A/N: So I wrote this story in 2011- THIRTEEN YEARS AGO! I restarted it with a couple more chapters 10 years later… and now two years later I'm updating it again in this site I'm not sure is really active. Crazy! I randomly thought of this story again and now I'm finally back. I'm determined to actually finish this… wish me luck!

Mercedes sat on the edge of the stage, her legs dangling as she stared out into the empty auditorium. The echoes of their recent showcase performance on campus still lingered in the air, but her mind was elsewhere. The applause, the cheers—they had been wonderful, but they couldn't drown out the thoughts that kept creeping into her mind. It was like she continued to feel this nagging fear, that fight or flight response that left her paralyzed to the spot. She still feared that Jeffery would fulfill his promise and come back. She did everything she could. She notified the campus about him, and she started going to the private counseling sessions that Richter offered, which helped to a certain extent. But something continued to feel like something was still holding her back. Something she couldn't quite put into words.

"Cedes?"

She looked up to see Sam walking toward her.

"Hey," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Hey," He took a seat next to her on the stage. "You were amazing tonight." They were rehearsing the new duet the Goldtones had planned for them, but they hadn't had a chance to perform it live just yet. However, Sam seamlessly fell into place with the team, adding more depth to the vocals. It was like he never stopped Glee Club.

Mercedes offered a small smile. "Thanks. You were too." They sat in silence for a moment, it felt oddly comforting.

Sam swallowed, keeping his eyes on the empty rows of seats in front of them. "Mercedes… I can tell something's on your mind. Do you want to talk about it?" He spoke softly but it echoed through the auditorium surrounding her like the wisp of a warm embrace.

She hesitated, biting her lip. She could feel something wanting to rise up from her throat, but she almost felt like she was choking on the words. It caused her chest to ache.

"I just… I don't know, Sam," she finally said, her voice trembling. "I feel like I'm carrying this… this feeling, and no matter what I do, I can't seem to shake it."

Sam nodded holding her gaze with a steadying certainty. It helped her push through.

"I feel like I'm swimming upstream, just when I feel like I'm making so much progress, doing everything I can, there is just something holding me down from truly breaking free."

Sam reached out and gently took her hand in his, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. "It's okay to feel that way. Healing isn't a straightforward path."

"I know. I just… I don't know how to let go. How to stop this fear from controlling me." For a moment she looked down and marveled at their two hands. This larger hand encircling her small one. Light and dark. The warmth of his hand slowly creeping up her arm and to her chest seeming to soothe the ache.

Sam seemed also stare at their hands, but suddenly his green eyes flickered up to meet hers slowly widening as a small smile grew on his lips.

"What…. what if you used music to help you through this?"

She looked at him, confusion mixed with curiosity. "Music?"

"Yeah," Sam leaned in slightly. "Music is your life. It's how you express yourself. What if you started writing songs about what you're feeling? About what you've been through?"

Mercedes considered this, her mind turning over the idea. She knew she wanted music to be her future, she took songwriting classes, she learned the theory, but she never used it in that way.

She could write songs that told her story, that gave voice to her pain. But she never really tapped into something so deeply personal.

"Maybe… I've never actually tried it before…"

Sam gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. "You can do anything, Mercedes. You've got so much talent, and so much heart. I think writing could be exactly what you need right now. I know it helps me."

She looked into his eyes, seeing the sincerity shining behind them, the belief he had in her. It seemed to give her courage.

"But… where would I even start?" She sighed.

Sam stood up. "How about we start right now?" He offered the same hand that comforted her moments ago and helped her up. The force of his pull almost made her crash into his chest — and for a fleeting moment she wished she did. But he took her arm to hold her steady before they both headed for the stage exit.

As they made their way out of the auditorium and to the music building, the memories of another moment in an auditorium started coming back to her. But at the time years ago, it was Sam who needed her help. It had been a particularly rough week for Sam. His parents were struggling to find steady work, and the uncertainty was taking a toll on him. He had always been the one to keep things light, to crack jokes and distract his siblings from their worries. But he felt like the weight of this burden was wearing him down.

