Noelle’s Chapter 2

With the studio finally set up — mic, panels, mix master, rug, the whole “I’m a real musician now” starter kit — I wake up the next morning feeling… different.

Focused.

It’s time to actually use this space.

I make coffee, sit in my little office for exactly three minutes pretending to be organized, then give up and head straight into the recording room. The air in there feels new, like it’s waiting for me to do something important.

So I do.

I burn three tracks.

Three.

I don’t even know where the energy comes from — maybe adrenaline, maybe ambition, maybe the lingering shock of seeing my face next to Thorne Bailey’s online — but once I start, I can’t stop.

Track One: When Sims Cry

Track Two: Put a Plumbob on It

Track Three: Fly Me to the Moon

When I finish, I sit back in my chair, staring at the waveforms on the screen like they’re magic. Because they kind of are. They’re mine. My voice. My work. My beginning.

I listen to all three again.
Then again.
Then again, because I’m allowed to enjoy myself.

And then I do the scariest thing I’ve done since moving here.

I release one.

When Sims Cry goes up on Simify with a single click.
Just like that.
My voice is out in the world.

I sit there for a moment, staring at the upload confirmation like it might explode. It doesn’t. It just sits there, quietly existing, waiting for someone — anyone — to listen.

I breathe out slowly.

I save the other two tracks for later — because pacing is important, and also because I want to savor this moment.

---

I’m still riding the high of releasing When Sims Cry when my phone rings.

Not buzzes.
Not pings.
Rings.

I glance at the screen, expecting Kelsi or Mom or maybe a spam call about extended warranties.

It’s Thorne Bailey.

I freeze.

For a full three seconds, I just stare at his name like it’s a glitch. Then I answer, trying to sound casual and absolutely failing.

“Hello?”

His voice is warm, smooth, and way too calm for the way my heart is sprinting. “Noelle. I listened to your track.”

My stomach drops. “Oh. Um. Okay.”

“It’s good,” he says. “Really good.”

I sit down because my legs stop working. “Thank you.”

“And,” he continues, “I sent it to someone.”

My brain short‑circuits. “Someone… who?”

“The label I work with. Dinky Beats.”

I stop breathing.

He keeps going, like this is normal, like this is something that happens to people every day. “They want to sign you. If you’re interested.”

If I’m interested.

If I’m interested.

As if I haven’t spent my entire life singing into hairbrushes and showerheads and microphones and wishing someone — anyone — would hear me.

As if I didn’t move to Del Sol Valley for exactly this.

As if I didn’t just build a recording studio in my spare room like a woman possessed.

I swallow hard. “Yes. I’m interested.”

“Good,” he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice. “Welcome to Dinky Beats, Noelle.”

Just like that.
Just like that.

I belong to a label.

A real one.
With contracts and producers and expectations and opportunities.
A label that heard my voice and said yes.

I thank him — probably too many times — and when we hang up, I just sit there on my couch, staring at the wall like it’s supposed to explain how my life changed in under a minute.

I’m signed.
I’m official.
I’m not just a girl with a mic and a dream anymore.

I’m an artist.

I press my palms to my face and laugh — half disbelieving, half ecstatic.

---

Once the label paperwork is signed and my studio stops echoing like a cave, something unexpected happens.

I fall into a rhythm.

Every morning starts the same way:
Coffee.
Breakfast.
Royalties.

The royalties are tiny — like, “I could buy a sandwich if I saved for three days” tiny — but they’re incoming, not outgoing, and that feels huge. Proof that someone out there listened. Proof that my voice is doing something besides bouncing off my studio walls.

After breakfast, I warm up my voice. Scales, breath work, a few lines from When Sims Cry just to remind myself that I actually released a song into the world and the world didn’t explode.

By lunchtime, I’m in the studio again — headphones on, mic checked, beat selected.

One track per day.
That’s my rule.

Burn it.
Mix it.
Name it.
Save it.
Release it when it feels right.

And every day, right after lunch, I check in with the label. Sometimes it’s a quick message. Sometimes it’s a call. Sometimes it’s just me sending a file and them sending back a thumbs‑up emoji.

After dinner, I head out.

Not every night involves celebrities or paparazzi or bouncers who need convincing.

But the clubs are where the music lives.
Where the energy is.
Where I can watch people, listen to beats, study performers, and feel the pulse of the city I’m trying to belong to.

Sometimes I sing.
Sometimes I dance.
Sometimes I just sit at the bar with a single drink and soak in the atmosphere.

