"Do we really have a choice?" Oprah looked at Hugo in surprise after hearing his confident words.
Holding the guitar actually helped calm his nerves. Though it wasn't his own, this was still the instrument he knew best—the one that always gave him a sense of security. "Yes… I suppose so." A smile spread across Hugo's face as he relaxed. "Usually I experiment with my own compositions, and sometimes I try reworking classic old songs. Next Time You See Me was one of those, and unexpectedly the production team chose it as the closing track for the movie."
"Composing?" Oprah clearly hadn't expected this twist. "Wow, that's wonderful. Could you create something for us right here, live?"
"Live?" Hugo blinked, caught off guard. He had never been faced with such a challenge before. But then he remembered how at Rock Night he had improvised Kill Your Heroes on the spot. That thought made him chuckle. "Looks like you're raising the bar for me."
Originally, Hugo only meant to perform one of his earlier works—that alone felt like a big enough challenge. But he had dug his own hole, and Oprah seized the chance to push further, asking for an original song on the spot. Since he had mentioned the possibility himself, Hugo could hardly back down now. Smiling, he said, "That's a very demanding request. I can't promise I'll succeed, but I'm willing to try." His words remained courteous, but the quiet confidence shining in his eyes revealed his true feelings.
To attempt writing a song live, in front of ten million television viewers—that was no small feat. Success or failure hardly mattered; simply daring to try was proof of Hugo's growing confidence. It was clear that in the year since his second chance at life, Hugo had been steadily maturing.
"This really is demanding," Oprah admitted. "After all, this is your very first live performance on television. If the pressure feels too great, you can approach it however you like. You know, either way, we lose nothing." Her style as a host was always gentle and encouraging, so instead of rallying the crowd again, she sought to ease the tension in the room.
Hugo chuckled at her warmth. "Don't worry about me. Who knows, maybe I'll come up with something like Ding Dong Bell. That wouldn't be too bad either." He was referring to the famous English nursery rhyme.
Oprah burst out laughing, clapping her hands. "That would still be delightful. After all, composing something like Happy Birthday to You isn't exactly easy." The line rang true, and the audience laughed along with her.
Hugo drew in a deep breath. With every passing moment, his earlier surge of bravado was fading, replaced by the pressure of the task ahead. Just performing live for the first time was hard enough—but to do it on The Oprah Winfrey Show made it a trial by fire. And as if that weren't enough, he was now attempting to compose on the spot. It was the definition of self-imposed torture.
He knew he could play Second Chance or Don't Look Back in Anger without issue—no one in the room would know whether they were newly written or not. But Hugo wanted more. If you always looked for shortcuts when faced with obstacles, you'd never truly succeed. The only way forward was to confront the challenge head-on. Win or lose, at least he would have given it everything.
"So," Hugo said, guitar resting on his lap as he looked at Oprah, "give me a theme."
Oprah nodded slightly. "Yes, every song needs a theme." She hadn't anticipated this turn of events either—none of this had been scripted—but it promised to become the episode's biggest highlight. Even the crew, who normally stayed detached, were now leaning forward with eager anticipation. "I originally thought about asking you to write a song for our show. But then I realized that wouldn't be ideal. People might assume you prepared it beforehand, that all this was staged. And that would ruin the moment." She had to think of the bigger picture, and so she let the idea go.
"You know," Oprah continued, "it's already December, and Chicago winters are brutal. But before today's taping, I heard a story that was both unfortunate and hilarious. My friend Maria managed to get a sunburn—at home. Not in Miami, but right here in Chicago! She had been sunbathing on her balcony, fell asleep, and when she woke up her shoulders were burned. I laughed about it in the greenroom for a good fifteen minutes."
The audience burst into laughter at her tale, and even Hugo, who had been wound so tightly, couldn't help but chuckle. In this kind of weather, even in sunny Los Angeles it was hard to imagine getting sunburned—frostbite would be more believable. But someone in Chicago? That was absurd.
