Choose Song

Ronan stepped back into his dorm, the door creaking as he pushed it open. The room was quiet now—no giggling, no thumping bed. Keiran had sent the girl away, and he was sleeping.

Ronan sat at his desk. The air still smelled faintly of Lila's perfume, something cheap and sweet.

He pulled out his laptop, and decided to play Xyaa's most popular songs again. He'd skimmed them before, but now he needed to really listen. He opened SnapSphere, found her profile—GraceOfficial—and clicked on her music links. The first song loaded: "Hold the Dawn."

After a while, he understood her catalog. Besides that debut track, every other song was trash—at least to him. They were catchy, sure, the kind of tunes that stuck in your head and made people tap their feet. Most fans loved them; the views and likes proved it. But for Ronan, a song was trash if it didn't stir something inside you—joy, sadness, anything. Popularity didn't matter, and neither did a pretty voice. If it left him empty, it was nothing.

"Hold the Dawn" was different. He plugged in his earbuds, the cords dangling over his chest, and hit play. The soft guitar started, her voice layering over it—clear, warm. It was about holding onto moments, staying in the present. He clicked the music video next, the screen filling with grainy footage of a girl sitting by a window, watching rain streak the glass. The camera zoomed in on her hands clutching a photo, then cut to kids running outside, laughing, oblivious to time slipping away. The song and video together told a story—small things in life, moments you don't notice until they're gone, never coming back. It hit him hard.

He leaned back, the chair creaking under him, and replayed it. Masterpiece. That was the word for it. Xyaa had talent—real talent—in that song. But then he queued up the rest: "Burn the Night," "Flash of Me," "Take It Off." Trash. Empty beats, shallow lyrics about dancing or sex, her voice drowned in autotune. They didn't feel like anything—just noise to fill a club. He pulled the earbuds out, and rubbed his eyes.

Maybe her first song was luck. A fluke. He opened her SnapSphere again, scrolling her posts. In three years, she'd released thirteen songs. "Hold the Dawn" aside, the other twelve were garbage to him, but their popularity was insane—millions of streams, endless comments. Xyaa—Grace—was a famous singer here, and people wouldn't shut up about her. Not for her music, though. It was the clothes—tiny skirts, string bikinis, tops that barely covered her chest. They talked about how beautiful she was, how fast she churned out songs, how she performed at ten events a month. He did the math—forty events so far, each lasting seven to ten days. No breaks, no rest. She was a machine.

Ronan frowned, tapping his pen against the desk. She worked too much. No one could keep that up without burning out. He scrolled more, digging into the chatter about her online. People loved her promotions too—ads for sketchy stuff: a smoking brand with bold warnings, lingerie lines with her posing in lace, cheap alcohol bottles, gambling apps with flashing lights, even packet lunches full of salt and preservatives. Fans ate it up, but others didn't.

Then there were the rumors—scandals with no proof yet. Affairs with producers, shady deals with sponsors, a leaked photo that might've been her. Nothing solid, but with how she presented herself—orange hair, pale skin, barely dressed—it was easy to believe. He checked her fanbase stats on a forum. Ten million followers, sure, but ninety percent of comments outside her circle hated her. "Sellout," "attention whore," "fake talent"—the words scrolled by in angry threads.

He shut the laptop. Why would the dean pick someone this controversial for the annual function? He leaned back, staring at the cracked ceiling. Two reasons hit him. One: numbers. Even if people hated her, Xyaa—Grace—drew crowds. Her name alone would pack the seats, hate-watchers included. Two: she'd been a student here once. Maybe the dean saw it as a homecoming, a way to show off a graduate who'd made it big, flaws and all.

Whatever the reason, Ronan understood now. And he knew how to use her for his own goals. He grabbed his notebook, the pages crinkling as he flipped to his song drafts. He'd been torn between two—the peaceful, nostalgic one and the upbeat rock track. Now, he made a choice. The peaceful one. He wouldn't do both; he'd focus on one thing.

He started refining it, pen scratching the paper. The song was about youth—graduating, looking back at college and school days. It had soft guitar chords, a slow beat, lyrics about leaving friends behind, the fun and carefree times fading as the adult world loomed with its responsibilities. He hummed the melody, tweaking lines: "Laughing in the halls, we didn't know / Time would call us out, we'd have to go." It fit the function perfectly—a farewell that'd tug at the crowd