[Word Count: 1320]
Something must have shown on Nico's face, because Beanie Guy winced, scratching the back of his head awkwardly. "Shit, my bad man. Didn't mean to dredge up any heavy stuff..."
The fumbling apology snapped Nico back to the present. He realized his hands were shaking, the nearly forgotten joint threatening to slip from his fingers. Schooling his features into a neutral mask, Nico took a final toke and passed it along.
"No worries, dude," he drawled, the words tasting like ash on his tongue. "Ancient history."
But it didn't feel ancient. It felt raw and visceral and far too close to the surface, like a barely scabbed wound ripped open anew. Nico's pulse thundered in his ears, his breath coming short and choppy. The easy camaraderie of a few moments ago was shattered beyond repair, the air now rife with unasked questions and strained pity.
Nico couldn't stand it.
He lurched to his feet, mumbling something about needing to take a piss. He had to move, had to put distance between himself and the minefield this conversation had become. Ignoring the confused calls of the stoners, Nico pushed his way back into the party, desperate to lose himself in the crowd.
But the crush of bodies and blaring music felt suffocating now, overstimulating in the worst way. Liam tried to waylay him, red solo cup sloshing as he slung an arm over Nico's shoulders.
"NICO! Bro, where'd you go? We're gonna do shots, you gotta-"
"Maybe later," Nico bit out, shrugging off Liam's arm. "I need some air."
He didn't wait for a response, shouldering through the throng of swaying bodies with single-minded purpose. He didn't stop moving until he reached the front door. The cool night air hit his face like a slap as he burst outside, but Nico barely felt it. Gulping in the air like a drowning man breaching the surface.
Nico walked and walked, putting as much distance between himself and that party as his legs could carry him. But no matter how many blocks he traveled, the weight of his past still bore down heavily upon him like an oppressive, inescapable gravitational force.
So Nico did what he always did - he built up the walls around his heart, brick by bitter brick, locking away the hurt, tamping down the anger, striving for that precious numbness. A humorless laugh escaped his lips, sounding harsh and brittle against the still night air. He should have known better than to think he could ever truly escape from the tangled roots of his love for music, his trauma, his fractured sense of self. They were all intertwined too deeply to ever fully extricate.
His mind buzzed with a swirling mix of alcohol, weed, and unwanted memories as his feet carried him aimlessly through the darkened city streets. Eventually, the soft glow of a streetlamp beckoned him towards a small park nestled between the looming concrete skyscrapers, an urban oasis of quiet and green.
There, bathed in the circle of light, sat a solitary figure cradling a guitar. Nico paused, the notes plucking at something deep inside him - a taut string he thought had long ago snapped. He drifted closer, a moth drawn irresistibly to the flame, not wanting to disturb this kindred spirit so utterly lost in their own musical world. The young musician's playing spoke of yearning, of the particular ache that comes from caring too deeply in a world that cares too little.
Leaning against the rough bark of a tree, Nico let the music wash over him. Music had once been his everything, the very air he breathed. But that was before - before the relentless pressure became too crushing, before his father's constant pushing soured the joy, before expectation became a noose slowly tightening around his neck.
As he listened, Nico felt the sudden urge to join in, to pick up an instrument and bleed out all the emotions he'd kept bottled up for so long. But the spell was abruptly broken by the harsh shout of a security guard. "Hey! You can't play here. This is private property. Pack it up and get lost."
The guitarist's eyes snapped open, startled. Quickly gathering his things, he hurried away with a mumbled apology. Nico watched him go, an odd sense of loss settling into his chest. That music had been a lifeline, a glimpse of the person he used to be. And now it was gone.
With a sigh, Nico pushed himself away from the tree trunk, his feet carrying him back to the familiar confines of his dorm room. He collapsed onto the bed, staring up at the blank ceiling as if it might offer answers to the questions on his mind. The melody from the park echoed a silent taunt, a reminder of the passion he had allowed to slip through his fingers.
His gaze landed on the old guitar case lurking in his closet. Part of him wanted nothing more than to keep running, to bury those memories six feet deep and salt the earth. But a small, insistent voice within him - a part he thought had died long ago - whispered that maybe it was time to stop pretending.
Memories of his mother flashed through his mind - her gentle smile, her unwavering support a soothing balm on his battered soul. She had given him that guitar, a beacon of light cutting through the shadows cast by his father. It was a symbol of her love, a reminder that he was more than just a vessel for his father's ambitions.
He remembered the profound joy that flooded through him the first time he held that instrument, the feeling of rightness settling into his very bones. Playing had been an escape, a way to express all the feelings he could never find the words for. It connected him to his mother, to the person he had been before the world sharpened its claws and tore him to shreds.
For so long he had run from his love of music, convinced it could only lead to more pain and suffering. But maybe, just maybe, it was time to stop running. Not for his father, not for anyone else, but for himself.
With trembling hands, Nico reached for the guitar case, its weight both foreign and achingly familiar. He ran his fingers over the tarnished latches, hesitating for just a moment before flipping them open with a decisive click.
The guitar within was exactly as he remembered - the honey-colored wood glowing softly in the low light. As Nico lifted it from its velvet bed and cradled it against his body, he marveled at how right it felt, his hands seeming to find the well-worn grooves of familiar chords all on their own.
The first notes were tentative, a mere whisper of what could be. But as he played, Nico felt something deep inside him stir - a long-dormant spark flickering back to life. It wasn't much, just a glimmer of the passion he had once felt so intensely, but it was enough. Enough to make him think that maybe, just maybe, he could find his way back to the music.
With this newfound determination thrumming through his veins, Nico carefully replaced the guitar in its case. He knew the road ahead would be far from easy, that he had a long journey before he could truly reclaim this part of himself.
But as he stepped out into the night cradling the case, the cool air whipping against his face, the solid weight was a comforting presence at his side - a reminder of the promise he had made to himself. He didn't know where this path would ultimately lead, but one thing was certain: he was done running from his past. It was time to start chasing his future, one tentative note at a time.
***
You can read the finished novel and see Character Images on my patreon
patreon.com/sleepingINSOMNIAC