I walk into the meeting room and the whole team is already sitting at the long wooden table. "You're late again Cole," Michael, our editor in chief, groans and shakes his head. He's standing at the front by the whiteboard, already covered with his messy handwriting.

I've been a writer for the university's bimonthly newspaper, The Green and Gold for over a year now. It was freshman year on orientation day, and all of the clubs had set up booths to attract new members. I headed straight for their booth to join, and the rest is history. This year, the university gave us this dingy old office in the basement of one of the libraries to use as our HQ. The Wi-Fi is spotty, the heater stops working every couple of weeks, and it's so tiny that we have to go upstairs to use the library's meeting rooms for our meetings.

Good to know how appreciated we are.

"Sorry Michael, my class was on the other side of campus." I quickly sit down at the table. My shoes kept sinking into the snow, and I nearly slipped and fell a few times on patches of ice too. I don't bother adding that, Michael doesn't have a sympathy bone in his lanky body.

Michael took over as editor in chief this year. He's a huge pain in the ass sometimes, but I'll begrudgingly admit he knows what he's doing. We didn't even have an office last year. Supplies had to be divided up and kept in our houses. It took him weeks of relentless arguing back and forth with U of M's administration staff over the summer to secure the office space and funding we needed.

"Anyways, since you're late, there's only one section left for the upcoming issue." He uses a marker to point to the only section title without someone's name written underneath.

Arts and Culture

Dread sinks into my stomach. "Aw come on," I groan and lean back in my chair. It's my least favourite section to write for. "Francine, could we trade?" She's assigned to sports for this issue. Everyone knows I'm the best at that.

"No way." She shakes her head and her brown curls bounce animatedly. "I get to report on the football team's game," she giggles with a dreamy look in her wide brown eyes. Typical.

I quickly skim over the other names on the whiteboard. "Raymond? Want to trade?" We're relatively close, the two of us are usually willing to help each other out. He's doing the advice column this time.

He looks at me apologetically and shakes his head. "No offense Cole, but you're not the most, err... compassionate or sensitive person out there. Remember what happened the last time you did the advice column?"

Everyone nods in agreement.

"Rude." I scowl at them.

It was last year. I had done the final edits for that issue alone, so no one had seen my part before it was published. I might've caused a tiny controversy with my response to someone asking for advice about their boyfriend cheating on them. It spread like wildfire on social media, and we got in quite a bit of trouble.

We started reviewing articles as a team after that.

"You're writing the article, Flynn." Michael uses his I-don't-care-what-you-want tone. He probably speaks with that tone more often than not.

"I don't even know what to write about," I grumble, slumping even lower in my chair. The last time I was assigned arts and culture, I interviewed an art student and wrote an entire article on paint drying. The paint was probably more interesting than they were.

Michael chuckles as he writes my name on the board. "There's supposedly a famous musician secretly rehearsing on campus, my girlfriend says they're cousins."

"Famous? So they're going to be pretentious and snobby?" I scoff.

I've interacted with more than enough arrogant music students here to know what they're like. I took a music course as an elective last year. They belittled and judged me when they found out I wasn't a music major like the majority of the class for the entire semester.

Then there was a karaoke night during orientation week. They came in a pack to mock everyone who wasn't from their group and hogged the mics all night. Add fame to their already massive egos and they must be impossibly intolerable.

"I didn't ask her to elaborate, I don't even know her name." Michael just shrugs. "All I know is that she's going to be on campus in the evening on weekends to practice."

"So I have to come to campus on weekends too?" I tiredly drag my hand down my face. Coming on weekdays is enough of a chore already.

"Journalist life never takes a break," Francine laughs and nudges me playfully.

"I heard music magazines and websites are willing to pay a ton for a picture of her." Michael grins and his dark brown eyes twinkle with mischief. "The newspaper could always use some extra funding."

Andrea, our photographer, crumples up a sheet of paper and chucks it at Michael's head. She manages to hit him square in the face. "Absolutely not," she scolds. "There must be a reason why she doesn't want to be photographed. We have ethics you clown."

Andrea's the only one on the team unafraid to talk back to Michael when he steps out of line. She drives him nuts sometimes, but I can tell he secretly respects her for that.

"Fine, Cole, just do an interview with her I guess," he grumbles. He looks down at his phone at the sound of a text and his face lights up. "Just your luck, my girlfriend said her cousin's going to be on campus sometime this evening."

"Where? When?"

"She wouldn't tell her apparently." He shrugs sheepishly and gives me a look that says, that's your problem. "I assume the music building if she's coming here to practice. Just keep an eye out."

-----

I slowly open my eyes and lift my head up - I guess I fell asleep while I was trying to study. I turn and look around the room to stretch my stiff neck a bit. Almost every table was full when I got to the library, but the large studying area is nearly empty now. Only a couple of tired looking students staring at their books and laptops remain. Outside the tall floor to ceiling windows, I can see people walking through campus, illuminated by the warm glow of the streetlamps. Most are headed towards the parking lot or bus stop.

"Oh crap," I whisper, suddenly remembering why I'm even still on campus. I glance at my watch as I scramble to pack up my laptop and books. It's nearly eight o'clock, I hope I'm not too late.

The cold evening air is jarring compared to the toasty warm library. I open the doors and am immediately hit with a brittle wall of wind and snow. I tug my hat lower and begin my tedious trek to the music building, being more careful to avoid slippery patches of ice this time.

As I enter the giant building, I realize I've never been inside here before. You'd think that I would've explored campus more after attending U of M for over a year now. I take a quick look at the map by the door - it looks like the practice rooms are all on the fifth floor.

The narrow hallway feels like a musical melting pot. As soon as I step out of the elevator, I hear the muffled sounds of a variety of different instruments coming from the shut doors, all sort of blending together.

I suddenly realize I'm an idiot. I don't know what instrument she plays or what she even looks like. I quickly take my phone out to text Michael.

Cole: What instrument does she play?

He responds almost immediately. Knowing him, I wouldn't be surprised if he was still in the office doing work right now. On the outside, he might seem like the most apathetic person in the world, but I don't know anyone with a work ethic as strong as his.

Michael: Uh, let me ask Alyssa

I slowly walk down the hall, taking a look at the things hung along the walls to kill time while I wait for Michael's text. The music program at U of M is a lot more accomplished and prestigious than I realized. Countless framed awards and pictures of famous alumni are everywhere. I feel the tiniest bit of remorse for talking so much crap about them in the past.

Just barely though.

Michael: Piano. I'm busy, don't text again unless it's important

Each door has a small window, but all of them have the blinds drawn shut. I can only tell whether or not the lights are on. The chaotic blend of different instruments coming from all of the rooms make it nearly impossible to isolate which one is being played inside. I guess my only option is to check every room.

I open the first door and a string quartet looks up at me with puzzled expressions. "Whoops sorry, wrong room," I apologize sheepishly and quickly shut the door.

A choir in the next room.

A jazz band in the next room.

A couple making out in the next room.

I check nearly every room until I'm at the very last one at the end of the hall. "You've got to be kidding me," I grumble. Of course it had to be the last door.

I slowly open the door.

It's her.

--------------------------------

I would've loved to join a newspaper team if my school had one.

I already have a love-hate relationship with Cole lol.

Thanks for reading! :)