THE BROKEN DREAMS

The following week passed in a blur.

Fred kept his head down.

Classes?

He barely heard a word.

Food?

Mostly skipped.

Sleep?

Only when exhaustion won over anger.

But through it all, one thing kept pulsing inside him like a stubborn ember refusing to die.

The Annual Talent Showcase was coming up.

The biggest event of the semester.

An open stage for anyone brave enough to perform.

Fred had signed up months ago.

Before the rumors.

Before the lies.

Before everything fell apart.

He thought about quitting — a thousand times.

But every time he pictured Marcus laughing,

every time he saw Trina's fake smile,

the anger kept him going.

He would show them.

He would make them regret it.

Or die trying.

---

The night of the event, Fred stood backstage, guitar case in hand.

The other performers laughed, posed for selfies, gossiped in tight circles.

Fred stood alone.

He wasn't dressed like them.

No flashy outfits.

No designer brands.

Just black jeans, worn sneakers, and a plain gray hoodie.

His armor.

A girl in a glittery pink dress walked by, nose wrinkling.

> "They're letting anyone perform now?"

Fred heard her.

He was supposed to.

That's how they operated.

Small cuts.

Small wounds.

Until you bled out slowly.

He adjusted his guitar strap with shaking hands.

> "Play louder, Fred..."

"Next time they laugh, play louder..."

He whispered it to himself like a prayer.

The curtain lifted.

The crowd exploded in cheers for the first act — a group of rich kids rapping about yachts and Rolex watches.

Fred barely noticed.

His name was coming.

He was next.

He tried to steady his breathing.

But when his name was called, the air itself seemed to turn against him.

---

Fred stepped onto the stage.

The spotlight blinded him.

The auditorium was packed.

Rows and rows of students, professors, visitors.

Phones pointed at him like guns.

Some students snickered.

Others yawned dramatically.

Marcus sat in the front row, legs spread arrogantly, a smug grin on his face.

Trina leaned against him, fake sympathy written all over her painted features.

Fred gripped his guitar so tightly his knuckles turned white.

He sat down on the lone stool in the center.

Adjusted the mic.

It squealed loudly —

making half the audience groan and roll their eyes.

> "Get on with it, loser!"

someone shouted from the back.

Fred flinched.

But he forced himself to strum the first chords.

The room shifted.

The sound wasn't perfect.

His guitar was old.

The strings needed changing.

But the melody was real.

Fragile.

Wounded.

Alive.

Fred started to sing.

His voice cracked once.

Then again.

Laughter bubbled from the audience.

Phone flashes exploded.

Someone even threw a crumpled napkin onto the stage.

Fred kept going.

Every word ripped out of his chest like it cost him blood.

The song was about betrayal.

Loneliness.

Dreams shattered under polished shoes.

He wasn't just performing.

He was confessing.

Bleeding.

Begging the world to see him just once — just once — as something more than a joke.

--

Halfway through his song, disaster struck.

His old guitar string snapped with a loud, cruel TWANG.

Dead silence.

Then the laughter started.

Louder this time.

Meaner.

Phones filmed mercilessly.

> "Even his guitar hates him!"

someone yelled.

Fred froze.

Tears burned at the edges of his vision.

He stared at the broken string like it was a death sentence.

The judges whispered among themselves, smirking.

Vinton, sitting with them, shook his head slowly.

A rejection written into the curve of his lips.

Fred's hands trembled.

He could walk off now.

He could disappear into the shadows where he belonged.

But something deeper, something primal, rose up inside him.

A refusal.

A scream his body wasn't allowed to make.

Instead, he stood up.

Faced the audience.

And sang the rest of the song a capella, with nothing but his broken voice and shattered soul.

Raw.

Ugly.

Real.

Some laughed harder.

Some booed.

A few shifted uncomfortably.

Maybe — just maybe — a few actually heard him.

He didn't care anymore.

He sang until the last lyric tore his heart out and left it bleeding on the stage.

Then he bowed — a low, trembling bow — and walked off without looking back.

--

Fred didn't wait for the results.

He knew them already.

He packed up his broken guitar and left.

Outside, the night was cold and sharp.

It hurt to breathe.

Hurt to walk.

But somehow, Fred smiled.

It wasn't a happy smile.

It was a broken, battered, stubborn thing.

The kind of smile forged in fire.

They had laughed.

They had humiliated him.

They had tried to crush him.

But he had survived.

And survival, Fred realized, was its own kind of rebellion.

He pulled up his hoodie, shoved his hands into his pockets, and walked into the dark.

Somewhere, deep in the future, he knew they would remember this night.

Not for their laughter.

Not for their cruelty.

But for the boy who stood on a stage alone

and refused to break.