# Chapter 2
The morning sun filtered through threadbare curtains in the Chen family's kitchen, casting warm squares of light across the worn linoleum floor. Drae stretched his long frame as he padded downstairs, running a hand through his unruly dark hair that seemed determined to stick up in every direction no matter what he did to it.
"Morning, Ma," he called out, ducking slightly under the low-hanging light fixture that had been threatening to knock him out since his growth spurt in high school.
His mother, barely reaching his shoulder even when he slouched, looked up from the stove where she was flipping pancakes. "There's my hardworking son. Coffee's fresh."
Drae grabbed a mug from the cabinet, noting the small crack along the handle that his father had always meant to fix. Two years later, they still used it. Some things you just couldn't bring yourself to throw away.
"Smells amazing in here." He kissed the top of his mother's graying head, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners the way they did when he smiled—which, despite everything, was often. Life had knocked the Chen family down, but Drae had made it his mission to keep them laughing their way back up.
"DRAE!" His sixteen-year-old sister Lily's voice carried from the living room, pitched with the kind of excitement only teenagers could muster before 9 AM. "Get in here! You have to see this!"
He exchanged an amused look with his mother. "What's she losing her mind about now?"
"Probably that singer again. The one with all the sad songs." His mother shook her head fondly. "I don't know how she can listen to all that heartbreak music and still bounce around like a kangaroo."
Drae's stomach tightened, but he kept his expression light. He knew exactly which singer his mother meant.
He found Lily sprawled on their old couch, laptop balanced on her knees, wearing an oversized sweater that had definitely belonged to him at some point. She looked up at him with eyes the same bright blue as his, practically vibrating with enthusiasm.
"Look!" She spun the laptop around, showing him a music streaming site. "Melissa Rivera's new song just hit five times platinum! Five times, Drae! That's like, fifteen million copies or something insane."
On the screen was a photo he recognized—Melissa in a flowing white dress, looking ethereal and untouchable. The song title beneath made his chest ache: "Shadows of Tomorrow." He remembered writing those lyrics at 3 AM six months ago, his laptop screen blurry through tears he'd been too proud to acknowledge.
"That's... wow," he managed, settling onto the arm of the couch. "Big numbers."
"She's incredible," Lily gushed, already clicking play. "Her lyrics are just so real, you know? Like she's been through everything I'm going through, but she came out stronger. Listen to this part—"
The opening piano notes filled their small living room, followed by that voice. Smooth, rich, achingly beautiful. Melissa Rivera singing words Drae had bled onto a page during the worst night of his life, when Sarah's goodbye text was still burning on his phone screen and his father's hospital bed was still too fresh in his memory.
"I tried to hold tomorrow in my hands,
But shadows have no weight to bear,
All the dreams we built on shifting sands,
Crumble when you're no longer there..."
Drae stood abruptly, his tall frame unfolding from the couch arm. "I should check on breakfast."
"Wait!" Lily grabbed his wrist, her expression suddenly concerned. "Are you okay? You look weird."
He forced a smile, the practiced kind that had gotten him through two years of being the strong one, the provider, the one who held everyone else together. "Just hungry. You know how I get when Ma's making pancakes."
But as he escaped to the kitchen, he could still hear his own words following him, transformed into something beautiful and foreign by a voice that had never lived them. His mother looked up as he returned, noting something in his expression.
"You sure you're alright, sweetheart?"
Drae poured himself coffee and leaned against the counter, watching his mother work. In the morning light, he could see how the last two years had aged her, new lines around her eyes that hadn't been there when Dad was alive. But she was still here, still making breakfast, still keeping their little family afloat. That was what mattered.
"Just thinking about work," he said, which wasn't entirely a lie. "Got a new project coming in."
From the living room, Melissa's voice continued to weave his pain into something that sounded like hope. Lily was singing along now, her young voice bright with the kind of optimism Drae was still trying to find his way back to.
His phone buzzed against the counter. A new email from Elena Martinez, Melissa Rivera's manager. Another melody, another request for lyrics to capture emotions he was still learning how to survive.
Drae looked at his reflection in the black coffee, seeing his father's stubborn jaw and his mother's determined eyes staring back. He could write about heartbreak because he'd lived it. He could craft hope from despair because he'd had to, for the people counting on him.
