She doesn’t know what to do with that.
Tyler finally glances at her, eyes sharp. “We’re good,” he says, like he needs someone to agree. “We’re not… trash.”
Ashlyn’s throat tightens. “We’re good,” she says.
Tyler exhales hard, like it helps. Then he looks away again.
Tyler is the last one to leave Aiden’s after a late practice.
Taylor had gone home first because her mom texted her about something. Logan left with Ben, still talking about cables. Ashlyn left with her earmuffs pulled tight, shoulders hunched against the night air because the world is too loud even when it’s quiet.
Tyler lingers because he tells himself he forgot something. He didn’t.
He’s at the garage door with his guitar case in hand when he hears it.
Not Aiden’s usual chaos.
Just quiet taps.
Tyler pauses with his hand on the doorframe.
Aiden is at the kit alone.
He’s not playing full volume. He isn’t crashing cymbals. He isn’t doing dramatic fills. He’s practicing one beat over and over, slow. He stops every few measures, adjusts his grip, tries again.
Tyler stands there, frozen.
Aiden doesn’t notice him. Aiden’s face looks different when he’s alone. No grin to sell it. No jokes to fill the air. His brow is furrowed. His mouth is set. He looks like he’s fighting something invisible.
The beat is from the pop song.
The one Tyler complained about. The one the heckler called fake.
Aiden plays it again. Stops. Plays it again.
His jaw clenches. He adjusts the hi-hat carefully, as if he’s afraid of breaking it. As if he remembers Hayes. As if he remembers getting called careless.
He starts again, and this time it sits cleaner. He nods to himself, small, like he just proved something.
Tyler’s throat tightens, and he hates it.
He hates how his first instinct is to swallow the feeling and walk away.
He hates how he wants to say something and can’t find words that won’t turn into a fight.
He watches Aiden lean forward, shoulders hunched, hair falling into his eyes. Aiden is counting under his breath. Tyler can’t make out the numbers. He can see the effort.
Tyler stands there another second, then steps back quietly and pulls the door closed the rest of the way without letting it slam.
He walks down the driveway with his guitar case bumping his leg.
He doesn’t turn around.
He doesn’t go back and say anything.
He just keeps walking, and the beat follows him, steady, stubborn, and the realization lands heavy and unwelcome.
Aiden cares.
Not in the way Aiden brags about. Not in the way Aiden performs. In the way he shows up alone after everyone leaves and practices until his hands hurt.
Tyler hates that he didn’t see it sooner.
He hates that he saw it now, and he still can’t bring himself to say anything.
He keeps walking anyway.