The school's music room was a patchwork of eras—aging acoustic guitars hung beside yesterday's technology, motivational posters curling at the edges like forgotten dreams. During lunch period, it transformed into our makeshift studio, the hum of fluorescent lights providing an industrial ambiance that even the most expensive studios couldn't quite replicate.
Derek hunched over the school's lone MIDI keyboard, his fingers dancing across keys worn smooth by years of student ambitions. In my original timeline, this room had been little more than a refuge from cafeteria politics. Now, watching him work, I saw it for what it could be—an incubator for the revolution we were about to unleash.
"Check this progression," he said, not looking up. The melody that flowed from his fingers was hauntingly familiar—a phrase that, in my old future, would become the hook of his first and only single. The one that should have launched his career, if the drugs hadn't gotten there first. "Been hearing it in my head since last night. Can't shake it."
I closed my eyes, letting the notes wash over me. In 2019, this melody had moved crowds to tears, its raw emotion cutting through years of musical cynicism. But that was after layers of production polish, after studios had smoothed its edges and marketing had packaged its pain.
"Keep it raw," I said, opening my eyes. "The imperfection is what makes it perfect."
Derek's hands stilled on the keys. "That's some deep shit, M." He turned to face me, his expression questioning. "You different lately, you know that? Like you seeing things the rest of us can't."
For a moment, I felt the weight of my secret like a physical presence, pressing against my chest. How do you tell someone you're trying to save their life without sounding crazy? How do you guide without controlling, protect without suffocating?
"Maybe I just started seeing what was always there," I said carefully, moving to the keyboard. "Here, let me show you something. That progression you just played—" My fingers found the keys, muscle memory translating future knowledge into present action. "If we layer it like this..."
I added a counter-melody, something simple but effective, using the keyboard's limited sound bank to suggest what it could become. In my head, I heard the full orchestration this would eventually deserve, but for now, the skeleton was enough.
Derek's eyes widened. "Yo, that's exactly what it needed! How'd you—"
"Just hearing the spaces in between," I said, the half-truth bitter on my tongue. "Like what you taught me about the string samples yesterday."
He nodded slowly, but I caught the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. I was moving too fast, showing too much. In my eagerness to save him, I risked pushing him away.
"Listen," I said, pulling out the notebook where I'd been scripting our future. "For Rico's review tomorrow—I been thinking about structure. Your melodies, my arrangements, but with a twist." I sketched out a quick beat pattern, deliberately simpler than what I knew I could do. "What if we..."
The lunch period dissolved into a blur of creativity, Derek's raw talent playing perfectly against my carefully disguised experience. We built something new from the bones of what had been, each suggestion carefully calibrated to seem like collaboration rather than instruction.
"We really doing this," Derek said finally, staring at our notes with something like awe. "Like, for real doing this."
Through the music room's windows, I could see students crossing the courtyard below, their lives intersecting and diverging like melodies in a complex arrangement. Somewhere out there, the future I remembered was already changing, its certainties dissolving into new possibilities.
"Yeah," I said softly, "we really are. But Derek..." I waited until he looked at me. "Whatever happens with Rico, with the music—promise me something?"
"What's that?"
"We do this clean." I held his gaze, willing him to understand the layers in my words. "Clear heads, pure creation. No shortcuts, no chemical inspiration. Just the music."
He laughed, but it held a nervous edge. "Man, you sound like one of them after-school specials."
"I'm serious." I gripped his shoulder, feeling the future hanging on this moment. "I've seen too many talented people lose everything chasing the wrong kind of high. The music's enough. Has to be enough."
The bell rang before he could respond, its harsh tone shattering our bubble of creation. As we packed up our notes, Derek paused.
"You really think we got a shot? Like, a real shot?"
In my mind's eye, I saw two futures stretching out before us—the one I remembered, ending in tragedy, and the one I was trying to build, bright with possibility. The choice hung between them like a suspended note, waiting for resolution.
"More than a shot," I said. "We got a destiny. Long as we stay focused, stay clean, stay hungry—ain't no future we can't compose."
He nodded, something like hope kindling in his eyes. As we headed to our separate classes, I found myself humming his melody—not the polished version that had moved crowds in my past, but this raw, unfiltered version, pure with potential.
Sometimes the most important changes start with the smallest notes.