Heartbeat | ✔️

| 3 |

❝When you gonna take me out?❞

♮ ♮ ♮ ♮ ♮

A musician.

Grandma used to call me her lil' musician. Her giggles displayed her two front teeth with a small space between them. A whistle escaped and added another element to her laughter. Always a high "C." With her index finger, she booped my nose as she looked over her shoulder down at me. We usually sat on her piano stool; my feet were long enough to touch the floor, untie shoe laces.

We spent our evenings at the piano wherever my parents went out and Grandma babysit us. My brother sat in the opposite side of the parlor, his feet dangled off the golden chair. He slouched as he hum the notes Grandma would play. Under his breath, he tried to harmonize.

I miss this memory.

I forget until Cameron mentions it.

I guess in my subconscious, I know I am a musician. It's - well, it's different than saying the word in your mind. Once the word escapes the lips and sound comes out. The word becomes alive. It's true. I am and have always been a musician.

But here I am being a college student ... for a degree I have little desire in.

Why haven't I out right said to my parents I want to be a drummer?

I've implied through my constant practice, bothering in the newest sets (especially my drumsticks), and my plastic golden trophies that now sit on my dresser (Mom and Dad remove them from the living room to my room last year).

I've told them.

I think - wait, have I?

I start to. I prepare myself. I organize my thoughts, my strongest reason to my dream.

However, I hear them. Their voices.

A professional drummer? There's no financial guarantee.

I thought it was a hobby. I know it's a passion, but are you willing to do it for the rest of your life?

Grandma Anne was a pianist. She made a living - she got by. I don't want you to get by. I want the best for you.

Even as a young adult, I can hear their voices.

Those sentences that they have said ... throughout my life. Small incidents and then the brain formulate their general statements ... and creates these things. The thing that sounds so much like them.

I want to tell them.

"I understand. It's your money and you want what's best for me. Super cliché by the way! However, I see myself doing this every single day for the rest of my life," I say to myself.

When do I tell them?

When will this semester be over? I've completed a lot of my general education. I'm sure transferring to another institution will be a pain, but it's a possibility. I'll make it possible.

"You made it!" The voice breaks my thoughts.

I'm leaning against the white chip-painted brick wall. People are running back and forth down the corridor, the halfway point between contestants and watchers. Shoes pound on the emerald and cream floor. Today's the big day: The Battle. Three weeks goes by too quickly, I continue my studies as Cupid's Boy Band rehearse and practice their songs. I glance up to see Noah. His face is flush and his blonde dishevel in all different directions.