And most of the time, I run into Thorne.

---

By the time Midnight on Vacuous Green goes live, something in me clicks.
Not a dramatic click — more like the soft, satisfying click of a drawer finally closing right.

I’ve released four tracks.
I have a label.
I have a routine.
And suddenly… my house feels too small for the life I’m trying to build.

Not physically.
Emotionally.

So I start rearranging.

First, I move my desk out of the spare room and into the open space between the living room and kitchen. It looks weird at first — like I’m trying to run a tiny business out of my living room — but it works.

Then I look at the now‑empty room and think:

Video station.

Because if I’m going to be an artist, I need more than tracks. I need presence. I need content. I need… a drone.

So I buy one.

A drone.

An actual drone.

It feels ridiculous and perfect at the same time.

I set up the video station — lights, camera, the whole “I’m a creator now” setup — and suddenly the room has purpose. Not decor. Not personality. Just function. That’s all I need right now.

Then I add a small bar to the dining room, because I’m an adult and I deserve a place to make a Sea Splash without leaving my house.

Once everything is set up, I take a deep breath, grab the drone, and hit Go Live.

It hovers in front of me like a tiny, judgmental bee while I sing. Just one song. Soft. Controlled. A little nervous, but honest.

People watch.
Not a lot. But enough.

When the stream ends, I send the drone out into the neighborhood to capture footage — the streets, the lights, the skyline, the quiet corners of Vacuous Green. I label the video Celebrity Adjacent, because I’m self‑aware and also hilarious.

Then I sit at my new video station and record a vlog called Curtains and Coffee — a cozy little update about building a home, making music, and pretending I know what I’m doing.

I upload it.
People watch. People comment. People follow.

It’s small, but it’s something.

By dinner, I’m back in the studio, riding the high of productivity. I burn another track — Self‑Assured — and it comes out bold, bright, and exactly like the version of me I’m trying to grow into.

I release it.

---

I don’t notice it at first.

It happens one morning, right after I check my royalties — still tiny, still adorable, still mine — when I open my Simstagram notifications and see a little gold icon next to my name.

A star.

A real one.

Notable Newcomer.

I earned a star.

Me.
Noelle.
Girl who moved here with a suitcase, a microphone, and a dream that felt too big for her hands.

I tap the icon, and the description pops up like it’s no big deal:

You’re officially on the map. People are starting to notice you.

Starting to notice me.

And then I see it:
My first fame perk.

Noticeable.

I sit there at my desk — staring at the little gold star like it’s a tiny sun.

My first star.

---

With my first star glowing next to my name like a tiny sun, I realize something important:

I cannot keep using my personal social media account.

It’s full of old selfies, pictures of my family’s pets, and one extremely unflattering shot of me eating nachos at the Spice Festival when I was fourteen. Not exactly the vibe of a rising artist.

So tonight?
Tonight is rebrand night.

Before I begin, I stock my little home bar with the essentials:

Barley Bales.

My favorite drink.

I mix one.
Then another.
Then a third, because apparently creating a professional online identity requires hydration and courage.

By the time I sit down at my desk — now perfectly positioned between the living room and kitchen like a command center — I’m warm, relaxed, and ready to become a brand.

I start with Simstagram.

New handle.
New profile picture.
New bio that doesn’t say “I like cats and grilled cheese.”

Then SimTube.
Then SimTok.
Then Simify Artist Hub.

Each one takes longer than it should because I keep second‑guessing everything:

Is this picture too serious?
Is this bio too dramatic?
Does this font make me look like I’m trying too hard?

But eventually, after a lot of typing, deleting, retyping, and one brief moment where I considered throwing my entire computer out the window, I finish.

I have professional accounts.
Real ones.
Ones that say “I’m an artist” instead of “I’m a person who posts memes at 2 a.m.”

Somewhere between account number three and account number five, the Barley Bales catch up with me.

Suddenly the room feels softer.
My thoughts feel floatier.
My typing gets… creative.

So I lock my computer, finish the last sip of my third Barley Bale, and shuffle toward my bedroom like a sleepy llama.

I collapse onto my bed — the one thing in my house that feels truly finished — and let the world fade out.

---

Track Six — Del Sol Daydream — goes live in the morning, and it feels like releasing a little piece of sunshine. Warm, floaty, hopeful. Exactly the mood I want people to hear when they think of me.

After breakfast and practice, I film a quick beauty‑tips video because… why not. I’m a Notable Newcomer now. People pretend to care about my skincare routine. I upload it, check my royalties (still tiny, still adorable), and get ready for the night.