After another long day, Sam retreated to the William McKinley Auditorium, hoping to find some solace in the quiet away from the talk about how their parents would find the money for the motel or the week's meals. He sat on the stage, staring out at the empty seats.

Mercedes found him there, he didn't have a phone, but she started with his usual spots. She knew he was having a particularly hard day. She had noticed the way he had been quieter than usual, the way his smile didn't quite reach his eyes when they were talking earlier in between classes.

"Sammy..." she had called out gently, walking up to him. "What's going on?

Sam had sighed deeply, his shoulders slumping as he looked up at her. "I don't know what to do, Cedes. My parents… they're trying so hard, but nothing seems to work out for them. I feel so useless, doing nothing while they're struggling."

Mercedes had sat down beside him, her presence comforting. "You're not useless, Sam. You're doing everything you can to help them. You're taking care of Stacie and Stevie. And you're working and going to school at the same time. But you can't control everything, no matter how much you want to."

"I know," he had said, his voice thick with frustration. "But it doesn't make it any easier.."

They sat in silence for a moment before Mercedes turned to him smiling softly. "You know, you have a pretty amazing imagination… You've come up with some of the craziest, most creative stories I've ever heard. Maybe you could use that."

Sam had looked at her, confused. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, use your imagination to create something that helps you get past the pain. Write a story, or a song, or just anything that lets you express what you're feeling. It doesn't have to fix everything, but it can help you get through it."

Sam blinked. "You think that would work?"

Mercedes nodded. "You've got so much talent, Sam. And sometimes, the best way to deal with what you're going through is to let it out in your own way."

Sam had taken her words to heart. That night, he had gone home and started scribbling in a notebook, writing down all the stories and thoughts that had been swirling in his mind. It hadn't solved his family's problems, but it gave him a sense of control, a way to channel his feelings into something creative, something positive.

As they approached the Richter music room, Mercedes felt the significance of the present moment. She realized that the very thing Sam had used to cope during his hardest times was what he was now offering her—a way to channel her pain into something creative, something healing.

Sam grabbed his guitar while Mercedes settled at the piano, her fingers lightly touching the keys vaguely searching for a note that felt right.

"Let's just start with how you're feeling right now," Sam said as he sat down next to her on the piano bench, strumming a few gentle chords on his guitar. "You don't have to think about making it perfect—just let the words come."

Mercedes took a deep breath, closing her eyes as she let the emotions she'd been holding back rise to the surface. She thought about the fear she'd experienced, the pain she had endured, but also the strength she had discovered within herself and the support she had received from her friends and family. Gradually, the words began to form in her mind.

As she started to sing, her voice was soft, tinged with the vulnerability of her feelings. Sam played along as he matched his chords to the tone of her voice. With each line she sang, her voice grew stronger, more assured. She was navigating her emotions, finding a way through the darkness that had once felt overwhelming.

Sam continued to accompany her, the melody of his guitar intertwining with her voice. The music became a conduit for everything she had kept inside a release that allowed her to express the depth of her emotions. The more she sang, the lighter she felt, as if a weight was being lifted from her chest.

When they finally finished, Mercedes felt a profound sense of peace—something she hadn't felt in a long time. She turned to Sam, tears glistening in her eyes, but these were tears of relief, of hope. Sam reached up and gently wiped away a tear that slipped down her cheek.

"Thank you," She breathed out.

After that afternoon in the music room, it was as if a dam had burst inside Mercedes. The emotions, thoughts, and fears she had kept bottled up for so long came rushing out, flooding the pages of her notebook in a cathartic release. She wrote down a line that bubbled up from her chest and spilled out onto the page. Every word brought her closer to understanding what she was feeling—acknowledging the depth of her pain, her uphill battle, the unwavering support from her friends and family, and the journey of healing she was on.

