Meteronome of Love

by JN

Chapters

Verse One: Adagio
Verse Two: Andante
Verse Four: Interlude
Verse Five: Sostenuto
Verse Six: Cantabile
Verse Seven: Rest
Verse Eight: Unison
Verse Nine: LFO
Verse Three: Crescendo

Verse One: Adagio

(1) Adagio

"And now..."

The curtains are drawn back. The blindingly hot lights of the stage greet me like the hounds of hell.

I can't hear.

"Introducing, the winner of the West Division Cantrelotte Cello Competition."

I can't hear. I can't hear. I can't hear.

"Asher Winterfield!"

A thunderous applause from a crowd of faceless people.

But I'm still behind the stage, gazing from beyond as I grip the neck of my cello in one hand and my bow in the other.

My knuckles turn white from the nervous strength I exert through them.

Still, I must go.

I have to go.

It's what she wants me to do. It's what she would be telling me to do right this moment.

This is my punishment.

This is my hell.

I take a step forward, into that brightly lit stage.

I bow my head as I stand before them. Their claps sound like television static. The air around me is in sepia.

The audience quiets as I take my seat and adjust. The moment of anticipation.

My body follows the motions. My arms are slack at first, then I slowly raise them into position. My left on the strings, my right on my bow.

I have done this numerous times.

I have succeeded numerous times.

And as I begin to move the bow, I know I am producing the sound I want to make. I practiced enough for the entire song to become pure muscle memory, and my fingers and arms move autonomously.

As long as I play what is written in the score, the audience will hear what they came here to listen to.

However, the sound that greets my ears is not music—

It is the sound of agony.

My instrument, my cello, is crying.

In this world, the path of the ideal classical musician can be measured by one of humanity's simplest mathematical equations.

y=mx+b.

The expression of a straight line, extending from a point of origin and then upwards, upwards, and upwards, into a constant infinity and even further, further, and further above that.

There exist people look at that line and think that it's ceaseless pursuit of endlessness is inspiring, like the line itself has a will, a method, a reason for existing in the way, shape, and form that it does. Like it enjoys it's existence.

Then, there are others who believe more strongly in that line than anyone else - those who believe in it's tragic, piteous fate as a line that will always climb upwards, but never find resolution nor rest.

If you can't match that pace — that is, if you cannot surpass your own limits and soar to greater heights with each performance, honing your level of skill to the finest micro-tuning of muscle and memory, then you cannot hope to compete.

y=mx+b.

It is not artistic nor romantic. That is a musician. If you find yourself on this path, some would say you're fated to suffer. Somewhere along the way, your mind will turn to steel, and music itself will transform into something unrecognizable, incognizant, alien.

For me, this is how the world used to be.

Kids often poked fun at my name when I was younger. "Asher Winterfield" - a name so comically fictitious that many were surprised to hear I wasn't just parroting the name of a comic book hero instead of my real one when I introduced myself. When the room got cold, all eyes were on Winterfield. Well, you can't really expect any more or less from children, can you?

I didn't need the company of other children, however. Nothing mattered to me more than classical music. And even if they poked and prodded at me, making even more fun when they began to realize I would never retaliate, I simply practiced harder.

Truth is, I used to love spring. There was something so soft and comforting about the wind, a sort of chill tempered by the lingering tones of the past season's cold front while slowly introducing some colorful elements of summer. I always anticipated the passing of seasons - often times there was very little else to look forward to.

When I was younger, my mother would often say this to me:

"Be better. At all times, think of ways to improve. Why is that, you ask?"

"Foolish boy. Do you ask the sun why it rises, or the birds why they sing?"

Yes, that was my mother.

Cold, unforgiving, unrelenting. Winter itself, if I were to make a relevant comparison. Then again, that would apply to me as well since we're family.

We were family.

Now I take great comfort in winter. The way snow covers everything like a blanket, calmly and serenely. The biting chill that makes you want to escape, to burrow into your den and only emerge periodically to breathe fresh air.

For what reason did I change my mind? To this day, I remain unsure.

However, perhaps it had something to do with the day it happened. A perfect spring afternoon, sunny and with a steady breeze. Vibrant flowers of various hues and the lush green of the tall, healthy trees painted the town so beautifully that the moment I stepped outside the concert hall, I could almost breathe in the color.

Then I saw her. My mother.

"What is she...?"

The concerned voices of other passerby leaving the hall tickled my ears, but I paid them no mind.

She was at the bottom of the stairs, walking away. Why was she leaving? Didn't she listen to my performance? I did the best I could, even if I made a few mistakes...

"She's not...?"

"Hey lady, the light isn't green yet!"

"Somebody stop her!"

I took a deep breath, preparing to call out to her. My feet left the ground, ready to sprint if I had to—

"LOOK OUT!"

I'm not sure what was louder — the shrill scream of the adults standing next to me, or the horn of that enormous truck, blaring with an intensity that made my eardrums burst.

And then there was my mother, in the middle of the road.

The world slowed down as she turned to face me. Was she saying something? I can't hear you, I'm too far, let me come closer— there are arms around me, why are there arms around me? Let me go to my mom, I need to hear—

Is she smiling? Did she hear my music after all? Did I do well? Please— she's just a couple feet away now—

Then,

the only color I could see,

through the green of the trees,

and the blue of the orchids,

and the brightness of the sun,

was the unforgiving,

cruel,

crimson red

of blood.

Mommy will be fine, right?

She's just sick. Just like when I got that boo-boo from riding my bike. She'll get better, I know she will!

I just need to wait. That's what the big people in the white coats told me. I trust them. I know what they are. They make you better no matter what you have! Like the time I woke up and my face was really hot, and this weird stuff came out of my mouth...

That's right! When she gets out, she'll want to hear my music again! So I'm gonna play extra well at today's recital!

I know I can do it! I won't make any mistakes this time! I can do better! Just watch me!

But my hands were already moving before I could stop them.

And a deep, dark void swallowed me whole.

"You're getting worse, Asher."

He clicked his tongue in annoyance, slamming the tape recorder down onto the desk as I jolted straight upwards from the loud, violent gesture.

"What's the meaning of this?"

I looked down.

I held it close in my arms. My cello. A full-size, finely tuned instrument made from various types of wood.

Yet in that moment, I despised it more than anything.

"Hey, I'm talking to you!"

Suddenly my shoulders were being shaken.

"Do you understand?! Do you have ANY idea what this means for your future?"

I didn't meet his eyes. I couldn't.

A powerful blow connected with my left cheek, causing my head to jerk to one side.

"I'm talking to you, Winterfield! If you still have ears, then play that measure for me again, and do it right this time or there WILL be hell to pay, do you understand me?!"

He walked back to his desk, grumbling to himself. My ears, though deaf to the notes of the cello and still ringing slightly from his slap, could pick up his words.

"Would've never invested in you if this was what was gonna happen..."

I raise my bow and place it on the string.

"You still can't hear the notes?"

I nodded in response. The sound of pen scribbling onto paper reaches my ears.

"You don't actually believe this, do you doctor? He's clearly just making it up. He's at that age now."

"I wouldn't be too sure about that, Director. You know what he went through last year, and considering the rate of his rehabilitation, I wouldn't be surprised if this continued for a while. Especially with today being the anniversary of..."

"You're that Winterfield, huh?"

A set of hands pushes me down. An unknown leg drives itself into my side. Another hand makes a fist with my collar in it.

"Not so hot now, huh?"

"Outshining us in every audition, every competition, every concert..."

A blow to my stomach makes me heave.

