I hurried inside the music institute. Mrs. Birdwhistle, my vocal coach-also my high school's choir conductor-had told me that she's going to teach me a new technique today, I was so excited that I forgot to bring my notebook. I went back to get it, that's why I'm late. We started the training a couple of minutes after I got in and caught a breath. I walked to our dorm after my class. “Hey Luna! How was training?”Rain, my roommate, asked. “Fun! I got tired though.” I replied.“You know what I say, success takes sacrifices.” She said. “I know. I'm putting my whole energy into singing.” Rain has always been my #1 supporter. We're both seniors. “You know; the talent show is on April 6th! Please participate this year.” Said Rain, hopefully. “Rain, you know how insecure I am about singing.” I said. “Luna, you can't be afraid of people's reactions forever. You have to come out of your shell.” Rain said. “I'm waiting for the right moment. I don't want to rush myself. Plus, that's only two weeks away!” I explained. “Whatever suits you.” She said. Rain's words replayed in my head every time I closed my eyes that night. She's right; it's time to take the risk.I know I'm good, but I don't know if I'm that good. I am a part of the school's choir but people don't know my purpose is to become a Hollywood artist. I don't know if I can set my voice free in front of Annabelle, the #1 bully. I don't care about her but she is the one who follows me 24/7. I'm not her only target, but I am the only one who stands up to her, and that makes her even more eager to ruin my day. I was asleep when my alarm went off. I got up, grabbed my backpack, and ran out of the dorm. I saw Mrs. Birdwhistle the moment I got in the institute. “Hello dear, how was school?” she asked. “It was fine. The midterms are going to kill me though.” I chuckled. I have no idea how my report card is going to be at the end of the semester. “Well I really hope you survive,” she said, and made me suspicious, “because I signed you up for the talent show.” “Excuse me, but why would you do that?” I said in a controlled voice. I don't know how I didn't thunder. “You're a senior-” “But you know how scared I am; you know that I can't do it!” I interrupted. “Look, I know that you're scared; but I also know that you can do it. If you don't do this, you'll regret it for the rest of your life.” she tried to convince me. I couldn't sign out anyway, so I agreed. It's April 6th, the big day. “Have you chosen what to wear?” Rain burst in when I was tuning my black guitar. “I'm wearing shorts and that shirt.” I said. “Why don't you wear that yellow body? Also, you can wrap that beige scarf around your neck, it'll be more stylish.” Rain suggested. “You need to be my stylist when I become famous!” I said. She has a really good taste in fashion. It's been an hour since we arrived at the school and each of the participants is waiting for their turn. I was in my thoughts when I heard my name: “Luna Cox!” I hurried to the stage with my guitar. I tried not to think about anything. “Hey everyone! I'm going to sing my song called Lionhearted.” I explained and started. At first, I could feel the anxiety holding my voice back but I set it free the moment that I saw my parents. I can't believe they made time for this! “I have to make them proud.” I thought; and that was when I felt magic coming out of me. As I finished, everyone burst into applause. Annabelle was sitting with her arms crossed; I even heard a boy say “you go girl”! The show's over. We're waiting for the judges to announce the results. My parents came to me and we hugged. “We didn't know you could write!” my mom said. “You were amazing out there!” my dad said. “Thank you! I appreciate your support!” I saw a woman walking towards us. She came and after saying hello, she said “I heard you singing tonight Luna. You're really talented.” “Thank you!” I replied. She explained “I'm Dalla Archer from Summerfield Studios, a new-born record label looking for new artists to help one other grow. I would like to offer you a 2-year contract with us. I adored the lyrics and the colors your voice made.”I was shocked. I expected a few compliments; I didn't expect this! A record label is suggesting a contract after my first talent show?! “Give me your answer by April 27th. Wish you success, goodbye!” She gave her card to me and walked away. My answer is already yes. I'd dreamed of something like this for years. I have to convince my parents though. I thought convincing my parents would take weeks, but I convinced them by a week. I explained my passion for music and assured them that I'll put my 100% energy into it. I went to my room and looked at the card Dalla'd given me. I called her to ask when should I go to her office. We rode to her office at 6 pm. I could feel the excitement climbing up my spine. We went to the 4th floor to meet Dalla. We were done by 7:15. My life changed forever since the last time I saw my signature.

Hi. I'm Pablo. I am a Martin X Series acoustic guitar. I cannot make sounds on my own, but I can recognize them, thanks to my incredible memory. Each pitch feels different. The low open E sends deep, slow waves through the entire core of my body. The high open E? Very different. The sharp, tight buzz of the thin string tickles the leftmost edge of my neck. I know you didn't ask, but I want to talk about chords. It's exciting stuff. Dsus2 is bright with just a twinge of anxiety. It's that feeling when the sun is hitting me and I start to panic about whether or not the toastiness will warp the wood on my neck. G7 to me is a feeling of anticipation. Like when I'm caked in human sweat and grease and feel the first touch of a cloth. Great. I managed to make myself feel empty and sad… because I only used to be a real instrument, one that was played. My unit of time is her most recently played song. I have no sense of how she understands time. But for me, I'm always playing her tunes in memory, over and over and over again, waiting for the next time she finally picks me up. It always feels too long. As of now, I have rehearsed the first minute of the jazz standard “Autumn Leaves” 150,000 times. Is that normal? Once upon a time, I was pampered. Everyone treated me like their old, fragile grandpa, and I loved it. No one dared place me on a hard surface. Or take me out for a walk without the thickest, most protective case. I was taken to the shop for a touch-up every so often, to fix some old joints here and there. It made me feel young again! The Pablo before 150,000 iterations of “Autumn Leaves” enjoyed his alone time. I used to beg for peace and quiet. I remember being so tired that I wished I could turn my strings and my senses off. (Her singing was a little… let's not talk about it.) Regardless of how annoyed I may have gotten, I miss those exhausting days. The days when I was spent but satisfied, when I felt that I had met the musician who could fulfill my purpose and make me complete. Now, silence is all I know. Once in a while, I'll hear a voice far away that is not hers, singing some song I don't know. I'll hear the muffled musical tunes of other instruments reminding me that I am trapped here, stuck in my thick, over-protective case. Although frustration and jealousy threaten to make me forget who I am, when it comes down to it, all I can do is replay “Autumn Leaves.” 150,001 150,002 150,003… Even if she has abandoned me, never to come back ever again, I still play “Autumn Leaves.” After all, I am her guitar.