the evening sun filters through the tall windows of the glass building, casting a soft glow that feels like a gentle embrace. I’m here to find Nessa for our customary pizza night, a simple tradition that has become a small anchor in the chaos of college life.
I take a deep breath, hesitating to enter this building. The art building, the place I would have spent my whole day before, I now avoid like the plague.
At least there’s one positive thing: I haven’t seen Cole since that day in the library, and I’m starting to think that maybe he has given up. He is stubborn, but he gets bored quickly so it’s possible he has just moved on.
As I approach the building, a distant melody catches my ear from an open window—the tender, haunting sound of a violin.
The music tugs at a part of me I’ve long tried to silence, pulling me irresistibly toward its source. Inside the room, a young woman stands awkwardly with a violin, her bow quivering over the strings. The notes of “Méditation” from the opera Thaïs by Jules Massenet are hesitant, searching for a rhythm and grace they haven’t yet found.
“That’s a beautiful piece,” I say, stepping into the room. My voice is soft, almost lost against the melody.
The girl looks up, startled. “Oh, thank you. I just started learning. It’s… it’s a lot harder than it looks.”
Memories flood back—the countless hours of practice, the dedication, and the pure joy of music coursing through me. “It’s all about the basics. Mind if I show you a few things?”
She nods eagerly, and I find myself guiding her, my voice a mix of encouragement and instruction.
“Let your wrist be flexible like this,” I show her, adjusting her hold. “And your bow grip—keep it relaxed but firm. Yes, that’s it.”
“Can you show me?” she asks hesitantly after a few tries.
Before I realize it, the violin is in my hands. The familiar weight brings a surge of emotions, each one a piercing reminder of what I’ve lost. My fingers, once so agile and sure, now feel foreign against the wood and strings.
As I play, the room fills with music that speaks of lost dreams and silent yearnings. The notes flow from deep within, painting a story only I know. For a moment, I’m lost in a world where my injury doesn’t define me.
It’s nothing more than a cruel, ephemeral dress as pain shoots through my hand, jolting me back to reality. The music falters and dies, leaving a void filled with aching silence. My fingers cramp, the violin slipping from my grasp as the physical reminder of my limitations mocks me, and for a second, I feel a fresh coat of hate for Cole.
Reluctantly, I part from the violin when I notice a woman standing by the doorway, her presence a quiet shadow. She’s tall, with an elegant posture that speaks of classical training. Her hair, a cascade of chestnut waves, is pulled back into a neat bun, highlighting the sharp contours of her face. Her eyes, a piercing green, hold a mixture of awe and curiosity as they fix on me.
“Your playing was exquisite,” she says, her voice a soft melody that resonates with genuine appreciation. She steps closer, a respectful distance still between us. “I’m Clara, the teaching assistant for the advanced classes. I’ve seen many students come and go, but what you did there was… it was moving.”
I feel a blush creeping up my cheeks, an unfamiliar yet comforting warmth. “Thank you. It’s been a while since I’ve played.”
She tilts her head, her eyes scanning me thoughtfully. “I couldn’t help but overhear your advice to Madison. You have a way with the violin, and your understanding of technique is impressive. If I may be so bold, have you considered teaching?”
The question catches me off guard, and a bittersweet smile tugs at my lips. “I used to dream of being on the stage, not behind a teaching desk.”
“There’s nobility in teaching, you know,” Clara responds, her voice earnest. “You have a gift, and sharing it could be incredibly fulfilling. We’re actually looking for someone to help at the community center. It’s for underprivileged kids who are interested in music. I know it’s not a grand stage, but it’s a start.”
Her offer hangs in the air, a tantalizing possibility that tugs at my heartstrings. Yet, the memory of my fingers cramping, the stark reminder of my limitations, casts a shadow over the spark of hope.
“I’ll think about it,” I say, the words heavy with both fear and longing.
Clara nods, her smile understanding yet hopeful. “I know it’s not much, but take your time.”
My phone beeps. It’s a text from Nessa.
Nessa: Where u at? Freezing my tits by your car.
Me: Be right there.
“Thank you. I-I have to go,” I finish rather lamely.