"Now WE take center stage, you hear?! You sit in 12th seat from now on, got it? And if you even TRY to put up a fight..."

A laugh from outside the circle.

"Or what? His mommy's gonna come save him?"

Six years since it happened.

Six year since I last was able to hear.

Don't get it wrong though. I didn't go deaf. I still walk and talk and listen just fine. It isn't something that affects my daily life on a major level.

No, the only thing I can no longer hear is...

The sound of the cello.

No one understands why. Not even me. It's not the kind of condition that can be treated, much less quantified by any kind of standard except possible psychological trauma— because it's not normal, even in my abnormal circumstances.

It is what it is. My hands still know how to play, but my mind cannot process the notes. When I place my fingers in first position and play a scale in C minor, I hear one note... then another... then, when I'm truly focused—

Nothing. Everything is reduced to dull, muted vibrations.

No matter how hard I try.

No matter how well I play.

It won't reach my ears.

The notes float away and vanish like the balloons of a child who was never told to not let go.

Author's Note

Adagio: Meaning a slow tempo or slow speed. Sometimes it is the name of a work like Mozart's Adagio for Violin and Orchestra.

Verse Two: Andante

(2) Andante

Spring has come once again to the quaint town of Ponivyle, the place I was born and raised. The strange arrangement of the letters in the name confuses many, but rest assured, it's pronounced exactly how it's spelled.

Ever since the incident, I've lived with my uncle. He's a kind man who doesn't have any expectations of me, only to live righteously.

I'm just a student now. I study, eat, sleep, and repeat. I might go to college, I might continue helping my uncle out at his coffee shop like I've been used to doing for a while, whichever is more convenient — though I know he wants me to pursue the former and is willing to pay for further education, I don't know if I could burden him like that.

After all, I have no aspirations now.

The child prodigy soloist Asher Winterfield died with that spring day six years ago.

I am now average by all assessments, with no particular skills or interests.

Such is life. Such is how life will continue until I'm dust.

y=-1x

This is the expression for a line that decreases in height, y, for every x value.

Perhaps nothing could best describe me now. This is the line that now defines the path of my life. Every x is a day in the chapter of my story, and every y is a further decsension into the unknown.

...

At least, that's what I thought.

But spring had other ideas for me.

It was another beautiful, wretched day. Ponivyle was known for it's pleasant climate during most seasons, and this made it very attractive for many. Some locals say the weather has been maintained since ancient times by powerful winged creatures, but I don't know where I heard that from.

The wind tousled my hair and pressed the fabric of my clothes tightly against my skin, making a prominent outline of my wiry frame. Annoying. If there really are any little magic ponies stirring the air in my town, I'd appreciate if they could at least leave me be...

The last day of my 3rd year of high school had come to an uneventful close, and the remainder of my day was almost exceedingly free. With my uncle retiring the shop for a week to prepare for a grand re-opening, I find myself with more and more free time nowadays. Again, such is life. Ever since the incident, vacations have been more troubling to me than when school is in session. Not knowing what to do with yourself can be a worse cage than the toughest iron-clad prison bars.

That being the case, I opted to take a walk around town before returning home. My bag was light, so it wasn't nearly as much of a hassle as it would be on a normal school day — after all, the only thing it contained was a clean yearbook with no signatures or notes. I left the campus before anyone could approach me with that intent.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. My sneakers make a dull noise against the pavement as I made a detour from my usual route home. Wouldn't be much a walk around town if I made a beeline for my house, after all.

Downtown would be too noisy, and I'd like to sit down...

The park it was then. A place I normally avoided, but on a day like today, where the finality of school put a particularly weightless spring in my step, I felt it was fine to make an exception.

That feeling was a mistake. I felt a mixture of regret and deep disgust hit my gut at once as soon as I set foot on the brick path into the gardens. However, I swallowed both my spit and my memories as I moved forwards.

It was then that I heard it.

A sound so sweet, I nearly mistook it for the fragrance of the roses.

Music.

Whose? I needed to know. My pace quickened, first to a power walk, then a jog, then a full sprint.

What was this feeling? My heart was racing like I had run a thousand miles. And as it beat fast, I felt it fracturing in certain places, not knowing which emotion to feel, how to react, what to say, what to do... except find the source of that precious, beautiful sound which had evaded me for so long.

I remembered the song being played. Prelude from Bach's Cello Suite. It was one of the first songs I had ever learned, and the one that taught me how to play in second position... I could hear it, I could hear it, I could hear it!

I can hear it.

I could hear the notes of the cello! Every note was being played in my mind with a hand on the string and another on the bow, in quick sweeping motions...!

I rounded the corner, nearly tripping over in my haste, and saw her.

Black hair, long and lustrous that danced in the wind filled my vision. She swayed gently as she played, letting the wind I so despised carry her like a masquerade with each note and phrase. Her pale skin was like a canvas, being painted by the colors of the grass and flowers and sky and sound.

A girl who couldn't have been much older than me stood in a clearing with no instrument I've ever played nor performed alongside in my life...

A recorder.

That's impossible. I heard a cello. I know I did — how could I possibly make that kind of mistake? But the more I listened, the more it became obvious.

I didn't hear a cello.

I never heard a cello. I merely pictured it in my mind and replaced the notes to fit, because it was being played so true to the original rendition. I had deluded myself.

Dumbfounded, both by my own foolishness and the incredible prowess of the girl who stood before me, I could only stand and watch until she finished. Her Prelude finished with a high intensity section of joyful repeating notes and measures, and ended on a triumphant final note, just as it's written in the score. As she released her lips from the tip of the recorder, the image hit me again of a bow leaving the string in a gesture of grand finality.

This girl performed Prelude to such a degree of finesse and beauty with a recorder that I couldn't even begin to compare it to any cellist I had ever met in my life.

Completely taken aback, I felt my weight shift towards one side—the wind, again— and stepped squarely on a nearby twig. An audible crack filled the air as I froze in panic.

The girl turned her head sharply in my direction.

Her eyebrows raised once, then lowered. Her face betrayed no expression, but I could see the ends of her mouth curling up as her eyes fell upon me.

And she opened her mouth to speak—

"Where's my applause?"

...

"I..."

I wasn't sure what to say to that. Part of me was still in shock. Her emotionless smile against that colorful park painted a picture that I would need weeks to fully analyze.

Still, I needed to know.

"Who... are you?"

The face I didn't recognize but so dearly felt drawn to.

Though her smile widened, her eyes remained the same. Wide, discerning, opaque, as if looking both at me and through me at the same time.

"A famous violinist once said this," She let the arm with the recorder fall to her side as she turned to completely face me. "Music can transcend words."

She wore an expression on her face I couldn't decipher. Rather, I could not align her words with the emotions she could have been feeling in that moment to any capacity.

"Still don't know who I am?"

I gulped. The feeling of not wanting to disappoint her was overwhelming, but it couldn't be helped.

"N... no."

Her smile faltered slightly. "Well," she spoke slightly under her breath, "that's to be expected."

The black-haired girl cleared her throat, and started walking towards me in long, confident strides, causing me to take a step back reflexively.

"The best musicians always did live the most tragic lives, didn't they? Chopin, Beethoven, and the rest..."

She stopped right before me. A mere few inches was the distance between my face and her's.

"Octavia," she spoke clearly and commandingly, as if she had my heart in the grip of her fist. "Octavia Melody."

"Try not to forget it a second time, okay?" Another smile... but this time, her eyes smiled followed in suit.

Beautiful.

I couldn't help but think that.

