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What If I Want Something Else?

"I'm just saying," I said, swirling pasta on my plate without actually eating it, "maybe I don't want to do performance anymore."

My mom raised an eyebrow over her wine glass. "That's a hell of a bomb to drop right before dinner."

"I'm still doing music," I added quickly. "I just don't know if this kind of music is it. Maybe composition. Or sound design. I don't know."

She set her glass down carefully.
"Where's this coming from?"

I shrugged, even though I knew.
I'd been feeling it for weeks. That weird itch behind my ribs. Like I was practicing for a life that didn't fit anymore.

"Things feel different now," I said. "I feel different."

My mom studied me for a moment.
Then nodded.

"Well... you wouldn't be the first musician to change direction. Hell, I was in a punk band at your age. Two years later, I was ghostwriting indie-pop for a girl who wore angel wings onstage."

I blinked. "Are you serious?"

"Dead. And she got nominated for a Dutch Grammy. Life's chaos, baby."

I laughed a little.

There was a soft knock on the door.

"That'll be Joost," she said.

She got up to let him in.

⸻

I reached for my phone while she walked out of the kitchen.
A new notification.

From Isa.

Isa: hey...
i just wanted to say i'm sorry. for everything.
you didn't deserve that.
and honestly, you scare the shit out of me now
but like. in a hot way.
i'll take the post down
and i won't say anything ever again
just. let's not destroy each other, ok?

I stared at the screen.

I didn't reply.

⸻

Joost walked into the kitchen a second later, casual as ever in his denim jacket, holding a bottle of wine.

My mom smirked. "You're lucky we didn't start without you."

He grinned. "I would've deserved it."

He looked at me. A glance. Soft and curious.

I looked away.
Back to my phone.

Still no reply to Isa.

But in my head?

I was already writing the perfect message.