Tonight is a singing night

And there’s only one place I want to go.

Orchid A Go Go.

It’s my favorite club in the city — cozy, vibey, full of performers and dreamers. And Thorne is always there. Always. I don’t know if he lives there part‑time or if he just really likes the acoustics, but if I want to sing and maybe see him, that’s the place.

So I grab the drone.

I’ve never taken it to Orchid before, but tonight feels like the night to try. If it crashes into a stage light, I’ll apologize later.

The bouncer recognizes me now — which is wild — and waves me in without a word. Inside, the place is buzzing. Not packed, but alive. Warm. Familiar.

And there he is.

Thorne.
On stage.
Tuning his guitar like he owns the place.

He looks up, sees me, and smiles like this is becoming a habit.

Maybe it is.

I start with one song.
Then another.
Then another.

The drone hovers around me, capturing everything — the lights, the crowd, the way my voice fills the room. Orchid A Go Go has better acoustics than my entire house. It feels electric. Like the city is breathing with me.

Halfway through my set, Thorne joins me on guitar.

We fall into an easy rhythm — him weaving harmonies under my melody, me adjusting to his tempo like we’ve done this a hundred times. People watch. Phones come out. The drone circles us like a tiny, excited satellite.

When I finish, he switches to comedy — because of course he does — and I watch him the way he watched me.

After the sets, we sit at the bar.
One drink.
Then another.
Talking about music, about the label, about the weirdness of being watched all the time.

And we are being watched.

Paparazzi hover near the entrance, cameras raised, waiting for moments. Waiting for expressions. Waiting for anything they can turn into a headline.

I try to ignore them.
I fail.
But in a weird way… I don’t mind.

Not because I want the attention — but because it means the work is working. The tracks. The vlogs. The streams. The nights out. The singing. The grind.

People are noticing.

When I get home, the notification pops up like a confetti cannon:

You’ve acquired a new quirk: Paparazzi Darling.

I laugh out loud.

---

Track Seven — Green Light Go — drops in the morning, and it feels exactly right. Fast, bright, unstoppable. The kind of song you release when your life is picking up speed and you’re just trying to keep up.

I’m halfway through lunch when my phone rings.

Thorne.

Again.

I swallow my bite of grilled cheese way too fast and answer. “Hey.”

His voice is warm, casual, like this is normal. “Noelle. I’m heading to Chez Llama tonight. Dinner. Want to join me?”

Do I want to join him.

Yes.
Obviously yes.
Absolutely yes.

“Sure,” I say, trying to sound like a person who gets invited to fancy restaurants all the time. “I’d love to.”

I dress up. Not too much — just enough to look like someone who belongs in a place with cloth napkins and a wine list longer than my grocery budget.

When I arrive, he’s already there.

He stands when he sees me, smiling in that easy, practiced way that somehow still feels real.

And then I notice the cameras.

I pretend not to see them.
He pretends not to see them.

Dinner is… nice.
Really nice.

And then, halfway through dessert, I notice the decorations.

Pink. Red. Hearts. Flowers.

I blink. “Wait… is it Love Day?”

Thorne laughs softly. “Yeah. I guess it is.”

Love Day.

I’m on a Love Day dinner with a married man.

And that’s when it hits me.

The warmth in my chest.
The flutter in my stomach.
The way I look at him when he’s not looking.
The way he listens when I talk.
The way the world feels a little brighter when he’s around.

Oh no.

I’m falling for him.

I push the thought away.
Hard.

He has a wife.
He has a son.
He has a life that doesn’t include me.

This is just dinner.
Just conversation.
Just two artists sharing a table on a holiday that snuck up on us.

---

After dinner, he offers to drive me home.
I say yes.
Of course I say yes.

The car ride is quiet in a comfortable way. The city lights blur past the windows, and I try not to think about how close he is or how easy this feels.

When we reach my house — my little half‑finished, functional house — he walks me to the door.

And then it happens.

A kiss.

The kind of kiss that says I shouldn’t and I wanted to at the same time.

He pulls back first.

“Noelle…” he says gently.

“I know,” I whisper.

Because I do.
I know exactly what this is and what it isn’t.

He steps away.
I step inside.
The door closes between us.

He goes home — to his wife, to his son, to his real life.

I stand in my quiet house, leaning against the door, trying to breathe.

I’m falling for him.
And I can’t.
And I won’t.
And I already am.

Tonight I whisper into the empty room:

Green light go… except for this.

---

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