Not just aesthetically. Though her face was well proportioned and cute with piercing lavender eyes and long eyelashes, and her hair gorgeously lush, and her white dress showing a figure with curves in all the right places... what made my heart beat faster than anything was the sound that still rung in my ears. Her music. Her Prelude. Not Bach's.

Octavia Melody.

She was dazzling.

Bright enough to make me want to avert my eyes.

She is spring itself.

...As for me? I couldn't begin to describe the look on my face in that moment.

And like a big lumbering oaf, I simply replied,

"Oh."

Author's Note

Andante: Meaning a walking tempo or walking pace; a moderate speed.

For those who would like to hear Bach's Prelude on recorder as it's described above, refer to this link.

Verse Four: Interlude

(4) Crescendo

Octavia's hands are soft, as a girl's should be, but her fingertips firm just like mine.

I somehow knew this. There was no way I could miss it.

"Ahem."

"Huh?"

I'm not sure what kind of a moment we were having there. Seconds turned into minutes, and she still hadn't let go of my hands.

Rather, as I continued to look upon her, Octavia Melody's face grew mysteriously pink.

"Do you..."

She swallows once. "Do you think anything about this at all?"

I was at a loss for words.

"I..."

I took a moment to think on it. Her actions. Her words. How was I meant to respond to all that?

The answer I should choose here is...

"...Thanks," I spoke very tentatively, "I guess?"

And then, something amazing happened. The face of the girl standing in front of me went through three transformations all within a miraculous matter of seconds— first to shock, then disgust, and finally resignation.

She let my hands go and turn around swiftly. As she did so I could barely make out the sound of a word—

"...Idiot."

I perked up. "What?"

"I said," she spoke turning back to face me, now indignant, a finger pointed in my direction, "You, Asher Winterfield, will appear in this park at the same time tomorrow afternoon! Do you understand me?"

There was a fire lit in her eyes. A face I hadn't seen on her before. No— this one seemed familiar. Maybe. Had we met somewhere before today after all?

Octavia turned around and briskly walked away, her heels making a satisfying click against the brick path, her body language clearly telling me that this was no longer a "walk and talk" affair.

She paused right before the gates of the exit.

"Bring your instrument."

"NO WAY!"

Ow! Seriously, this girl... you're still on my chest. Don't use me as a launching pad with your arms just because you're shocked!

"She said that? Seriously? That's even better than a number, dude! You can see her again in person!"

Alexis pumped her fist, still sitting on me but clearly not minding how her weight pressed on me each time she made a violent movement. "Man, you had me straight up worried for a while, Ashy!" She looked annoyingly proud. Smug, even.

I made a face at her. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Well, cause you just don't get out dude! I mean seriously! You don't make friends, you don't talk to girls—"

"Hey, you didn't need to say that last part—"

"So I was worried you'd stay a loner for the rest of your life! Don't you know how much that would weigh on me as your childhood friend?" She finished as she feigned a look of despair, like a damsel in distress. The gesture looked so wildly unfitting on her that it made me cringe.

"Oh, sure it would. Was it just my imagination when I thought you were just monopolizing me this whole time?"

A "pfft" noise left her mouth as she grinned at me smugly. "In your dreams, loverboy!"

"Oh, you wound me." I feigned jokingly myself, a hand over my face as if I were shedding crocodile tears.

"Jokes aside," the blue-haired girl sitting on my lap stared at me with a serious look on her face. "You're going to go see her, right?"

I paused, averting her crimson gaze.

What did I want to do?

There was no basis for seeing Octavia Melody again, even with an invitation. To begin with, the circumstances of our first meeting were just too strange. The way she was so receptive to me made it feel as if she were expecting me. And why did she want me to bring my cello? What was the point? All that, and the way she moved, walked, talked... the emotions they made me feel were so alien that my heart couldn't keep up. She was dangerous.

But I wanted to see her.

And at the same time, every fibre of my being rejected the idea.

"I don't know," I said as I eyed a piece of lint on my pillow.

Almost a minute of silence. I couldn't read her expression with my eyes averted.

"Seriously?" I looked back at Alexis when she broke the silence. Her eyes had narrowed, and her expression was a mixture of anger and something I couldn't put my finger on. "You're just gonna let this go?" Her tone shifted away from the usual jokingness into something much graver.

"Wh..." This wasn't like her. "What's it to you? Does it really matter if I go see this Octavia person anyway? She's a celebrity, right?"

I sighed. "It has to be some kind of prank. She's a famous musician. She needs to practice, go places, be someone. There's no way she'd show even if I went."

That's right.

Dark thoughts clouded my vision as I stared at the ceiling, past the bright blue hair of my childhood friend.

Don't expect anything. Don't want anything. That way...

I'll never be hurt. Never again.

A sudden, sharp pain struck my chest.

"Ow!"

I rubbed the spot where Alexis had suddenly slammed her fist.

"What's your problem?!" I asked incredulously.

"Don't even start, Asher!" She spat back, now furious. "Why are you doing this to yourself!?" She punched me again to punctuate her words. "Again?!"

Confusion riddled my brain. "I beg your pardon?!"

"Forget it!"

Once again, Alexis used me as a launching pad and shot out of my bed, onto her feet, and began storming out of my room.

"Like I care who you see or where you go!"

She stopped herself from exiting the room with one hand on my doorframe.

A pause.

"I hate when you get like this."

And the door to my room slammed shut.

I stared incredulously at my door, the sight of her back burned into my retinas as I heard her footsteps descend down the stairs and then into nothing.

"..."

I sighed as I let my head fall back onto my pillow.

Pissing off two different girls in the same day. What exactly am I doing wrong?

A day had passed. Alexis hadn't returned any of my calls nor had she texted me back (though, my phone tells me all my messages are in fact being read). Although I knew where she lived, and could easily walk there in under thirty minutes, something told me that showing up at her door right now would surely put me on the express train to the afterlife.

Uncle had left the house early on some business. I was alone and with nothing but free time, I spent the entire morning cleaning the house. One of the few things I could always do well was housework, although my cooking still needs a little work. Uncle promised me that he'd help me improve one of these days, and I'm holding him to that in addition to teaching me how to brew coffee like him.

With my floors polished so clean I could see my reflection in them, I took a cold shower, ate breakfast, and once again, found myself in bed, staring at the ceiling with so little happening in my brain that my thoughts would appear as a straight line on any audio visualizer.

...

"I guess..."

I slowly rose and walked to my closet.

Hesitantly at first, but then with slow confidence, I put my hand on the knob, twist, then pull.

The case of my cello leaned against the corner within, coated with a fine layer of dust. The carbon fiber black finish of the outside stared back at me like a deep, dark void.

Once upon a time, when I was much younger, I hurled this case and all my sheet music contained within and shut the door. Thinking I no longer had the right to be a musician after such an act of outrage, I never came near this part of my closet again for six years.

Yet, today I reached for it.

"I'll go see her."

Another perfect spring day. The kind of weather that made me want to throw up.

I made my way back to the park with little trouble, my mind scrambled with various thoughts. Alexis' face from the other day kept appearing before me, and whenever it did, I felt a mixture of confusion at her reaction, anger with her inexplicable behavior, and then revulsion at myself for whatever I did to hurt her like that. I made a decision to see her later that day even if it did kill me, after whatever was going to happen with Octavia Melody.

Speaking of which...

I eventually came to stand before the gates of the park once more, and the path to the garden was laid out cleanly before me.

Deep breaths, Asher. She probably won't be there.

Don't get your hopes up. You know what happens when you do.

With these thoughts in mind, I stepped forward.

And when I rounded the corner of the entrance... A field of grass, surrounded by flowers.

