Chapter 2

I returned to the time I was twenty-two, the summer I graduated college.

When I opened my eyes, I was sprawled out on the floor of the school's music room, my back pressed against the cold tiles, cicadas chirping loudly outside the window.

My phone screen lit up with a message from Ryan.

It read: [Sylvia, is the new song ready yet? The company's on my case. They need the demo in by Friday. Really appreciate you doing this.]

He added a hug emoji at the end.

In my previous life, whenever I got a message like that, I'd jump up and start working on the song, even if I was burning up with a fever. I'd make sure to get it to him before the deadline.

Because I believed he needed me.

Because I thought that if I helped him make it big, he'd finally give me credit, putting my name in the spotlight and letting everyone know those songs were mine.

But twelve years went by, and he became more than just famous. He was a legend in the music scene.

However, my name never showed up. Not even once.

Every time I brought up getting my name on the credits, he'd say the timing wasn't right, or the company wouldn't allow it, or he was in a tough spot.

No matter how he spun it, it always meant the same thing: keep writing, but my name was never going to be on it.

I stared at that message for a long time, then typed out five words: [I'm done writing for you.]

After sending it, I turned off my phone.

Lying on the floor of the music room, listening to the cicadas outside, I thought of how good this summer was.

The next morning, when I turned my phone back on, it almost exploded with notifications.

Overnight, Ryan had called seventeen times and sent twenty-three messages.

The last one was a voice message. His voice was low, with a hint of irritation.

He said, "Sylvia, why are you acting up? I know you've been under a lot of pressure lately. Once this wave is over, I'll treat you to dinner. Don't be so stubborn. Only you can write the song."

Only you can write the song.

That line had chained me down for twelve years in my previous life. To him, it was a sweet promise; to me, it was a shackle.

Ryan was my high school classmate. We met in the school's music club. He sang, I wrote songs. He had an amazing voice and was ridiculously good-looking. Whenever he stepped on stage, he'd instantly become the center of attention.

As for me, I'd simply huddle in the corner, playing the piano, so shy I'd blush just talking on stage.

I had feelings for him, and he knew it.

He never said yes, never said no; he just naturally enjoyed all the things I did for him: writing his competition songs, arranging his stage performances, even schmoozing the judges on his behalf.

In our senior year, he took home the gold at the National Youth Singing Competition with a song I wrote for him. In his acceptance speech, he thanked his parents, his teachers, and his company.

But he never thanked me.

I sat in the audience, smiling as I applauded, telling myself, 'It's okay. He just forgot. Next time, he'll mention me for sure.'

Next time. It was always the next time.

After college, I didn't apply to any record companies because Ryan said he needed me.

He told me no one else would understand my music like he did, and once he made it big, he'd start his own label and I'd be the head producer.

So I moved into the basement "studio" his company set up for me, living off instant noodles and plain water while churning out music.

There was no credit, no appearance, and no royalties.

Every month, I got a thousand dollars as a "friend's fee" and the same old line: "Once I'm famous, I'll give you everything."

In the first year, he released his debut album, and the lead single won a New Artist Award. At the awards ceremony, he thanked everyone on the production team. Everyone except me.

I called him to ask why, and he said the company wouldn't allow it, that if people found out about the ghostwriter, it would ruin his image.

"Sylvia, wait a little longer. Once I'm established, you won't have to stay hidden anymore," he had said.

The next year, I wrote all three of his lead singles, and one of them made it onto the Top Ten Songs of the Year list. That year, his earnings broke seven figures.

And me? Still stuck with a thousand dollars a month.

I brought up money with him once.

He frowned and said, "Why are you being so materialistic? Our relationship isn't about money, is it?"

By the third year, Jenna entered the picture. She was the leader of a girl group, beautiful, smooth-talking, and always knew how to charm a crowd. The company paired her and Ryan up for a fake romance to boost their popularity, but before long, the act became reality.

When I went to his apartment to hand over a demo, I spotted two toothbrushes in the bathroom, one blue, one pink. That said it all.

I didn't say anything. I set the demo down and quietly left.

After that, Jenna started interfering with my work. She thought my lyrics were way too poetic.

She said, "Can you make them sweeter? Simpler? Like those catchy songs everyone can't stop humming?"

And Ryan actually went along with it. He made me change the lyrics to fit Jenna's taste.

So now, my musical judgment had to bow to the opinions of a girl group leader whose only talent was her pretty face.

That was probably one of the most ridiculous things that ever happened to me in my previous life.

The years that followed were just endless exhaustion. All those late nights messed up my hormones, and my hair started falling out in handfuls. One time, I passed out in the basement and the guy next door had to haul me to the hospital.

The doctor said I was seriously anemic and completely exhausted.

I spent three days in the hospital, and Ryan never bothered to visit. Instead, he sent his assistant over with a bouquet of baby's breath and a note: [Sylvia, take it easy and rest up. The new song can wait. Just get it done by the end of the month.]

I lay there in my hospital bed, looking at that bouquet, and laughed.

Not because I was moved, but because it was just absurd.

When I was thirty-four, I was holed up in my apartment that winter, rushing to finish a new song for his tour. I hadn't slept for two days straight.

At four in the morning, my hand suddenly lost its grip on the mouse. It felt like an invisible hand was squeezing my chest, making it hard to breathe.

I tried to call 911, but my phone slipped from my hand and hit the floor. I tried to call out, but no sound came from my throat.

The last thing I saw before everything went dark was the unfinished song on my computer screen. I'd only gotten to bar thirty-seven in the arrangement, and the chorus still needed strings.

And then, everything went black.

The very first thing I was going to do in this life was protect myself.