The final bell echoed like the end of a movie scene—but Ethan didn't feel like the main character.
He stood by his locker, sorting books with precise movements—Science to the left, English notes alphabetized behind it, his color-coded planner tucked underneath. Everything exactly where it should be.
But his mind was still spinning with rhythms, lyrics, and something he wasn't used to feeling.
Not anxiety. Not tension.
Something else.
He zipped his backpack with one swift motion. Then stood there for a second longer than usual. Just breathing. Just listening to the hall thin out.
Maybe he wasn't the main character. But maybe—just maybe—he had a soundtrack now.
When he got home, the first thing Ethan did—after greeting his mother with a quick "Hi, Mom" and avoiding the pile of laundry Claire had clearly assigned him telepathically—was head to his room and close the door behind him.
He didn't go to the piano.
He sat on the edge of his bed, pulled his sketchbook from the shelf, and flipped to the middle: a rough set of chords and lyrics he'd been working on since the second week of school.
Pompeii.
The melody had haunted him—echoed in the corners of his head, clung to the edges of dreams. It didn't feel finished. But it felt alive. And now, for the first time, he was going to try singing it.
He opened his phone and pulled up the voice memo app. Hit record.
His hand hovered over the screen, then dropped.
"Okay," he whispered to himself. "No one's listening. Just try."
He cleared his throat. Adjusted the chair. Took a breath.
Then he began.
The chords were etched into his muscle memory by now. Soft, solemn, rhythmic. He hummed through the first few bars, letting his voice test the shape of the melody.
Then the words came.
> "I was left to my own devices,
Many days fell away with nothing to show..."
His voice wasn't perfect. It cracked once, dipped slightly off-key on "devices," and he could hear his own breath trembling under the note.
But it was good.
Not trained, not polished—but there was something in it. A raw tone. A clarity in the high notes. A pull.
He didn't belt it. That wasn't his style. Ethan sang in that mid-volume, thoughtful way—the kind that made you lean closer instead of pulling away. The kind that didn't scream "look at me," but somehow made people look anyway.
"But if you close your eyes,
Does it almost feel like nothing changed at all?"
He let the line hang in the air.
He wasn't imagining the volcano anymore.
He was thinking about the lunch table. About Maya's quiet steadiness. Gus's lists. Shawn's whirlwind. Cher's commentary. About how things didn't look different on the outside—but inside, something had started shifting.
He finished the first verse, let the chords settle, and stopped recording.
Then he just sat there.
Breathing.
He played it back. Winced a little at the crack. Smiled at the way the third line landed clean. Tilted his head at the final chorus. Not bad.
He listened again. Eyes closed this time.
It wasn't the sound of someone reaching perfection. But it was the sound of someone reaching out.
Someone growing.
Downstairs, Claire called up. "Ethan! You've got five minutes before we leave! If I have to drag Luke into the car by his ankles again, I'm not coming back for you!"
Ethan smiled faintly. "Coming!"
He tucked the sketch back into his folder, made sure the voice memo was saved, then stood up.
His voice—his music—still rang in his head.
He was still finding it.
But it was there.
---
The mall was already buzzing with weekend energy when Ethan stepped out of the minivan. Claire barely slowed down, shouting a "Be back at seven!" before peeling away toward whatever PTA crisis awaited her.
Ethan tugged his sleeves down, adjusted his bag, and scanned the entrance.
There. Maya was leaning against the glass near the food court sign, hands in her hoodie pockets, a faint smile curving her lips when she saw him.
"You came," she said, like she wasn't surprised—but glad.
"Gus texted me seventeen times," Ethan replied dryly. "I didn't stand a chance."
She laughed. "That sounds right."
A minute later, Shawn and Gus arrived—Shawn bouncing a rubber ball he'd somehow won before even entering the arcade, Gus walking fast to keep up while reading a folded itinerary like it was a sacred scroll.
Then came Cher, trailing behind with a shopping bag and a milkshake.
"Sorry," she said breathlessly. "Detoured by Sephora. They have glow-in-the-dark lip gloss now. This is a pivotal era for humanity."
"Earth is healing," Shawn nodded seriously.
They moved toward the arcade. Inside, the storm of lights and blips hit Ethan like a wave. Too much noise. Too many patterns.
But then Maya tugged his sleeve gently.
"You okay?"
"Yeah," he said. "Just recalibrating."
They started with racing games. Ethan came in third, behind Gus and Maya. Shawn shouted "Victory lap!" even though he came last. Cher played exactly one round, then declared, "Not enough pink options," and opted to narrate instead.
Next came air hockey—Ethan vs. Gus. Surprisingly intense. Ethan lost 7-5 but considered it a noble defeat.
At some point, Ethan noticed he wasn't counting the steps between games. He wasn't watching the clock.
He was just there.
Eventually, they slumped into a booth at the food court, exhausted and full of sugar.
"So," Cher asked, sipping her milkshake, "when do we get to hear the new song?"
Ethan blinked. "What?"
"Pompeii," Maya added gently. "You've been working on it, right?"
"I… yeah," Ethan admitted. "I tried singing it today."
Shawn leaned in, curious. "And?"
"It didn't suck."
"High praise," Gus muttered.
"I mean…" Ethan hesitated. "It's not perfect. But… it felt right. Singing it."
"You should sing it for us," Maya said. "When you're ready."
"Maybe," Ethan said softly. "Maybe soon."
He didn't promise. But he also didn't say no.
And that, for Ethan, was everything.