Not a speck of litter to be seen.

No people.

No Octavia Melody.

I released a breath I didn't even know I was holding.

"Yeah, I should've known—"

Suddenly, my vision went black. An electric current shocked my spine.

Something... soft. Covering my eyes.

"Guess who?"

A voice which clearly wasn't used to mischievousness spoke into my ear. But I relaxed. I know whose voice that was.

"I didn't know it was in your nature," I spoke calmly despite my racing heart, "to play tricks like this."

"Maybe not at first glance," she went on, "but I'm just like any other girl. I like to have my fun."

Octavia released my eyes. "That said, you don't sound like the type that handles getting snuck up on very well. I apologize for scaring you."

I turned to face her, a little annoyed. I thought I kept my reaction pretty mellow, and her seeing right through me was a blow to my pride. "What makes you think that?"

"Well, it was obvious," she smiled sweetly. That was unfair. That smile compared to what she was wearing today — an airy-looking white blouse combined with a stylish combination of a skirt and thigh-high socks — was unfair.

"Whenever you get nervous, your shoulders seize up, and your hands get jittery."

My eyes went wide. Something only my Uncle or Alexis had ever observed or pointed out... she noticed?

"You—"

"Thank you."

I stopped short. Octavia spoke while facing down, a behaviorism I hadn't seen from her. She looked... vulnerable.

Was she being timid?

"Really. Thank you for showing up."

I looked down, noticing her hands clutching the hem of her skirt.

"...No problem," I said hurriedly, trying to move the conversation along, "I uh— brought it. My instrument."

Octavia held up her head once more, her face and hands now neutral, switching her attitude almost instantly. "I knew that. A cello, is it? A bit cumbersome, but no matter."

She cleared her throat. "Play for me, Winterfield."

"Bach's Prelude."

Author's Note

Crescendo: Meaning growing, as in a swelling of sound, or becoming louder.

Verse Five: Sostenuto

(5) Interlude

Idiot!

Moron!

Dummy!

Asshole!

Coward!

Alexis Capella banged her head against the wall of her shower, and instantly regretted it. Yup, that was solid marble. And now in addition to all her grief, she now had a headache.

"Urgh..." She felt like crying.

Acting like that... saying stuff like that...

You're an idiot, you know that?! You can't get carried away by your emotions! Isn't that what he always told you?

She massaged her forehead, remembering that it was the same spot he flicked using his fingers just the other day.

Her hand paused over her face.

"Easy. I don't think she's your type."

"You'll get dirty like that."

"You know I can't win against you..."

That smile of his. That damned smile. The one he rarely showed to anyone else except her.

That kindness. So warm, so naive that she knew it would come back to hurt him one of these days.

That laugh. So rare, so precious. And the way he never said no to her, even when she totally deserved it...

And when she laid against his chest that afternoon, pretending to just play around... despite the fact that he was so scrawny and unreliable, his chest was broad and warm.

He was unfair. Asher Winterfield was unfair. Unfair, stupid, cool, cowardly, cute, too hard on himself. Never allowing himself anything, always holding back, never living life as he should.

She sniffed once. Tears began to join the water coming down from the shower head above.

"Can't I do anything...?"

"You all sobered up?"

A hot cup of coffee was set in front of her.

Alexis looked up from her knees and peered suspiciously at it. "Where's the cream and sugar?"

The man who stood beside her at the dinner table looked downcast at her words. "I thought you might like to try it black this time. Like your old pops?"

She scowled. "I don't want something bitter. Not right now."

He shrugged and took the cup away. "Suit yourself. Be back in a mo'."

The male walked over to the kitchen counter to make preparations as Alexis buried her face into her knees once more.

"I shouldn't have said all that," her words were muffled. "It wasn't what he needed to hear. He hates me now."

"Maybe so." Two tablespoons of cream, then three sugar cubes. Andrew Capella knew how his daughter liked her coffee. "But maybe not. You can't be certain unless you talk to him again."

She groaned into her knees. What a dad thing to say.

"Don't give me that," he chastised as he spooned in the last cube of sugar, "You guys are friends, aren't you?"

A little more than that, in his opinion, but as a father figure, Andrew figured it was best to not overstep in this situation. They were still teenagers after all.

"Plus," he slid the now significantly lighter coffee in front of Alexis as he took a sip of his own, "How long have we known Asher? There's no way a little thing like this would make him hate you."

Another sniffle. He couldn't see her face in the position she was in, but he had an idea. It had been a while since Andrew had seen her daughter this vulnerable or since she'd come to him for advice. He secretly thanked Asher for that.

"You just need to apologize, okay? Apologize and explain. He won't understand otherwise, you know?"

Andrew leaned back in his chair as he looked upwards, recalling a memory.

"Don't you remember all those summers ago, when he went the whoooole barbecue without touching a single bit of food from the table? All because no one told him it was okay for him to eat too!"

The memory made him chuckle. They were much smaller back then. Both Asher and his little girl. A lot more rambunctious too. All because Alexis tried all the harder to get a once despondent Asher to get up and move around.

"So you know how he is."

He put a hand on Alexis' shoulder.

"Talk to him when you feel better, okay?" He flashed his classic smile at her, the one which used to win him over countless ladies during his prime. He was still confident it would net him a pretty good score even now, provided he shaved and put on some snazzier clothes.

...

"Okay."

Alexis slowly reached for her coffee, found her grip, and raised it to her mouth.

Sweet. Creamy. Just how she liked it. The liquid felt like a warm hug. She closed her eyes as she drank.

When she finished, Alexis fished her phone out from her back pocket and stared at her most recent conversation.

ASHY: hey
ASHY: are you ok?
ASHY: hello?
ASHY: you know i don't know how to use my phone that well, alex...
ASHY: text me back when you can, okay?
ASHY: im sorry. about yesterday.
ASHY: please dont be upset with me

Click. She locked her screen. The words hurt to read. She put her face into her knees once more.

What are you worried about me for, idiot? Why do you care if I'm upset with you? You should be mad at me!

...

I'm sorry, Ashy.

...

Bzzt.

"Looks like you got another one," Andrew commented.

She sighed, unlocking her phone once more.

ASHY: did you remember to brush your teeth after that soda? you'll get cavities you know.

Author's Note

Interlude: a gap, break, or passage, played in between larger sections.

Verse Six: Cantabile

(6) Sostenuto

Out of the question. Impossible. Absurd. This girl was nuts.

"I can't do that."

I wore an expression of dead seriousness as I regarded Octavia Melody.

"Why not?" she asked in reply, tilting her head quizzically. "Surely, you brought your cello with you today for a reason?"

"Because you told me to!" I asserted quite violently as my eyes narrowed, "and because you didn't really leave me with a choice!"

"I didn't?"

Octavia stroked her chin pensively as she regarded me.

"But you showed up today, and followed my instructions exactly. Why choose now to resist?"

"Because—!"

...

I breathed in hard through my nose. No need to lose my cool.

"Because... I'm out of practice. And I don't remember how the song goes. And there's nowhere here to set up. And..."

I averted my gaze.

Octavia clicked her tongue. "Excuses. Lies, even. I don't appreciate the gesture, Asher."

She took my chin between her fingers and forced me to look at her. Her expression told me she was not impressed or moved by my words.

"Out of practice? I can believe that. But not remembering the song?"

She smiled. "When you recited the name of it perfectly yesterday, despite only hearing it and not seeing me play with sheet music?"

I froze.

"As for a place to set up a chair and stopper for your endpin, rest assured, we will not be digging any holes into the soil here. It would be rude to the gardeners, after all."