That day, she found herself back at her bench, a notebook in her lap. It was a blank journal that Sam had given her, with a few of Stacie's doodles decorating the inner cover and first page. When she paused between lines, she sometimes traced those drawings with her pen, thinking about how that little girl was doing. A soft smile touched her lips as she thought of Stacie and her brother's infectious joy.

Her thoughts drifted to Stacie's eldest brother. Sam had helped her break through the walls she had felt trapped behind for so long. She didn't know how to begin to thank him.

His voice echoed in her mind, a quiet reassurance that had become her anchor.

"Just let the words come."

Mercedes turned to a blank page and, in careful, swirling cursive, wrote two simple words at the top: "Thank you."

For a moment, she just stared at those words, letting their meaning sink in. They brought up memories—of summer days with the wind blowing through her hair with the windows down, sunshine filtering through the leaves of trees, the taste of mint chocolate chip mocha, the comforting scent of a comic bookstore, and the warmth of strong arms wrapping completely around her, those two green eyes shining back at her.

She closed her eyes, allowing the flood of memories and emotions to wash over her. She had never allowed herself to dwell on these particular feelings before. She knew they were there, and they had been growing steadily ever since Sam had come back into her life. But she kept pushing them away out of fear—fear of getting hurt, fear of hurting him, fear of him seeing the cracks in her that she had always tried to hide. Years ago, she had been his rock, his support. She didn't want him to see how broken she had become.

But now, everything was starting to fall into place. And it was Sam who had helped her get to that place.

So, where did that leave them?

Mercedes didn't want to overthink it. She decided to start where she could—by letting her words and feelings flow freely, turning them into lines on the page. She could imagine a melody weaving through those lines. Something bright, something warm… it contrasted with the other songs she had been creating before.

Before she knew it, a new song had taken shape on the page. She closed the notebook, taking a deep breath, releasing everything she had been holding back.

The early afternoon sun streamed through the large windows of Dr. Evelyn Goldey's office, casting warm patterns of light across the stacks of books that lined the walls. Sam stood just outside the door, his heart beating a little faster than usual. He had been to this office several times before, but today felt different. Helping Mercedes navigate her own healing had stirred something within him, compelling him to confront the internal struggles he had been avoiding for so long.

Taking a deep breath, he knocked on the door, which was already slightly ajar.

"Come in!" A melodic voice called out.

Sam pushed the door open and stepped into the cozy, book-filled space. Dr. Goldey was seated behind her desk, glasses perched on the tip of her nose as she reviewed some papers. She looked up and saw Sam giving a warm smile that reminded him of his grandmother.

"Sam! It's good to see you," she greeted him, setting the papers aside. "Come in, have a seat."

Sam sank into the chair opposite her desk. He hesitated for a moment, not quite sure how to begin.

"What brings you here today?" She asked, her sharp eyes studying him with genuine interest.

Sam ran a hand through his hair, his nerves getting the best of him. "I… well, I've been thinking a lot lately. About my writing, I mean."

Dr. Goldey leaned forward slightly, resting her elbows on the desk and interlacing her fingers. "What about it?"

Sam let out a slow breath. "So… I've been working on this manuscript, but… I keep hitting walls. I'm just not so sure about what I'm doing."

The professor's expression softened, but her eyes remained focused on him, attentive. "Sam, do you remember the first time you came to see me? You were in my humanities class, and you submitted a piece that was unlike anything I'd seen from a student before. As a freshman, no less."

Sam nodded slowly. He remembered that day well—how nervous he had been to submit something so personal. But there was just something about Dr. Goldey's energy in her teaching that inspired him to tap into his creative side, which he had started fostering in high school.

"You wrote with a voice that was uniquely yours," She continued. "You had a perspective that was fresh, and your imagination was, and still is, a gift. Do you remember what I told you after reading that piece?"

He swallowed, nodding again. "You told me that my dyslexia wasn't a disadvantage but a different way of seeing the world."

