The jarring, aggressive vibration of a cell phone against a wooden nightstand is a universally terrible way to wake up.
Jarad groaned, rolling over in his tangled bedsheets, squinting through the darkness of his bedroom.
The sun hadn’t even fully risen yet, casting a pale, cold, bluish-gray light through his window blinds.
He reached out blindly, his hand smacking the top of his desk before finally finding his phone.
He pulled it to his face, his eyes struggling to adjust to the harsh brightness of the screen.
The caller ID flashed a New Jersey area code.
He swiped the green button, bringing the speaker to his ear, his voice thick with sleep.
“Hello?”
“Jarad. Tell me you are awake right now.”
It was Ashley.
Her voice wasn’t just energetic; it was practically vibrating through the phone speaker, entirely breathless and frantic.
Jarad rubbed his face, sitting up slowly against his headboard.
“I mean, I am now. What time is it? Are you okay?”
“Am I okay? Jarad, have you looked at the internet this morning?” Ashley demanded, the excitement in her tone completely undisguised.
“Have you looked at your YouTube channel?”
Jarad frowned, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
“No, I was asleep. What happened? Did the track get taken down?”
“Taken down?” Ashley let out a loud, disbelieving laugh.
“Jarad, put me on speakerphone. Open your app right now. Just look at it. I literally couldn’t wait for a reasonable hour to call you.”
Still deeply confused, Jarad pulled the phone away from his ear, tapped the speaker icon, and minimized the call.
He opened the YouTube app on his home screen.
The interface loaded for a split second before his Creator Studio dashboard populated.
Jarad stopped breathing.
He blinked hard, convinced his tired eyes were playing tricks on him in the dim light of his bedroom.
He refreshed the page.
The numbers stayed exactly the same.
Yesterday, when he went to sleep, Wishing Well was hovering right around the one million mark.
It was a massive, life-changing milestone.
But looking at the screen now, just eight hours later, the video had entirely shattered its previous trajectory.
Views: 3,542,109.
“Three point five…” Jarad whispered into the quiet room, his brain completely failing to process the math.
“Ashley, it jumped two and a half million views overnight. How is that even mathematically possible?”
“Because you broke the algorithm, Jarad,” Ashley said through the speaker, her voice beaming with pride.
“Look at your recommended feed. Look at what people are posting. You got the ultimate co-sign.”
Jarad clicked out of his dashboard and went to the main YouTube search bar.
He didn’t even have to type his own name.
Right at the very top of his recommended feed, sitting on the trending page, was a stream highlight video uploaded by a massive gaming clip channel.
The title read: T-PAIN REACTS TO JUICE WRLD (HE WAS SHOCKED).
The clip itself already had eight hundred thousand views.
“I’ll let you watch it,” Ashley said softly.
“But I just wanted to be the first one to say congratulations. This isn’t just a viral moment anymore, Jarad. You’re officially in the mainstream. Get that new studio ready, because I am booking my train ticket today. We have a lot of work to do.”
“Thank you, Ashley. Seriously,” Jarad said, a massive, genuine smile breaking across his face.
“I’ll text you later today.”
He hung up the phone.
The quiet of his bedroom returned, but the energy in the air was completely electric.
Jarad clicked on the highlight clip, turning his phone volume up.
The video opened with the familiar, neon-blue glow of T-Pain’s Twitch streaming room.
Jarad watched in absolute awe as the legendary artist—the man who had practically invented the modern melodic rap wave—pressed play on Wishing Well.
Jarad watched T-Pain’s posture completely shift the moment the acoustic guitar began.
He watched the hip-hop icon pause the video just fifteen seconds in, demanding his chat stop spamming so he could break down Jarad’s vocal pockets.
“Listen to where he starts singing. He didn’t wait for the main beat to drop. He completely ignored the normal rules of rapping. He let his voice glide in right before the drums hit, and he used this heartbroken melody to bridge the acoustic guitar with the heavy bass.”
Jarad felt a profound, heavy weight lift off his chest.
When Chance the Rapper tweeted the song, it was a massive boost of exposure.
But this?
This was entirely different.
T-Pain wasn’t just sharing a link; he was clinically breaking down the audio engineering, the vocal stacking, and the sheer musicality of Jarad’s performance.
He was validating the art.
The video continued, showing T-Pain listening to the rest of the song in complete, stunned silence.
Then came the speech.
“He stood in front of the entire internet and said, ‘I am terrified, I am addicted, and I am hurting.’ That takes a level of bravery that most grown men in this industry do not possess… The emo kids and the hip-hop kids just found their new king.”