"Then..."

I swallowed. "Then where would you have me play?"

She looked me as though the answer was obvious. "The Academy, obviously. Where else?"

...

What?

"Please," I took a deep breath, "slow down. What exactly do you mean by that?"

She sighed. Hey, what's that look that so clearly says "This dolt..." on your face for?!

"The Canterlotte Academy of Art and Culture. I believe you've heard of it?"

The Academy, she says. Octavia cut it down quite intensively from it's actual name— though, I suppose just the two words are enough when it comes to such a prestigious institution. Of course I've heard of it. I know it better than anyone.

That place used to be like a second home to me, after all.

"Ahem." I cleared my throat self-importantly, returning Octavia's smug gestures back to her. "And how do you propose I play there? It's an hour by train, and I'm out of money." I smiled haughtily, "Sorry, but it looks like you're gonna have to—"

"Oh, perish the thought, Asher. You think this wasn't in my calculations?" She pointed towards the road outside the gates of the park. "Look over there."

An impossibly long, slick, black limousine. The kind you only ever saw in movies.

That was... her's?

"..Eh?" I stared like an idiot.

"Our ride," Octavia stated, putting a hand on my shoulder. "Now, I believe you know how to properly stow an instrument into a vehicle, yes?"

By car, it would take less than thirty minutes to reach Canterlotte. The travel time was etched into my heart, after all, from all the times I came and went from the Academy when I was younger.

I sat across from Octavia in that limousine with it's overabundance of interior space. It felt less like we were sitting in a long corridor more than a moving vehicle.

And for the first time that day, a wave of sudden emotion rushed up to meet me.

Why didn't I think this through?

This is the Octavia Melody, just like Alexis said. Known around the country by now, an emerging musical superstar. Her face was on posters, her interviews written into magazines, her music heard by every set of ears that could still listen. She was the new face of contemporary classical performance— a genius capable of drawing the most sublime sound out of any instrument.

Yet I came out to meet her, like a complete and utter fool. What exactly was I doing here? What was I trying to prove? Was this just to appease Alexis? So that I could tell her later that I did as she asked, and we could make up?

No. While that was part of it, I would be lying to myself if I said it was completely for her sake.

Despite the redness in my ears and my inability to look at Octavia Melody any further than from above her knees, a strong feeling pulled at my heart.

She pulled at my heart. In a way I didn't even know was possible. Her commanding tone, her aggression— she unfairly moved me in ways I couldn't begin to describe.

That imposing feeling scared me. So, I needed to find out what she was up to. Who she was, why she needed me to play for her.

I opened my mouth, "You know—"

She cleared her throat loudly, interrupting my attempt to speak.

"Could you please look at me when you're talking? It's quite rude not to, you know."

Erk... she got me there.

I reluctantly straightened my back.

"You know..." I tried again, slowly, so as not to stumble over my words, but also closely watching her face for any changes, "I wasn't kidding. I really can't play the cello. I know I brought it with me today, but I only happened to have it at home. Nothing more to it."

She raised an eyebrow at that. "You really take me for a fool, don't you? Winterfield..."

I blinked once. "Yes?"

"Explain to me then," Octavia's brow furrowed as she crossed one leg over the other, "why you can't play."

...

She could see right through my lies.

As such, there was no point in even trying it.

"I can't..."

I averted my eyes. Holding her gaze was painful while saying such a thing.

"...hear it. The cello. The notes. For years now."

I paused with bated breath. Waiting for the insults to begin raining down upon me. The bombardment of questions. My entire body braced for sticks and stones.

"...And what of it?"

She spoke again. Betraying my own fears, I glanced back at her.

Her mouth was tight-lipped, but her lavender eyes gazed upon me with a look I couldn't put my finger on.

"Play anyway."

I stared at her with my mouth agape. Did she just hear a word I said?

"I don't think you understand," I asserted, sitting straight up now. My hands turned into fists on my knees. "I can't hear the cello. I don't care if you don't believe me, but it's true!"

"When did I say I didn't believe you?"

Octavia clicked her tongue. "Taking me for the fool again, Winterfield. I'm not as shallow as you think."

"Wh—"

I could feel irritation rising from the depths of my heart. What was with this girl? How was she doing this? Betraying all my expectations? Pushing buttons I didn't even know I had?

"Did you think, perhaps, because of your unique circumstances," she leaned forward, not letting my eyes go with her intense gaze, "that the world of music would go easy on you?"

...

She wasn't making any sense. How does a musician who can't hear his own instrument even begin to fathom the very act of performance itself?

Insanity.

"You are making a grave mistake in your thinking, Asher. Listening is not everything in music."

She held up a finger. "Ever hear of Anton Rubenstein?"

I hesitantly nodded. The Russian pianist, composer and conductor who became a pivotal figure in Russian culture when he founded the Saint Petersburg Conservatory. "I've heard his compositions a few times—"

Octavia sighed heavily.

"I applaud your broad range of taste, but that's not what I mean. I refer to his words, which I quote:"

"Before your fingers touch the keys, you must determine in your mind..."

"..How you're going to play it," I finished for her.

She looked upon me with satisfaction. "So you know it after all."

I averted my eyes. The spaciousness of the limousine felt like barely enough room for one person when I engaged in conversation with this anomaly.

"We're here," she spoke, gazing outside the window.

I paused and looked as well.

This scene again.

Tall, imposing columns lining a large, stone staircase leading into the entrance of an important looking building. A busy looking crowd of people, loitering around the steps. Scattered students with their faces buried into sheet music, entering and exiting through the front doors. A few kids with their parents, who had come to the conservatory for private lessons. Ever since I was a child, the Academy truly felt larger than life. The main building housed the Academy's wide concert hall as well, explaining the need for such size.

I swallowed.

This was a mistake. This was a mistake. I can't do this. All sorts of unpleasant memories are rising up to devour me like quicksand.

Yet as I thought those things, my feet had already stepped out onto the pavement. My feet still remembered the sensation of those flat, stone stairs. Ones that I used to climb with timidness, then fervor, then with the dragging autonomy of a robot.

My cello case was shoved into my hands but Octavia's chauffeur. At a dismissive wave of her hand, he returned to the driver's seat, closed the door, and the limousine pulled away.

I could immediately hear voices. No, it wasn't just because the front of the Academy entrance was bustling with people. I knew what these voices were saying. Almost like second nature.

"Isn't that...?"

"Oh my god, oh my god! Do you think I can get a picture?"

"Way ahead of you, girl..."

Standing next to this primed social media gossip material gave me quite an uncomfortable feeling.

"Do you hear them, Asher?" Octavia asked, looking up at the tall columns of the front entrance.

I sighed. "Yeah, yeah. You're famous, after all."

She shot me a look. "Please don't tell me you're actually that stupid."

Huh?

The black-haired girl, looking quite annoyed now, snapped her fingers in my face. "Stop hearing only what you want to hear, Winterfield."

What did she...

But as Octavia Melody said those words, they did indeed reach my ears. Their words.

"Winterfield...?"

"He's back!"

"No way—"

"But the rumors—"

"Six whole years!—"

Octavia smiled when she saw my face as she began walking forwards.

"Welcome home, Asher Winterfield. Today..."

At the top of the stairs, she turned around and extended a hand towards me. Her slender fingers beckoned with a force stronger than anything I'd ever felt in my life.

"I'll have you play for me, no matter what."

Author's Note

Sostenuto: to be played in a sustained and prolonged manner.

Verse Seven: Rest

(7) Vivace

"Asher..."

