strings attached, k. tamon

un.

"Don't bring them into this," Reina warned.

"Why not?" (Y/N) snapped. "Because they're the reason you're embarrassed to care now? Because they say being in a band is 'childish' and suddenly you're acting like I'm crazy for trying?"

Mika's voice went icy. "Maybe we just realized this isn't our whole lives. It's a club. A hobby. Not everyone wants to be some tortured indie girl on SoundCloud."

(Y/N)'s throat tightened.

Reina scoffed. "You act like you're better than us because you still want to chase that dream. News flash—some of us grew out of it."

"No, you let people shame it out of you," (Y/N) shot back. "And now you're trying to drag me down with you."

"Wow," Mika muttered. "There it is."

(Y/N) stepped back, heart pounding.

She looked around the room-at the amps, the dusty posters, the scuffed floor. This place used to feel like home. Now it just felt like a cage where no one sang anymore.

Mika tossed her drumsticks onto the floor with a clatter. "(Y/N), maybe you're the problem."

The room went dead silent.

(Y/N)'s heart jerked—but her expression didn't crack. She turned to Mika, slow, deliberate. "What?"

Mika stood up, eyes flashing. "Look, (Y/N), I know we said we'd be passionate about all this but look... Maybe if you pulled your head out of your amp and actually collaborated—"

(Y/N) stared at her like she'd stabbed her.

Her grip on her guitar case tightened. "You know what?"

Nobody answered.

"Fine."

She slung her guitar over her shoulder.

"I'm done."

"...What?"

She walked past them, boots heavy on the floor. "Find someone else who can actually make your garbage sound tolerable. I quit."

"(Y/N)—"

"You didn't grow out of it. You got scared. Good luck making elevator music."

She slammed the door behind her.

⸝⸝ ₊ 𓂃 ⧣₊ ⁺.

(Y/N) wandered the halls alone, adrenaline still burning in her chest like fire through her ribs.

I quit.

I actually quit.

God, what did I do?

(Y/N), you stupid, reckless-!

Fuck!

No—she wasn't going to regret it. Not yet. Not when she was this angry. Not when it felt like she'd been choking for weeks.

They... We used to be inseperable.

Note after note, they cared. We all did.

Nothing felt right anymore. Every song they played rang hollow. The melodies repeated themselves. She craved something else—something raw. Something real.

The halls were empty, lit with cold fluorescent lights. Her footsteps echoed like drum kicks. She needed to scream, or punch a wall, or—

...

Why did it always come down to this?

Why did I always end up the one caring too much?