I've got my headphones on, some indie playlist shuffling through my phone, and a backpack heavy with books I've already read twice. My voice hums along quietly, the way it always does when I'm lost in my own world.

That's when I hear it—a sound that cuts through my music like a blade.

Someone's singing. And they're good. Like, actually good. The kind of voice that makes you stop mid-stride and yank your headphones off just to make sure you're hearing it right.

It's coming from the quad, near the old oak tree where the open-mic sign-up board sits. A guy with messy dark-blond hair and a cap pulled low is standing there, guitar in hand, voice rough and raw and real. A small crowd has gathered, some filming, some just listening.

He finishes the chorus and looks up, his bright blue eyes scanning the crowd. They land on me. And he smiles—not the cocky grin of someone who knows he's good, but something easier, warmer.