An impossibly gentle hand caressed my head. So soft that I could have mistaken it for the wind.

"Why do you play the cello?" My mother asked. "And for who?"

I looked down with misty eyes. My fingers were clenched tight against my bow, creating deep imprints of the wood into my hands.

"I don't..." I can feel myself trembling. A mix of frustration and confusion wells up within me, and a tear begins to crawl down the side of my red cheek. "I don't know, Mama..."

"There, there." More stroking. My nerves were being calmed with each motion. I hated being babied, but at the same time, my racing heart slowed to a steady pace under her guiding hand.

"We all make mistakes. It's part of life. Part of being human. You're not a robot after all, Asher."

She placed her hand on mine and squeezed tight.

"You're my boy. My perfect cellist. Now, lift your head and play it again, my little raison d'être."

I glanced up at her, sniffling back a tear. "What does that big word mean?"

Her smile was warm like a spring day.

"Oh, nothing special..."

"Miss Melody!" An important looking man in a stuffy black suit waddled up to us as we entered the doors of the Caterlotte Academy of the Arts and Culture. "Just where on earth have you been?"

"My sincere apologies, Headmaster," Octavia smiled with a sweetness so transparent and fake that it made me think of plastic, "I simply stepped out for some fresh air and lost track of time. Please excuse me."

"Yes, yes, of course..." He pulled out a handkerchief from his coat pocket and dabbed away some sweat. "Well, you certainly are back within time— I never doubted, of course— but you understand—"

She brushed some hair out of her eyes and smiled confidently. "But of course. The children's recital is still ongoing, yes?"

"You see, Headmaster..." Octavia pulled me forward by the cuff of my shirt. "I happen to have found the perfect stand-in today!"

Both I and the headmaster stood flabbergasted at her words, speaking at the same time. "Stand-in?!"

What on earth was this crazy girl going on about now?! A stand in for a recital? That was out of the question!

The headmaster of the Academy seemed to be thinking the same thing. I was beginning to worry that he'd render his own handkerchief useless by overusing it. It looked drenched with sweat already.

"Now see here, Miss Melody!" He exhaled indignantly, "You can't make last minute arrangements like this all on your own! The children are expecting the Octavia Melody today, not..."

And for the first time, he looked in my direction. "Er..."

I cleared my throat, feeling it was best to speak for myself in this situation. "Winterfield, sir. Asher Winterfield."

His eyes practically bulged out of their sockets at that. "Ash— you— wh— you mean?—"

"That's exactly who he means, Headmaster." Octavia put a hand on my shoulder. "Now while I'm sure the children would be delighted to see my face again for the 3rd time this month, might I suggest changing things up a bit? A chance like this does not pass us up very often, wouldn't you agree?"

The Headmaster paused, clutching his wet handkerchief in deep thought. "I suppose... well— certainly, I mean— there is no time like the present... still!"

He looked up at me with narrowed, as if blaming me for this sudden turn of events. Hey, I want you know I had no part in this change of plans, old man!

"You!"

Me.

"What on earth have you been doing the past six years?! For you of all people to be—"

"Now now, Headmaster." Octavia stepped in between us, smiling all sickly sweet like that again. "We don't have much time before the current performer finishes, do we? Let's hurry to the backstage now."

Though she didn't stand taller than either of us, Octavia Melody pushed us both along the corridors of the conservatory with such conviction that neither of us could oppose her.

I leaned back and shot her a look, mouthing the words—

What's the big idea?!

She regraded me for a moment, then went back to staring forwards as we walked towards the back of the hall. Her eyes shone with confidence that I could not locate the source of.

As we walked, I could hear a small voice reach my ears.

"Mommy, that's him isn't it?"

"Shush dear, don't bother the Headmaster..."

"I know it! I saw him in pictures!"

Her voice was becoming distant, but that child spoke directly to my heart.

"I get to hear him today? For realsies? I'm so excited!"

And so we moved into the back area of the conservatory, where an assortment of waiting rooms, fitting rooms, and practice spaces were strewn about.

"Now don't worry about a thing, Headmaster." Octavia had her hand on the large man's shoulder. "I'll brief Mister Winterfield here on the whole situation, so would you mind entertaining the audience briefly?"

The stuffy headmaster batted her hand away. "Entertain! As if it's my job to do such a thing! Miss Melody, you are truly—"

"Please?" Those puppy dog eyes again. I wonder how exactly she pulled it off.

"..."

The man sighed, straightening his dress coat. "I suppose as a leading figure in this establishment, I ought to give the children a decent talking to..."

He made his way towards the door leading to the stage, but stopped to glare at me. "Five minutes. Understand?"

I gulped and nodded as the tail of his coat disappeared behind a closed door.

"Are you out of your mind?!"

I had Octavia Melody against the wall as soon as we were behind the doors to the practice room.

"What exactly are you trying to pull here?" I spoke without being able to hold back my aggression. "Have you been listening to a word I've said?"

She looked back at me unflinchingly despite the position I had her in.

"I could ask you the same thing, Asher. What makes you so sure you can't play? Have you even tried?"

Octavia put a hand on my chest and pushed. I reflexively stepped away as she crossed her arms.

"That's not— That's not fair— You just—"

I could barely speak through my anger.

She sighed. "The Children's Recital. It's a weekly event where the younger students at the Academy can listen to the current repertoire of some of our selected performers. It's a very simple thing, really. Nothing to be worried about."

"Nothing to be worried about?!" My eyebrows furrowed. "You don't get it. I don't get you! Why are we here? Why are you doing this? Why me?" My hands tightened into fists as I made no effort to keep my voice down. "Can you explain even a single thing to me, Octavia?"

She glared at me. "I'm not interested in a shouting match, Winterfield. There's a mirror right behind you. Take a look at yourself, why don't you?"

My heart was filled with nothing but contempt for this inexplicable girl, but I still did as she said and turned.

There I was. Asher Winterfield was an average boy by all standards. I was a thin, wiry thing. My white shirt hung from me awkwardly like cloth on a scarecrow, and my hair was uncombed and messy from the shower I took earlier that day. My reflection stared back at me, and it occurred to me then that I never really took the time to mind my appearance with much care for a long time. I was not handsome, my clothes were not fashionable, my muscles hardly showed any sign of use, and I always thought the mole underneath my left eye was annoying.

Yet as I stood there with a cello strapped to my back, my ragged breath calmed, and my racing heart slowed.

...

"What do you want me to do?" A question both for Octavia and myself as we looked upon each other's reflections.

"What do you want to do, Asher?"

She stepped towards me.

"But since you're asking, my answer hasn't changed. I want you to play.

Produce a sound, Asher. Whether it's ugly, brutish, moody, uninspired, it doesn't matter. Make the kind of music only you can make."

I looked down. Somehow, looking at Octavia behind me using a mirror felt cheap. "But I can't hear the notes, I already told you..."

Slowly, tentatively, I could feel her standing right behind me.

"Look at me."

With my head still hung, I turned to face her.

"Asher Winterfield."

I stared at her shoes as we shared a moment of silence.

"I want you to know I'm not forcing you. I never did. Even today, you didn't have to meet me in that garden, yet you did. So if you truly feel like you can't do it, then run away if you want. I won't blame you. I'll even lend you money for the train."

I inhaled sharply. This girl, looking down on me like that..!

"You—!"

"But know this, Asher."

I paused and, finding courage within me, looked up to her face.

"I still believe in you."

Her eyes pierced me. Somewhere in those deep, endless wells of purple and blue, there was a girl who said what she meant. Though she spoke confidently, I could see her lips tremble from the short distance that separated us.