He put his face in his hands, taking a long, deep breath.
The YouTube algorithm, fueled by T-Pain’s massive audience flooding to the video, had picked Wishing Well up and blasted it to millions of homepages overnight.
It was a snowball effect of epic proportions.
He wasn’t just an underground SoundCloud kid anymore.
He was a recognized, undeniable force in the industry, and he hadn’t even left his bedroom.
But he couldn’t stay in his bedroom forever.
He had real-world logistics to handle.
Jarad threw off the covers, quickly showering and tossing on a pair of comfortable dark jeans and a plain black hoodie.
He grabbed his backpack and headed downstairs.
The smell of toasted bagels and black coffee filled the kitchen.
Carmella was standing by the counter, dressed for work, quietly sipping her mug while reviewing a stack of paperwork.
She looked up as Jarad walked in, noting the bright, intense focus in his eyes.
“Morning,” Carmella said, setting her papers down.
“You look like you actually slept for once.”
“Morning, Mom,” Jarad smiled, opening the fridge to grab a carton of orange juice.
“I feel good. A lot of good things happening today.”
Just as he poured himself a glass, his phone buzzed in his pocket.
It wasn’t an internet notification; it was an actual incoming call from a local Chicago number.
Jarad set his glass down and answered it.
“Hello?”
“Hi, is this Jarad Higgins?” a rough, professional voice asked over the line.
The sound of a heavy diesel engine hummed in the background.
“This is FedEx dispatch. We have a large, multi-box delivery scheduled for your address today. Requires a direct signature. We were estimating a drop-off around eleven this morning.”
Jarad’s heart jumped.
It was the studio equipment.
The microphone, the interface, the stands, and the acoustic foam.
He glanced at the kitchen clock.
Eleven in the morning meant he would be sitting in third-period history class, and Carmella would be at work.
“Hey, sir, I appreciate the call,” Jarad said smoothly, keeping his voice entirely calm and polite.
“But nobody is going to be at the house at eleven, and I really can’t have those boxes left on the porch unattended. Is there any way you can route the truck to hit my neighborhood later in the day? Anytime after five-thirty PM, I’ll be home to sign for it personally.”
There was a brief pause on the line, followed by the sound of a clipboard snapping.
“Yeah, we can do that. I’ll push you to the end of the residential route. Expect us between five-thirty and six.”
“Thank you, man. I really appreciate it,” Jarad said, hanging up.
He turned around to find Carmella leaning against the kitchen counter, watching him with a raised eyebrow and a look of genuine surprise.
“What was that about?” she asked.
“The studio equipment you and Brian helped me invest in,” Jarad explained, taking a sip of his juice.
“They wanted to drop it off this morning, but I told them to come back after five-thirty. I’m not leaving eight hundred dollars’ worth of electronics sitting on the front porch in Homewood all day for somebody to walk off with.”
Carmella stared at him for a long moment.
The level of responsibility, the foresight, the calm negotiation—it was like looking at an entirely different person.
Her son wasn’t just playing around with a hobby; he was managing a supply chain.
He was protecting his investments.
A soft, proud smile touched the corners of her mouth.
“Good call. Have a good day at school, Jarad. I’ll see you tonight.”
“See you tonight,” Jarad nodded, grabbing his backpack.
The bus ride to Homewood-Flossmoor High School was a surreal experience.
Jarad sat by the window, his headphones in, listening to the instrumental loop of Life’s a Mess.
In his pocket, his phone was quietly vibrating every few seconds with notifications from YouTube, and SoundCloud.
Millions of people were currently obsessing over him.
But as he stepped off the bus and walked through the heavy front doors of the school, he was instantly swallowed by the mundane reality of being a sophomore.
Nobody in the crowded hallways looked twice at him.
He dodged a group of freshmen roughhousing by the lockers, quietly navigated his way to his first-period class, and sat in the back row.
The contrast was jarring, but Jarad loved it.
It kept him grounded.
He didn’t want the chaotic fame of the hallways; he just wanted to build his empire in peace.
He coasted through his morning classes purely on autopilot, his fingers tapping the rhythm of the 808s on his desk.
By the time the lunch bell finally rang, sending a massive wave of hungry teenagers toward the cafeteria, Jarad grabbed his backpack and headed in the exact opposite direction.
He pushed through the double doors of the music wing.
The air instantly cooled, smelling of floor wax, brass polish, and old cork grease.
He walked past the empty, soundproofed practice rooms and pushed open the door to the main band room. This chapter was taken from g.com without permission.