As I leave, her words linger in my mind. It felt so good to hold a violin again, to feel the strings under my fingers and the gentle vibration on my chin as the notes transformed my world, but the pain that followed, the sorrow of the realization of my limitations, it was a real blow, probably too much for me to bear. I may never feel the high that playing violin brought me, but at least I’m spared the lows.
“Hey, you okay?” Nessa asks, and I startle.
Lost in thought, I didn’t realize I had already made my way back to the car.
“Yeah, of course.” I nod and force a smile, which I know she doesn’t buy, but like Poppy, she doesn’t pry, at least not yet. “How was class?” I ask, eager to bring the subject to something far less dangerous.
She shakes her head a little and gets into the passenger seat. “It’s okay. A little boring, but you know—the foundations always are.”
Contradicting her crosses my mind, thinking about how foundations, when tied to a true passion, are never boring. My experience with the violin, fascinating every minute, stands as a testament to that.
“I texted Poppy to tell her we’re on the way, and I’m ordering the pizza,” Nessa adds, and I’m not sure if she is oblivious to my internal turmoil or if she is giving me some time to regroup. And knowing that she never misses a thing, it’s probably the latter.
We pull up to our place, and I can see the living room lights glowing warmly through the window. Poppy’s silhouette moves behind the curtains, and I feel a sense of belonging that eases the tightness in my chest.
Inside, Poppy greets us, waving the TV remote. “I’ve selected three rom-coms. Prepare for a night of unrealistic love stories and improbable happy endings!” she adds with a laugh.
She transformed the living room into a cozy nest of blankets and pillows. The TV screen displays the title of a romantic comedy, promising an evening of laughter and light-heartedness. We change into our pajamas, and as I settle into a corner of the couch, tucking my feet under a soft blanket, I feel lighter, as if this simple night with these amazing women is like a balm on the scars in my soul.
Nessa hands me a bowl of popcorn before settling on her side as the film starts.
I roll my eyes when the movie reaches its climax. It’s so obvious I can’t help but snort.
“Oh, look, another grand romantic gesture that would totally be creepy in real life. Sure! Break into my house and watch me sleep… that’s not a red flag at all.”
Nessa nudges me with her socked foot under the blanket we’re sharing. “Oh Eva, your cynicism is like a breath of fresh air.”
Poppy chuckles, popping a kernel in her mouth. “Come on, it’s not so bad.”
“Of course you would say that, Miss ‘I hate Ethan Hawthorne’, and yet you get googly eyes every time you see him.”
Poppy scowls, but her blush makes me smile. Being in love is quite cute, and despite not being an expert, I hope he’s sincere.
“He doesn’t seem that bad,” I offer with a shrug. “If you feel like giving the guy a chance, then you should.”
“Yeah, and if he hurts you, I’ve got nails, and she has a baseball bat,” Nessa says, pointing her finger at me.
“No, I have a golf club. It’s lighter and does more damage.”
They both laugh, thinking I’m joking. I am not. It’s a tip from Max, and he’s even the one who bought me the golf club I have under my bed.
As the movie nears its end, the heroine is left crying on a bridge in the pouring rain – a scene that, in reality, would mark the end. She’d cry in the freezing rain until no tears are left, and she’d grow stronger. But no! This is Hollywood, where the sweet lie of a love that conquers all is the preferred narrative.
“Oh, please. Like love ever works out like that in real life,” I scoff, my words sharper than intended.
Nessa’s laughter rings out, clear and bright. “You’re like the Grinch of romance. I love it. Your dark soul is speaking to mine, girl.”
I shrug, a half smile playing on my lips. “That’s too cheesy for me.”
The night wears on, filled with movies that paint love in broad, unrealistic strokes. Nevertheless, surrounded by Nessa and Poppy, I feel the icy shell around my heart begin to crack, their warmth seeping in.
Nessa nudges me. “You know, it’s true not all love stories are fairy tales. Some are written with truth and pain. But sometimes it happens, it really does.”
Her words resonate within me, and for a moment, I let myself believe in their world of happy endings and love conquering all. The laughter, the shared looks, the comfort of being understood—it’s a different kind of music, one that soothes the soul.
As the night draws to a close, I realize that while my past may be a symphony of lost dreams, my present is a melody of friendship and new beginnings. So, perhaps, that’s enough to keep me playing, believing, and living one day at a time to create brand-new music that will be fitting for the new me.