"I still believe in you." She repeated. "So don't go thinking you can't do it just because you don't think you can. It's not a matter of 'can' or 'can't,' it's a matter of doing."

Octavia paused, her hands looking fidgety, as if they sorely wished to grab hold of something. "It takes courage, you know..."

"To sail into uncharted waters." I finished for her. She liked to talk all wise like a scholar, but that quote wasn't from Beethoven or Mozart or any significant historical mind, but rather...

"Snoopy." She finished, looking satisfied, and smiled. Not plastic-sweet, like she did to win the headmaster's favor, but in the most sincere manner that I could feel.

"Five minutes, like he said. Do whatever you need to do, Asher."

And as the door shut, all that remained was me.

...

What do you want to do?

Her voice echoed throughout my head like it traveled through an endless cave.

I decided it in my heart as I walked to the door and gripped the metal handle.

I'm going to run away.

In my current state, there's no way I could play in a way I could be proud of, even if in front of an audience of children. I was rusty, I most likely wouldn't even be able to play the piece off the top of my head, and in the end... who was I to take her place?

Instead, they'll realize I'm gone, and Octavia Melody will return to the stage. They'll be happy to see her. No one is interested in a washed up failure like me. I'm sure that's the case.

"What on earth have you been doing for the past six years?"

A man who looked at me like a ghost, a relic of a time long gone.

"Why are you doing this to yourself again?!"

My childhood friend who knew what was best for me, or so I thought.

"I still believe in you."

An outrageous girl who had me by the collar at every step.

I was prepared to let them all down. Because the alternative would be much, much worse.

I began turning the handle.

"I get to hear him play today? For realsies? I'm so excited!"

—I stopped.

The words of that little girl I passed in the hallway returned to me.

"Him?" Her mother had regarded me with something like disdain. "Sarah, don't go looking up to someone like that. They say he's a fraud. He dropped out six years ago, just because he couldn't take the pressure..."

"But mom, I heard him! We both heard him! He was on the TV, remember?"

She clapped excitedly, unable to contain a squeal of excitement. "I wanna be just like him!"

Idiot.

Why are you stopping?

You said you were going to run away.

Idiot. Idiot. Idiot. Idiot! Just open the door and leave!

Every fibre of my being was screaming at me to run. To leave today behind like an unpleasant memory. Forget that girl, forget her mother, forget the Canterlotte Academy of Art and Culture, forget Octavia Melody, forget everything! You did it once before, you can do it again!

But I couldn't.

My mind raced at a thousand miles every second.

I slowly stepped away from the door. My legs trembled, but not with fear.

Excitement.

My blood was boiling.

"It's not that you can't play, you just won't."

Octavia was in my head. She continued whispering sweet nothings into my ear as I took my case from my back and began unpacking.

I extracted my bow, then my cello. I sat to check the strings and to apply a fresh layer of rosin to my bow. On the table in front of me was a copy of the sheet music, Suites á Violoncello Solo senza Basso.

Johann Sebastian Bach's six Cello Suites.

Prelude. The first of the six. The most well known.

It was a simple song that lasted two pages and ran for 2 minutes and 46 seconds, give or take.

I'll do it.

I'll play the piece.

I'll take these next five minutes to burn the notes fresh into my mind, then my fingers. I wouldn't be able to hear it, but if I consume the piece with my whole body, then it won't matter. Each finger and each movement is a sound I haven't heard in six years, but my instinct will patch up the rough places. I'll simply try and play to the best of my ability, even if the sheer act of performing a song you can't even hear is the height of absurdity.

I have to show them all.

That Asher Winterfield is no more.

That Octavia Melody's hopes are misplaced. That I'm a lost cause. That no child should ever look up to me.

Six years ago, I vanished without a trace from the scene of classical music.

Today, I'll firmly plant and mark my grave with my playing. A message to everyone: that the cellist everyone once knew is long gone.

Surely, I'll be able to communicate that. After all...

"Music transcends words."

I spoke under my breath, smiling. No longer knowing who it was who owned that quote, no longer caring so much as the fact that Octavia said those words to me.

Thank you.

With this... maybe I can finally say goodbye.

And five minutes later, I stepped onto the stage.

Author's Note

Vivace: in a brisk, lively, and spirited manner.

Verse Eight: Unison

(8) Cantabile

Hey, Octavia Melody...

The girl I could never understand. The girl who moves me in mysterious ways. The girl with long, beautiful black hair, porcelain skin, a smile that can sometimes be as fake as plastic and other times melt my heart, and eyes that see both through me and at me.

Why did you tell me to play?

Why do you want to hear my music?

Even if it might be terrible?

Even if I'm here to commit suicide as a musician?

Knowing I can't hear the notes?

These are all things I plan to ask you.

I hope you're prepared, after dragging me around all this time!

I'm definitely going to get you back!

"Miss Melody is feeling a bit under the weather today, so she will be sitting amongst you today, kids!"

An excited chatter arose at that. Some of the children in the audience clambered in their seats to get a look at Octavia, who sat a few rows away.

"As such, please give a round of applause for..."

I stepped into that light once more.

"Asher Winterfield!"

The only sound in the hall were my footsteps, echoing and reverberating loudly in the acoustics of the grand hall.

A few claps. Clearly there was confusion amongst the crowd. The children who didn't know any better found themselves in a pickle when they were the only ones applauding.

"That's him, isn't it?"

"Sure looks different from the photos..."

"Idiot, that was six years ago! And this isn't a concert, so he's not in a tux or anything..."

"Wow, I can't wait!"

I couldn't figure out what kind of expression to wear as I stood before the small crowd of people. This was a weekly, non-formal event, so the hall wasn't packed like I was used to seeing. Perhaps that made the weight of what was about to happen even worse.

These were the people I was about to disappoint. Just these children, their parents, and a handful of curious onlookers were all that sat before me, yet their expecting eyes and words pierced me like bullets..

I took my seat, adjusting the height of my chair and the endpin on my cello so it sat comfortable between my knees.

And after all preparations were made, I let my hands fall to my side, hanging loosely and without feeling, as if my body had died.

Ah... I remember now.

This feeling.

The silence before a performance.

The air was thick with a feeling. So poignant it felt like you could grab it with your hands if you just reached far enough.

The moment before the conductor's baton came down. Before a pitcher threw the ball. Before the referee blows the whistle. Before the starting pistol is fired.

Octavia brought me here today to hear me play.

But for me, as someone who can no longer do that...

I am here to die.

I raise my arms, my left on those steel strings, my right holding the bow loosely with four fingers.

Bach's Prelude. The first of the great cello suites. Musical masterpieces.

If I played well, in this moment, would I be able to hear it again?

The notes?

I inhaled.

...

And with the release of my breath, my hands began to move.

I let myself sway into the unchanging rhythm of the Prelude. A steady piece which never needed a drastic shift in tempo or dynamics in order to convey a change of emotion, it was rather one of the fine examples of how notes and musical structure could dictate certain phrases, transform them into miniature and subtle expressions of sound and emotion.

Just as the sheet music in my mind dictated, I played each note in the time it was meant to be played. My fingers moved mechanically, almost against my will, even though the friction of the steel strings began to dig into my fingertips. The weight of my bow felt like a heavy stone in my right hand, my entire arm attacked with a familiar sensation that it was conversely not used to.

My body cried out, begging me to stop, desperately asking why I had decided to put it through the motions of playing cello when I had sworn off doing so for so long.

Yet I played.

The notes were garbled like a person trying to speak with their mouth full. Not a single phrase from Bach's composition shined in my mind's eye.

