THE BROKEN DREAMS

The auditorium was packed the next morning.

Posters lined the walls, flashing bold colors and slogans about "Student Leadership Elections."

> "Tomorrow's leaders are born today!"

"Vote Smart, Vote Strong!"

Fred slipped into the back of the room, wearing the same faded hoodie from yesterday.

Nobody noticed him.

Nobody ever did.

He was a ghost at Sunrise University.

And maybe that was better.

He hugged his guitar case tighter, like a shield.

On stage, the Dean of Students, Mr. Vinton — a short man with silver hair and a smile like a crocodile — tapped the microphone.

> "Today," he boomed,

"we introduce a new program to recognize Exceptional Talent in our freshman class!"

Cheers erupted from the crowd.

Girls clapped loudly, boys whistled, everyone looking excited.

Fred just felt tired.

Vinton held up a sleek tablet.

> "One winner will receive a full scholarship, luxury housing, a brand-new car, and an internship at PlatinumCorp!"

More cheers.

Phones flashed everywhere, students already dreaming of Instagram stories featuring them in their new cars.

Fred's stomach twisted.

He didn't belong here.

He couldn't even afford new shoes, let alone compete for dreams crafted by millionaires.

> "Candidates," Vinton continued, "will be judged on academics, talent... and school spirit!"

That last part made Fred's heart sink further.

School spirit?

He couldn't even afford a decent shirt for events.

---

After the announcement, students flooded the halls like a stampede.

Fred tried to slip away unnoticed.

But halfway down the corridor, he froze.

There, pinned to the Student Board, was a poster.

A poster with his face.

Badly photoshopped.

Fake quotes in huge letters.

> "Fred Smith — Cheating his way through music classes since Day 1!"

"Paying people to do his assignments!"

Fred's hands shook.

Laughter erupted behind him.

Phones were snapping pictures.

Girls whispered behind manicured nails.

Boys elbowed each other, smirking.

> "Hey Fred, play us a fake song!"

one sneered.

> "Did you buy that guitar too?"

another joked.

Fred ripped the poster down with trembling fingers.

But it was too late.

Screenshots were already flying around.

By lunch, he would be a meme.

By evening, he would be a joke.

---

Fred stumbled outside, his breath coming fast.

The campus gardens — once his secret escape — now felt suffocating.

He dropped onto a bench.

Pressed his fists into his eyes.

Tried not to cry.

Tried not to scream.

That's when he saw her.

Trina Wexler.

The "Queen Bee" of Sunrise University.

Long honey-blonde hair, fake blue eyes, a killer body wrapped in designer clothes.

She was laughing.

Laughing hard.

And standing right next to her —

smirking like a devil —

was Marcus, the campus golden boy.

The same Marcus Fred had once helped with music theory classes... for free.

Fred's mouth went dry.

They had set him up.

Framed him.

All for a stupid election.

All for prizes Fred had never even wanted.

--

Fred wanted to confront them.

Wanted to scream.

Wanted to fight.

But he didn't.

He knew better.

Poor boys who fought rich kids didn't win.

They just got expelled.

Or worse.

He turned away, numb, and started walking.

Each step felt heavier.

Each breath hurt.

The world blurred around him.

Laughter.

Whispers.

Judgmental stares.

It all stabbed into him like knives.

Naya's words echoed in his mind.

> "Next time they laugh... play louder."

But how do you play when they've already broken your fingers?

---

Fred wandered aimlessly until he reached the old abandoned sports field.

Rusty goalposts.

Torn nets.

Long-forgotten bleachers.

Here, nobody watched.

Here, he could collapse without an audience.

He sat down in the dirt.

Pulled out his battered guitar.

Tried to strum.

The strings buzzed wrong —

the way his heart buzzed wrong now.

His vision blurred with tears he could no longer hold back.

He played anyway.

Played for himself.

Played for the boy he used to be — the boy who thought music could save him.

Played for Naya, wherever she was hiding tonight.

Played for every broken dream that ever dared to rise inside him.

The song was raw.

Ugly.

Beautiful.

Painful.

His fingers bled on the strings.

And for once, he didn't care.

---

As the sun fell behind the ruined stands, Fred whispered a promise into the coming night.

A promise nobody heard.

A promise nobody cared about.

> "You won't break me."

"You'll wish you had, but you won't."

The world didn't pause.

Didn't care.

Didn't notice.

But something shifted inside Fred.

Something stronger than rage.

Stronger than pain.

It was survival.

It was the first brick in a fortress they could never tear down.

Not Marcus.

Not Trina.

Not the laughing crowds.

Not the fake posters.

Not the broken system.

Nobody.

Fred picked up his guitar again.

Wiped the blood off the frets.

Strummed a single note.

Clear.

True.

Alive.

And in the empty sports field where dreams came to die,

a new kind of dream was born.

One built from ashes.

One that would outlive them all.

---