But hearing those words in someone else's voice, watching his baby sister find strength in pain that wasn't even hers to claim—that was a different kind of heartbreak altogether.
He deleted the notification without reading the email.
Some mornings, being a ghost was harder than others.
---
Later that afternoon, Drae found his mother at the kitchen table, bills spread out like a hand of cards she was afraid to play. Her reading glasses perched on the end of her nose as she moved scraps of paper around, pencil scratching numbers in the margins.
"Hey Ma." He settled into the chair across from her, recognizing the worry lines that had become permanent fixtures around her eyes. "What's all this?"
She looked up, trying to hide the stress behind a weak smile. "Just organizing things. The electric bill came in higher than expected, and..." She gestured at a colorful brochure. "Lily's school fees for next semester are due soon."
Drae picked up the community college pamphlet, seeing his sister's future mapped out in course descriptions and payment plans. Lily wanted to study music therapy—ironic, considering her brother made his living putting words to other people's pain.
"How much are we talking?" he asked, though the tightness in his mother's voice had already given him the answer.
"Two thousand for the semester. Plus books, and she'll need a laptop for her music software classes." His mother removed her glasses, rubbing her temples. "I know the ghostwriting has been good to us, sweetheart, but it's so irregular. Some months you get three requests, some months nothing for weeks. I just worry about planning ahead."
Drae reached across the table, covering her weathered hand with his. "Ma, look at me."
She met his eyes—the same bright blue that had made Angel tease him about looking like a Disney prince, back when teasing was something they could do.
"I just got paid for three songs last week. That's six thousand right there. Lily's tuition is covered, and we've got enough left over for the rest of the bills and then some." He squeezed her hand gently. "Dad always said the money would come when we needed it. And it has, hasn't it?"
His mother's shoulders sagged with relief. "I know, I know. It's just... your father always handled the finances. I still feel like I'm playing catch-up."
"You're doing great. Better than great." Drae stood, dropping a kiss on top of her head. "Besides, Elena mentioned they might want to put me on retainer soon. Steady monthly payment instead of per song."
It wasn't entirely true—Elena had mentioned it once in passing months ago—but the hope in his mother's eyes made the small lie worth it.
"Really? That would be..." She gathered the bills into a neat stack, some of the weight lifting from her shoulders. "That would change everything."
From the living room, Lily's voice drifted toward them, still humming the melody of "Shadows of Tomorrow." The sound hit Drae like a punch to the chest, and suddenly he was twenty-two again, standing in the rain outside Angel's apartment building.
---
*"I can't keep doing this, Drae." Angel's voice was soft but final, the way it got when she'd made up her mind about something. They stood under the awning of her building, rain drumming overhead like an impatient audience.*
*"Doing what?" But he already knew. Had known since the moment she'd asked him to walk her home instead of coming up for their usual movie night.*
*"Pretending." She turned to face him, and in the yellow glow of the street lamp, he could see tears mixing with raindrops on her cheeks. "You look at me like I'm something precious, and I can't... I can't be that for you."*
*"Angel—"*
*"You've been my best friend since we were twelve. You taught me how to change a tire, you stayed up all night when I had the flu, you've been there for every stupid decision I've ever made." Her voice cracked. "But I can't love you the way you love me. It's not fair to either of us to keep pretending I might."*
*The words he'd been carrying for eight years died in his throat. All those almosts—almost telling her at graduation, almost kissing her at her birthday party, almost believing that the way she smiled at him meant something more.*
*"I know," he said finally, because what else was there? "I've always known."*
*"Then why—?"*
*"Because having you as a friend was better than not having you at all." The rain was getting heavier, but neither of them moved. "Because I'd rather love you and lose than never love you at all."*
*She stepped forward then, standing on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek the way she had a thousand times before. But this time it felt like goodbye.*
*"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm so sorry I can't be what you need."*
*He watched her disappear into her building, knowing it would be the last time. Knowing that staying friends after a confession like that was just another kind of lie they'd both be too tired to keep telling.*
*Three weeks later, a drunk driver ran a red light on Pine Street, and Angel became a memory instead of a possibility.*
---
"Drae?" His mother's voice pulled him back to the present. "You okay, sweetheart? You looked like you went somewhere else for a minute."
He blinked, realizing he'd been standing frozen by the kitchen table, the college brochure still clutched in his hand. "Yeah, sorry. Just... thinking about work stuff."