"So," Oprah said, turning back to Hugo, "Sunburn. Could you use that as a theme? Or maybe something like 'Winter Sunshine' would work too." She offered him alternatives, partly because she herself wasn't sure. Honestly, who could be sure?
That Hugo could sing was something people only learned after A Few Good Men was released. That he could write songs—well, that revelation had been made barely a minute ago. As for how strong his singing and songwriting really were, nobody knew. One cover song wasn't proof of anything.
Oprah's palms were damp with sweat. She had placed all her bets for this episode on this single stunt. If Hugo failed completely, she would have to find a way to smooth things over, because The Oprah Winfrey Show had never been about humiliating its guests for ratings. She had faced countless storms before, but now even she felt her muscles tightening, the tension running straight down her spine.
"Sunburn?" Hugo arched a brow, repeating the word. Oprah really had handed him a tough one.
Seated on the sofa, Hugo thought carefully, then began adjusting the strings of his guitar. The audience gradually fell silent. That hush allowed his thoughts to focus, yet for the moment no clear inspiration came to mind. He had never experienced anything quite like this before—sitting motionless, waiting for a spark of creativity. His thoughts felt stiff, almost frozen. Hugo knew he had to stir himself, to set his mind in motion, otherwise he would come away empty-handed.
So he glanced at Oprah, silently asking if he could stand and move around. Naturally, she agreed. Perhaps walking a little might help his thinking. Whether or not such behavior was appropriate for a taped television show was not Hugo's concern.
The show's director looked to Oprah for confirmation. She gave a slight nod and signaled with her eyes for the cameras to follow Hugo: capturing his creative process—whatever the outcome—would be a moment worth preserving.
Under the gaze of the cameras, and with every eye in the studio upon him, Hugo rose with his guitar and began pacing to the left.
The first step: what exactly is sunburn? Simply put, it's the pain of skin scorched by too much sun.
The second step: what are its symptoms? Redness, peeling, burning heat, stabbing pain. On the surface, sunburn may not seem serious. There's no gash, no bleeding wound. Yet the sharp sting burrows beneath the skin—pain felt not only in the body but also in the spirit—and it may leave behind dark spots that linger.
The third step: in essence, sunburn is damage. It may not look obvious, not as frightening as a cut or puncture wound, but the real hurt is something only the sufferer knows. And the deeper marks—darkened skin, lasting scars—do not appear right away. They reveal themselves only with time.
At this thought, Hugo's steps slowed. The first spark of inspiration for the theme "Sunburn" flickered in his mind. Everyone held their breath, instinctively lowering it further and further, afraid even the faintest sound might disturb his fragile process. Expectation rippled through the air, rising with every step he took.
Not only the audience, but even Oprah—and Joseph too—found themselves breathless, waiting. This could either be Hugo's shining moment or his total collapse.
Turning back, Hugo walked toward the sofa again. The first layer of thought: what is sunburn like? In songwriting, the most common theme is love. And sunburn is like love. Often the wounds are invisible on the surface, but inside you are torn to pieces. With time, the pain may fade, but scars remain—like sunspots etched into the skin.
Another step: what kind of love does this resemble? The image that surfaced was the one Oprah had just shared—Maria's winter sunburn. Cold on the outside, yet burning intensely within.
The next small step: this is not about failing to love someone. Rather, it's loving them so deeply that in the turmoil of your own heart, you end up hurting them. Their pain becomes your pain.
The final step: you think you have fallen out of love, and in that belief you wound the other person. Only when they turn away do you realize you still love them—that you always did—just in a different way. Then comes the plea: don't leave me, don't give up on me. Let the sting be my lesson, then come back to my side. Like sunburn, the pain burns to the bone and leaves a mark forever—but love itself does not break clean in two.
Seven steps. Hugo's mind was filled with a tangle of thoughts, each one strung together by notes. And through his fingertips, the melody began to flow.
.....
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