Through the Glass

Chapter 2

Connor sat at the piano, his fingers hovering over the keys but not quite touching them. The silence stretched out before him, heavy and expectant, but he couldn't bring himself to break it. Music had always been his refuge, the place he could retreat to when the world felt too big, too loud—but lately, even that had started to feel distant.

His phone buzzed on the desk beside him, and he winced at the sound, the sudden vibration cutting through the quiet. He didn't have to check to know what the message would say. Max had been relentless lately, pushing him harder than ever to take the next step—to stop hiding behind a screen and actually play his music in front of people.

You can't hide forever, Connor. This tour could be huge for you.

The words echoed in his mind, even though he hadn't opened the message yet. Max's voice, sharp and insistent, clung to him like a weight he couldn't shake off. Connor's chest tightened, a familiar pressure building as the thought of stepping on stage loomed before him.

He closed his eyes, his hands falling to his lap. Music wasn't supposed to feel like this. It wasn't supposed to feel like a noose tightening around his throat.

Connor remained at the piano for several minutes, his fingers still resting in his lap. The pressure in his chest was unrelenting, and he felt the weight of Max's expectations closing in. His gaze drifted to the small corner of the room where his guitar leaned against the wall, a symbol of both his talent and the anxiety it brought him.

He used to perform, years ago—small gigs, open mics, places where the crowd barely paid attention. Those performances had held a different sort of terror, one that was diffused by the low hum of casual conversation and clinking glasses. The dim lighting of those bars had shrouded him in shadows, a cloak he could hide beneath, allowing him to lose himself in the music rather than the eyes watching him. But even then, his heart raced, his hands shook, and sometimes, when it was over, he would rush to the safety of the restroom to regain his composure away from any prying eyes.

But those days felt like a lifetime ago—a simpler time when the stakes were lower, and his audience was just a blurry sea of faces that wouldn't remember him in the morning. Now, after gaining a following online, Max envisioned theaters filled with fans who knew every lyric of Connor's songs, fans who would hang on every note played in earnest anticipation. This new reality was suffocating.

Connor's hands clenched into fists at the thought. It wasn't the music that scared him—it was the people. The eyes watching, waiting for him to fail, to stumble. It was the feeling of being exposed, vulnerable, with no way to hide behind the anonymity of the internet.

His phone buzzed again, another reminder of the reality he couldn't avoid much longer. With a sigh, he stood up from the piano, running a hand through his messy blonde hair. He needed a break. He needed... something. But he didn't know what.

Connor wandered into the kitchen, his footsteps slow and deliberate, as though each step took more effort than it should. He grabbed a glass of water, taking a long sip before leaning against the counter. His mind drifted to Daniel—his brother, the golden child.

Growing up, Daniel had been the one everyone noticed. Star athlete, all smiles and charisma. Even their parents had gotten caught up in his glow, cheering him on at every game, every award ceremony. Connor had been in the background, quietly scribbling lyrics in his notebook or strumming chords when no one was listening.

It wasn't that Daniel had ever been cruel. In fact, he'd always been supportive, in his own way. But his success had cast a long shadow, and Connor had spent his whole life trying to step out from under it.

Even now, in his late twenties, that feeling lingered. The knowledge that, no matter what he did, Daniel would always be the one people talked about. Connor could feel the old familiar resentment bubbling up, though he quickly pushed it aside. It wasn't Daniel's fault. It wasn't anyone's fault, really.