She smiled, pleased. "Exactly. And that's what makes your writing special. You see the world differently, and that gives you a unique voice—a voice that deserves to be heard."

Sam looked down at his hands, fidgeting slightly. "But what if… what if it's not enough? What if people don't understand what I'm trying to say?"

Dr. Goldey leaned back in her chair, considering him carefully before she spoke. "Sam, writing isn't about pleasing everyone. It's about expressing your truth, your experiences, and your perspective. Not everyone will connect with it, and that's okay. What matters is that you're honest in your writing and that you're doing it for yourself as much as for anyone else."

Sam looked up, meeting her gaze. There was something reassuring in the steadiness of her grey eyes, something that made him feel like maybe he wasn't as lost as he thought.

"Writing is a journey. It's full of challenges, and there will be times when you doubt yourself. But those are the moments when you have to dig deeper, push through the doubt, and keep going. Because what you have to say is important, Sam. Your stories matter."

Sam felt a lump forming in his throat, but he nodded. "I just… sometimes it feels like I'm not making any progress?"

She smiled gently. "Every word you write is progress, even if it doesn't feel that way. It's all part of the process. And remember, you don't have to do it alone. I'm here to help you, to guide you through those tough spots. You've already come so far, Sam. Don't stop now."

Sam sat quietly for a moment, letting her words sink in. Dr. Goldey had always believed in him, even when he couldn't believe in himself. Maybe, just maybe, he could trust that belief a little more.

But there was something else weighing on him, something that had been pressing on his mind ever since he started this writing journey in college. He took a deep breath.

"There's something else," Sam admitted, his voice quieter now. "It's not just the writing. It's… football. I've been getting more attention from scouts, and there's pressure to really focus on it, to make it my main priority."

Dr. Goldey nodded, encouraging him to go on.

"I love football," Sam continued, "but writing… writing is different. It feels like it's a part of me. But I'm afraid if I focus too much on one, I'll lose the other. And then there's the pressure from everyone. It's like… I'm being pulled in two different directions, and I don't know which one to choose."

The professor leaned back, studying him thoughtfully before speaking. "Sam, I think it's important to remember that you don't have to choose one over the other—at least not right now. You're still in a place where you can explore both passions. You don't have to let go of one to succeed in the other."

Sam looked at her, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly.

"Football and writing may seem like two very different paths, but they're both parts of who you are," she continued. "And it's possible to find a balance. It might be challenging, but it's not impossible. The key is to listen to yourself, to what you truly want, not just what others expect of you."

Sam nodded, the knot in his chest loosening as her words sank in. "But what if… what if I have to make a choice eventually? What if I can't do both?"

Dr. Goldey gave him a small, understanding smile. "That's something you'll have to decide for yourself, Sam. But right now, don't let the fear of what might happen keep you from pursuing both. You've already proven that you're capable of doing amazing things, both on the field and with your writing. Give yourself the time and space to figure out what you truly want."

She paused, letting her words settle before continuing. "And remember, passions can evolve. Just because you're drawn to football now doesn't mean you won't find a deeper love for writing later—or vice versa. Life is a journey, and you're still figuring out your path. There's no rush to define it all right now."

Sam felt a wave of relief wash over him. He had been so caught up in the pressure of making the "right" choice that he had forgotten it was okay to take his time. To explore. To let his passions coexist, at least for now.

"Thank you, Dr. Goldey," Sam said, his voice filled with sincerity. "I really needed to hear that."

Dr. Goldey reached across the desk and placed her hand on top of his. "You're welcome, Sam. And remember, the world needs your stories. Keep writing. Don't let the doubts or the pressure win."

Sam nodded, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "I won't. I'll keep going."

As he left her office, Sam felt more grounded. He still had some decisions to make in the future, but he knew that he could still follow and nurture his passions. He had people who believed in him, and that made all the difference.

A/N: You probably had to re-read the whole thing again. I know I did! I hope you enjoyed it. Again, wish me luck. I am DETERMINED to finish this!