Mr. Harrison was sitting behind his desk, eating a turkey sandwich and grading a stack of papers.
Sitting across from him, slouching in a hard plastic chair with her arms crossed, was a girl Jarad didn’t recognize.
She looked like a junior, wearing a faded, oversized flannel shirt, ripped black jeans, and scuffed combat boots.
Her dark hair was cut in a messy, shoulder-length bob, and she was currently staring at a poster of Mozart on the wall with an expression of profound boredom.
Resting on the floor next to her combat boots was a battered, heavily stickered black violin case.
This was Sarah.
The girl who refused to play classical tempo.
Mr. Harrison looked up as Jarad walked in, setting his sandwich down.
“Jarad. Right on time. Sarah, this is the sophomore I was telling you about.”
Sarah slowly turned her head, looking Jarad up and down.
She didn’t look impressed, nor did she look entirely dismissive.
She just looked like an artist waiting to be convinced.
“You’re the kid with the million plays,” Sarah said, her voice flat, lacking any of the typical high school awkwardness.
“Mr. H says you don’t use sheet music.”
“I don’t,” Jarad said, walking over and pulling up a chair next to her.
He dropped his backpack on the floor and unzipped it, pulling out his laptop.
“Sheet music is math. I don’t want math on this track. I want emotion.”
Sarah raised an eyebrow, a tiny spark of actual interest flaring in her eyes.
“Okay. Prove it. Let’s hear what you’ve got.”
Jarad didn’t waste time trying to sell himself with words.
He booted up his laptop, opened his digital audio workstation, and reached over to Mr. Harrison’s desk to grab the auxiliary cable connected to the classroom’s high-end monitor speakers.
“The song is a ballad,” Jarad explained quietly as the software loaded.
“It’s about the exact moment you realize your life is entirely chaotic, and you’re desperate to find some kind of peace. The foundation is acoustic. But the drums are heavy trap 808s. I have the melody mapped out, but the instrumental feels empty. It needs friction.”
He plugged the cable into his laptop and hit the spacebar.
The crisp, beautifully tragic acoustic guitar riff filled the band room.
Sarah sat up slightly, her posture straightening as her trained ear immediately picked up on the melancholic, descending chord progression.
It wasn’t a standard, repetitive pop loop.
It had soul.
Then, the heavy hi-hats rolled in, and the chest-rattling trap bass dropped underneath the guitar.
Sarah’s eyes widened slightly.
The contrast was aggressive, cinematic, and entirely unique.
She closed her eyes, her fingers instinctively twitching against her knee as she mentally traced the tempo.
Jarad paused the track right before the chorus would have hit.
The room fell dead silent.
Mr. Harrison just took a sip of his water, watching the interaction with a knowing smile.
Sarah slowly opened her eyes and looked directly at Jarad.
The boredom was completely gone, replaced by the intense, hyper-focused energy of a true musician.
“The 808s give it a heartbeat, but the guitar is too clean,” Sarah noted, her voice analytical.
“It needs a counter-melody. Something to drag across the bass and make it bleed a little bit.”
Jarad smiled.
She understood exactly what he was trying to build without him having to say it.
“Exactly,” Jarad nodded, pointing at her battered case on the floor.
“I need a violin. But I don’t want you to play a classical arrangement. I want you to listen to the 808s, find the pocket, and let the strings weep over the beat. I want the friction.”
Sarah stared at him for a long moment, completely re-evaluating the sixteen-year-old sitting next to her.
She reached down, unlatched the metal clasps of her case, and pulled out her violin.
The wood was a beautiful, dark mahogany, worn smooth around the edges from years of use.
She grabbed her bow and stood up.
“Play the loop again,” Sarah instructed, resting the violin under her chin and raising her bow.
“Don’t pause it this time. Just let it run.”
Jarad hit the spacebar.
The acoustic guitar filled the room once more.
When the heavy bass dropped, Sarah closed her eyes.
She didn’t hesitate.
She dragged the bow across the strings, pulling a haunting, agonizingly beautiful note straight out of the wood.
She didn’t play in a rigid, classical time signature.
She leaned into the trap beat, bending the notes, weaving a tragic, soaring counter-melody directly through the heavy drums.
The sound was breathtaking.
The weeping, cinematic strings elevated the raw hip-hop instrumental into an absolute masterpiece.
Jarad leaned back in his chair, a massive grin spreading across his face.
The instrumental for Life’s a Mess wasn’t just an idea anymore.
The blueprint was complete.