Liam stared at the cracked jewel case in his hands. His name scribbled across it in permanent marker, smudged from years of moving, discarding, almost forgetting.
Demo #00.
He hadn't heard it since high school. Since before stages, before lights, before people actually cared.
He slid it in. Pressed play.
The hiss of static. Then his voice—thin, unsure, clumsy in cadence.
"I used to rap in science class, notebooks full of dreams..."
He flinched. The rhyme scheme was basic. The beat was a loop ripped from a forum. But it wasn't about the quality.
It was the intent.
That version of him had no one to impress. No brand to protect. No followers, no contracts—just fire and frustration and hope. That Liam rapped for survival. For identity.
He listened with his eyes closed.
And the memories came back.
His mom banging on the door, yelling at him to sleep.The muffled sound of his brother teasing him from the hallway.The quiet after midnight when the world felt like it might listen one day.
When the last song ended, he didn't move for a long time.
His chest felt tight—not with regret, but with clarity.
This is who I was when I fell in love with music.This is who I have to protect.
He looked over at the Everline folder. It felt foreign now. Wrong. Like someone else's script for his life.
He didn't hesitate.
Into the trash it went.
And with it, the part of him that ever believed someone else had to validate his worth.
The End of POV