There was one vending machine on campus that sold the one brand of raspberry soda she needed whenever she was to begin a sculpting project for class. Three dimensional mediums had never been her strong point, but she found she got the job done in a lot better temperament with much more time to spare for details if she had her favorite excessively sugared, effectively caffeinated in hand. It was only slightly inconvenient that the one machine was a bit of a walk from the art room, nestled in a corner at the end of a hallway lined with practice rooms for the many music students who came and went (often exhausting the supply of her raspberry soda in the process). She didnât mind making the short journey, often, as she was now, draped in a smock far too large for her petite frame covered in paint splatters and chalk stains and bits and pieces of stray clay, an array of details left by years of students with active hands and overactive imaginations.
However, this time, she never made it to her destination, the shining blue beacon at the end of the hall lit up with flashy logos and bright LEDs, which was probably for the best seeing as how the raspberry cans had run out two days ago and had yet to be restocked. A song caught her ear through the opening of a propped open door, an entrance to one of the practice rooms. She wasnât sure if the recording was familiar or merely intriguing, but she found herself peeking through the crack in the door frame, gently nudging it open further with her shoulder to maybe hear the music a bit clearly. Sheâd expected to see one or two students huddled around a sound system, maybe practicing the accompaniment with instruments in hand, or trying their hand at transcribing (which would be a lousy pastime, thought Hayi, whoâd always been miserable at reading music). However she was greeted with the sight of a singer, in person, the owner of the voice she thought had been a professional recording it was so good. âWow,â the word passed her lips in a whisper as she unconsciously pushed the door open further, slipping into the room almost silently to watch the vocalist. About a minute later, it occurred to her that she might be intruding, but when she moved to slink out again as quietly as she came, her smock caught on a nearby music stand, causing it to topple noisily into another stand next to it and shattering her attempt at discreetness completely. âSorry,â she uttered sheepishly, cringing slightly as another stand went down, âReally sorry. Youâre really good though, like amazing good! I heard you singing when I walked past and I thought you were a recordingâŚâ she trailed off, realizing she was probably acting far too comfortably with someone whose practice sheâd just interrupted, âReally, though. Sorry about that.â
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