Chapter 3: The Switch Ava

The commuter bus lurches to a stop, throwing me against the window. I barely notice. Leo's words echo louder than the engine's rumble.

"Stick to spikes, not songs."

My notebook sits heavy in my lap, the pages that once felt like treasure now just dead weight. A girl across the aisle laughs into her phone, oblivious to my humiliation. Every face on the bus seems to know, seems to have been there to witness my public execution.

"Maybe leave the soul-baring to people who actually understand it."

The bus doors hiss open at my stop. My feet carry me mechanically across campus, past the music building where rehearsal rooms still glow with late-night practice sessions. I take the long way to avoid The Amp, where my dignity still lies in shreds on the floor.

My dorm room is dark when I unlock it, my roommate Madison already gone for the weekend. Small mercies. I flip on the desk lamp, its pale glow illuminating the walls covered with volleyball tournament brackets and kinesiology diagrams.

No music posters. No evidence of the part of me that Leo Martinez so efficiently murdered tonight.

I pull out my notebook, fingers trembling. Three years of lyrics. Three years of late nights and stolen moments, pouring my heart into words I never thought anyone would see. Until tonight.

One page. Then another. I tear them free, the ripping sound sharp in the quiet room.

"Stupid," I mutter, shredding the pages into confetti. "So stupid."

My phone buzzes. Jade.

You okay? That guy's a dick.

I leave it unanswered. What would I even say? That I'm fine? That Leo Martinez's opinion doesn't matter?

The shredded remains of my notebook mock me from the desk. I sweep them into the trash, then immediately regret it, fishing out a handful of torn fragments. The words are disjointed now, meaningless.

Just like me.

I crash onto my bed, burying my face in the pillow to muffle the scream building in my throat. Hot tears press against my eyelids, but I refuse to let them fall. Not for him. Not for any of them.

The rage comes next, fierce and unfamiliar. I'm not a person who gets angry. I'm steady. Reliable. The one who keeps her head when everyone else is losing theirs.

But tonight, I want to burn everything down.

I punch my pillow, imagining Leo's perfect face. His dismissive smirk. The way he tossed my notebook back like it was garbage.

"I hate you," I whisper, the words sounding foreign on my tongue. "I hate you, I hate you, I hate you."

My shoulder throbs from the impact, the old injury flaring to life. I roll onto my back, staring at the ceiling. My phone buzzes again. Another text from Jade.

He's just threatened by you. Your lyrics are better than his songs.

She's wrong. My lyrics are childish scribbles compared to The Crescendos' polished sound. But something about her words soothes the raw edges of my hurt.

I reach for my water bottle, downing half of it in one go. The clock reads 2:13 AM. In less than four hours, I need to be back at the gym for morning practice. Coach Barrett doesn't accept excuses, especially not "humiliated by campus rock star" ones.

I force my eyes closed, willing sleep to come. My fists clench in the sheets, my body still vibrating with emotion. The last conscious thought before exhaustion claims me is a desperate wish:

Let me be anyone but me tomorrow.

Leo

"You actually read her lyrics out loud?" Noah's voice cuts through the speaker. "That's cold, even for you."

I pace the length of my apartment, phone pressed to my ear. "She called me heartless."

"No, she said your songs lacked heart. Different thing."

"Same result." I grab a beer from the fridge, popping the cap with practiced ease. "Besides, what was I supposed to do? Coddle her?"

"Maybe not humiliate her in front of half the campus?"

I take a long swig, avoiding the truth in his words. "Since when do you care about a volleyball player's feelings?"

"Since my best friend started acting like a jerk for no reason." Noah sighs. "What's going on with you, man? You've been off lately."

The concern in his voice makes something in my chest clench. I glance at my desk drawer, where Dr. Mercer's monitoring band sits abandoned.

"Just stressed about Battle of the Bands," I deflect. "This is our shot, Noah. I can't blow it."

"We won't." His voice softens. "But you're not yourself. And it's not just about tonight."

My phone beeps with an incoming call—Dr. Mercer's office again. I ignore it.

"I gotta go," I tell Noah. "Early rehearsal tomorrow."

"Leo—"

"I'm fine." I end the call before he can push further.

The apartment falls silent. Normally, I'd fill it with music—playing guitar until my fingers blistered, working through chord progressions, humming melodies. But tonight, nothing comes.

I toss my phone onto the bed, watching it bounce against the mattress. The screen lights up with another text from Dr. Mercer.

Your readings from yesterday are concerning. Please call my office immediately.

I delete it without responding. Whatever she wants to warn me about can wait until after Battle of the Bands. Three weeks. I just need to hold it together for three more weeks.

My head throbs as I scrub a hand over my face. Behind my eyelids, I see Ava Lin's expression as I mocked her lyrics. The way her face had hardened, not with tears, but with something worse—resignation. Like she'd expected it.

"Dammit." I punch my pillow, once, twice, the impacts doing nothing to ease the knot in my chest.

My phone buzzes again. This time, it's a text from an unknown number.

heartless AND talentless. good combo.

Jade Moreno. Had to be. I block the number without responding, tossing the phone aside.

The folded pages of Ava's lyrics still sit in my back pocket. I pull them out, smoothing the creases. In the quiet of my apartment, away from the crowd and the performance, I read them again.

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?

My throat tightens. The words hit differently now—simple but sharp, like a blade slipping between ribs. I fold the paper carefully, tucking it into my nightstand drawer.

The silence presses in, broken only by the irregular rhythm of my own heartbeat. Dr. Mercer's warnings float through my mind: Arrhythmia. Potential cardiac event. Treatment options.

I squeeze my eyes shut, shoving the thoughts away. My hand hovers over my phone, Dr. Mercer's name blinking on the screen.

Tomorrow. I'll deal with it tomorrow.

Exhaustion wins. I fall into bed without bothering to undress, the lights still on, beer half-finished on the nightstand. As consciousness slips away, Ava's wounded eyes follow me into darkness.

Let me be anyone but me tomorrow.