But his mother's knowing look suggested she understood exactly where his mind had gone. She'd been the one to hold him when the call came. The one who'd driven him to the funeral when he was too broken to trust himself behind the wheel.
"She would have been proud of you," his mother said quietly. "Of how you've taken care of us. Of the beautiful words you write."
Drae nodded, not trusting his voice. Angel had always said he had a way with words, even when they were kids. She used to joke that he could make grocery lists sound poetic. If only she could see him now, turning heartbreak into platinum hits for a stranger to sing.
If only she could see him at all.
---
By evening, the Chen house had settled into its comfortable rhythms. Lily had finally stopped playing Melissa Rivera on repeat, switching to homework and occasional bursts of frustrated sighing over calculus. Their mother had made her famous spaghetti and meatballs—famous mostly because it was the one meal she couldn't possibly mess up, even on her worst days.
They crowded around their small kitchen table, the same one where Drae had done homework as a kid, where his father had taught him to play poker with matchsticks for chips, where they'd eaten birthday cake for eighteen years before everything changed.
"So," Lily said, twirling pasta around her fork with the precision of someone who'd perfected the art, "Marcus Thompson asked me to the winter formal today."
Drae's fork stopped halfway to his mouth. "Thompson? The kid with the motorcycle?"
"It's a scooter, and he's sweet." Lily rolled her eyes. "You don't have to go all protective big brother on me."
"I absolutely do. That's literally my job description."
Their mother laughed, the sound lighter than it had been that afternoon when she was buried in bills. "Leave your sister alone. Marcus is a nice boy. His mother volunteers at the food bank with me."
"See?" Lily pointed her fork at Drae triumphantly. "Mom likes him."
"Mom liked my ex-boyfriend too, and look how that turned out," Drae muttered, immediately regretting the words when Lily's expression softened.
"That's different," she said quietly. "Angel was... Angel was special. Just because she couldn't—" She stopped herself, glancing at their mother. "I just mean, you can't let one bad experience make you think all relationships are doomed."
Drae looked at his baby sister, sixteen and still believing in happy endings despite growing up in a house touched by loss. Sometimes he envied her optimism. Sometimes it reminded him why he worked so hard to protect it.
"You're right," he said, managing a smile. "Marcus seems like a good kid. Just... be careful, okay?"
"Always am." She grinned. "Besides, if he breaks my heart, I can always listen to Melissa Rivera's breakup songs until I feel better."
Drae nearly choked on his water. "Right. The heartbreak songs."
After dinner, he shooed both women out of the kitchen, rolling up his sleeves to tackle the dishes. It was a small thing, but it was his thing—the one chore he'd claimed after Dad died, mostly because it gave him twenty minutes of meditative quiet while his hands stayed busy.
"You don't have to do that every night," his mother called from the living room, where she was settling in with her evening crossword puzzle.
"I know," he called back, running hot water over the pasta pot. "But it's good thinking time."
And it was. Something about the routine of it—scrub, rinse, stack—helped organize the chaos in his head. Tonight, he found himself thinking about Melissa Rivera, wondering what she was doing right now. Probably in some expensive restaurant, or at some industry party, surrounded by people who called her brilliant for words she'd never written.
Did she ever wonder about him? Did she ever think about the person behind the email address, the one who translated her melodies into the language of loss and hope and everything in between?
His phone buzzed on the counter, but he ignored it. Whatever email had come in could wait until morning. Tonight, he wanted to just be Drae Chen—son, brother, dishwasher. Not the invisible voice behind someone else's fame.
"Drae?" His mother appeared in the doorway, crossword folded in her hand. "You should get some rest, sweetheart. You look tired."
He dried his hands on the dish towel, noting how she always seemed to know exactly when his thoughts were getting too heavy to carry alone.
"Yeah, I think I will." He kissed her forehead, breathing in the familiar scent of her lavender lotion. "Love you, Ma."
"Love you too, baby."
As he headed upstairs to his room, Drae could hear Lily practicing guitar in her bedroom—not Melissa Rivera this time, but something of her own creation. The melody drifted through the thin walls, hopeful and unpolished and entirely, authentically hers.
Maybe that was enough for tonight. Maybe it was enough to know that in this small house, in this small town, the music still belonged to them.