Writing a Song

Ronan woke up the next morning with a plan. The dorm was quiet, Keiran still snoring across the room. He sat at his desk, opened his notebook to the peaceful song he'd chosen for the annual function. Pen in hand, he started writing.

In his past life, he'd heard hundreds of songs—rock ballads, pop hits, slow acoustic tracks. They were burned into his memory, bits and pieces floating around his head.

But he didn't want to paste them here unchanged. That'd be too easy, and in his old world, it'd be plagiarism. Here, no one knew those songs. They didn't exist. Still, he wanted something new, something his own. He'd take the feelings, the shapes of those old melodies, and build from there.

He started with a memory—a song about leaving home, soft guitar strumming in his head. It wasn't famous, just a tune he'd liked, about a guy packing a bag and walking away. He kept the mood, quiet, bittersweet but changed the story. This was about college, about youth slipping through your fingers. He scribbled the first lines: "Days in the sun, we ran so free / Hallways loud with who we'd be." His pen moved fast, as he hummed a melody, slow, rising, then falling like a sigh.

Time passed quick. Days turned to nights, the dorm a blur of coffee cups and crumpled paper. Every evening, he sat there, the desk lamp buzzing, its yellow light pooling over his notebook. He worked through it all, headphones on, replaying "Hold the Dawn" to catch Xyaa's vibe—her soft starts, her way of stretching a note.

By the fifth night, he had most of it. The song flowed, verses about late-night talks, cramming for tests, laughing in the quad; a chorus about leaving it behind, "Time rolls on, we can't stay / Youth fades out, slips away." He played it on his beat-up guitar, the strings rough under his fingers, tweaking chords until they fit.

It sounded good, peaceful, nostalgic, perfect for the function. But the last lines stumped him. He needed an ending, something to tie it all together, a final punch to make the crowd feel it. He wrote and scratched out,

"We move ahead, hearts still here," "Goodbye comes, loud and clear"

Ronan doesn't like that.

Days stretched on. The function was a week away, then three days, then one. Every night, he stayed up. He was mentally drained, head foggy. What should the last line be? Something hopeful? Sad? He muttered to himself, "End of the road, but… no, too flat," and tossed another crumpled draft into the overflowing trash can.

It was late past midnight, the sky black outside, the campus silent. He slumped in his chair, the wood creaking, and rubbed his temples. One day left. He still didn't have the song. As he sat there, a chime rang in his ears, sharp, clear, like a bell. He jolted upright, blinking.

[Hyper Time System Activated]

[Congratulations! You have gained 1 Time Capsule]

The words echoed in his head, glowing faintly behind his eyes. He froze, confused.

Then memories flooded in, not his, but the system's. It was like a manual downloading into his brain. He understood: the Hyper Time System ran on popularity. The more people knew him, liked him, talked about him, the more points it earned. With points, he could buy time capsules. Pockets of extra time. Each capsule sent him to another world, a private space where he could do anything. When he came back, time here stayed the same—like he'd never left.

He checked the system, the interface hovering in his mind like a screen. One capsule: a week long. If he used it, he'd get seven days in that other world, and only a second would pass here. His jaw dropped. "No way,"

This was perfect. He could finish the song, rest, anything and be back before dawn.

He didn't hesitate. "Use it," he said, and the world blurred. The dorm walls shimmered, then snapped back into focus—but different. He was still at his desk, notebook open, lamp on, but the air smelled clean, like rain and pine. The trash can was empty, the coffee cups gone. Outside the window, a forest stretched under a gray sky, trees swaying in a breeze he couldn't hear. Same room, new world.

Ronan exhaled, his shoulders relaxing. No pressure here. Just time. He picked up his pen, the grip smooth in his hand, and got to work. The song poured out now, his mind clearer.

"Friends we made, voices fade," he wrote, the melody lifting. He paced the room, humming, testing lines aloud. "We step out, shadows stay"

No, too dark.

"The past calls, we're okay"

By the third day, he had it. The last lines clicked: "Through the years, we'll still see / Every step set us free."

Simple, hopeful, a nod to moving on but holding tight to what mattered.

He played it through, the guitar's strings buzzing softly. It worked. The song swelled, then settled, a goodbye that didn't feel final. He grinned.

In just three days he made the song, and he four days still left. He could've go back, but why waste it? He turned to Xyaa's music instead. If he'd meet her at the function.

Grace on stage, Xyaa in his head he'd need to know her better. Not to use her, not really, but to talk, connect, maybe nudge her toward his song. He pulled up her SnapSphere on a laptop.

"Hold the Dawn" first, her voice lilting, pure, full of ache. He looped it, memorizing the pauses, the way she breathed between lines. Then the trash—those loud, hollow tracks. "Burn the Night" thumped with bass, her voice sharp and clipped; "Take It Off" was all synth and swagger, no depth. He winced but kept going, noting her style, how she leaned into high notes, rushed the endings.

By day six, he knew her patterns, soft starts fading to loud finishes, a habit of stretching vowels in choruses.

By day seven, he did understand her better.

The capsule's time ticked down. He stood by the window, watching the forest blur. The world shifted again, the dorm snapped into place, musty and cluttered, the trash can overflowing. His clock blinked 12:01, just a second later. He laughed.

The function was tomorrow. He had the song, peaceful, nostalgic, his own.