The air around me was in sepia.

"Hey, this playing is a little..."

"Should the little ones be listening to this?"

"I thought he was preparing for a comeback. What a disappointment."

I was halfway through the piece. I couldn't tell by sound, but the metronome inside my head had counted nineteen measures. Twenty three left to go.

Could I bear it? I had to steel my mind in order not to lose my place. If I couldn't remember what came next, I would have no point of reference. My ears reached out to grab the notes, but the only thing left was television static.

I couldn't put any feeling into my playing. Just keeping up with the score was taking everything I had. Sweat dripped obscenely from my forehead and hands, and it felt like the blood cells in my head would rupture any second.

This is wrong. This is wrong. I shouldn't be trying to play the cello. Why am I here? What am I doing? Why do I still try?

My hands were beginning to slow. There was no decrescendo written in the piece, yet I could feel my pace reducing with each measure.

I couldn't look up at the audience. My eyes were fixed on the bridge of my cello, the wooden piece where five steel strings stretched over like wool over my eyes.

"This is hopeless..."

"Where's Octavia? I came here to hear her..."

My body was beginning to seize up. Starting from my toes, crawling up my calves and towards my abdomen, the sensation that I had been touched by Midas' hand was beginning to take me. Like I was beginning to become stone.

Ah... you knew this would happen, wouldn't you?

Yet, you still tried. You met with Octavia Melody, followed her every whim, and ended up on this stage.

At least Alexis isn't here to see me like this. That's good. In her eyes, I should just be the sad guy with no plans for life, her production assistant. That life is the only thing waiting for me after this performance. Well, if I make up with her, that is...

I'm sorry, Alex. Sorry, Octavia.

Lost in my thoughts, the sheet music vanished from my mind. My hands slowed to a stop, as did the song.

Sorry, mom. Sorry, me.

I did this to myself. By hoping. By expecting something.

Again.

I stared at the ceiling, my body and mind numb.

The same mistake.

"Is it over?"

"He didn't even finish..."

"Is it true that he can't hear himself anymore?"

"Can't be..."

A worried chatter spread throughout that small audience.

I was frozen in time. My bow still on the string. My hands came dangerously close to going slack, letting everything go, letting myself fall back into a deep hole...

"Don't stop!"

Like an electric shock, Octavia Melody's voice pierced my ears. I nearly jumped in my seat at the sudden noise.

"Don't you dare stop, Winterfield!"

She had stood up in the audience. Everyone looked at her with mixed feelings.

"I..."

I could tell her voice was trembling, even from where I sat. "I'll never forgive you if you do!"

She inhaled deeply once and yelled in a way I'd never heard before.

"I won't give you a ride back home! That's a long way to walk, you know that!? And I'll take back the money I was going to lend you for the train!"

"So don't stop!"

Don't stop.

Her voice echoed once, twice, then three times in that large hall, and then vanished into the air.

She was colorful. Her words and actions moved me like nothing else did.

She was spring itself.

And I was winter. Cold, unmoving, stoic, forever destined to be the season which brings about the death of all things.

But it didn't have to be that way. After all, winter wasn't just the season of dying trees or flowers...

It was the season of revival. That death was part of the cycle which brought about bigger, better things. Winter was a powerful, influential force. And that snow, which covered everything like a blanket, lit up the world in a way that fake lights and flowers could never hope to accomplish...

I stared back at Octavia, a deep feeling welling up in my chest.

I had stopped midway. By all accounts, the performance was a failure. Nothing about this was a learning experience for those children who sat before me.

Still, they looked at me with expectant eyes. They sparkled so impossibly bright, like freshly fallen snow. Like bright red roses.

Like the garden I met her in.

My entire body tensed up, then relaxed.

"I wanna be just like him!"

That little girl who looked at me like a superhero. Did I ever feel that way about someone else? Wasn't there something in my life that moved me to act?

There was someone, for certain.

She was outrageous. She liked to play tricks on me. She was deceptively beautiful. She was inexplicable, she said and did strange things on a whim. She saw through me like I was made of glass. Yet at the same time, she never acted as if I were below her or in need of pity.

Octavia Melody. The modern classical genius. The girl who I'd met before, but couldn't remember where or when. She wasn't a flower on a high mountain, and neither of us were Beethoven. We were just people. She was a girl with a heart bigger than mine.

When hope was nowhere to be found within me, she instead shared with me her own.

"I still believe in you."

"I still believe in you. So don't go thinking you can't do it just because you don't think you can. It's not a matter of 'can' or 'can't,' it's a matter of doing!"

This ridiculous, impossible girl. Octavia Melody.

Despite everything, my lips began to curl up at the edges.

You're so infuriating... you bring me here by force, tell me it's okay to run away, yet you deny me a way home?

You're so unfair.

I smiled, and my eyes saw the lights above me through a thin film of tears.

And so...

I played from the top.

The notes were still muddled. Although they couldn't reach my ears, it no longer mattered. I wasn't playing with any special technique, any special mindset, nothing like that. Rather than play religiously to the score, I instead let myself be free inside the music.

I freed myself, if only for a moment, from the shackles of my ears. It was just like she said, how listening wasn't everything. I could feel the music now.

Each note was a color that danced in front of my mind's eye. Each note was a memory, an emotion, a strong urge.

I wanted to transcend words. I wanted to speak through my instrument like Octavia did.

I cried out to the air with my cello—

I want to make life comfortable for my Uncle.

I want to make up with Alexis, and laugh and joke around again like we always do.

I want Octavia to know how much her words lifted me up.

I want to show these kids that there's a bright future, a burning freedom in music that nothing else could provide.

I became keenly aware of the sensations in my body, in my fingers and arms. They were no longer numb, but now feeling a stinging, aching pain from the tirelessness of my playing.

Good.

That pain meant I was alive.

It meant I could keep living.

It looks like...

I began speeding up. The finale was fast approaching now. The intensity of the music swelled with each phrase. My hands and my bow moved in quick, discreet movements as the air around me began to vibrate with color.

...I won't die today after all.

A triumphant G major chord ended Bach's Prelude.

My bow soared off the string as the last note rang throughout the hall.

And within my ears.

...

Not a single word spoken. Not a noise to be heard. Silence so deep and profound that you could hear a pin drop.

A sudden chill came over me.

Clap.

Slowly, but surely.

Clap, clap, clap, clap, clap.

And then, thunderous applause.

"What the heck?"

"He is back after all!"

"That was incredible!"

"Guess there was nothing to worry about!"

I released a breath I didn't even know I was holding as I found myself standing up before the audience.

My shirt was drenched with sweat, and my breath was ragged, and my heart racing, and my body aching...

But I found it again.

The moment that all musicians live for.

When they finish that piece, and they stand to face the crowd, knowing for sure that their sound reached them.

I took a deep breath, feeling guilty for the happiness I felt in my heart and the big stupid smile on my face as I bowed deeply.

Was it okay for me to feel like this?

Was it okay for me to play the cello again?

Could I be forgiven after all?

As if to answer, the applause roared in my ears like crashing waves. And as I emerged from my bow, I saw her.

Octavia Melody.

Because of the lighting, it was all I could do to make out her outline, much less any kind of facial expression. Yet, I could see them perfectly in the dimness of the seating area. Her tears.

A smile, drowned in tears.

Like a rose covered in snow.

Author's Note

Cantabile: to be sung; played like that of a human voice; song-like.

Verse Nine: LFO

(9) Fermata

As I walked backstage, a voice spoke out to me from the darkness of the rafters.

Did you play well, Asher?

I paused.

"I wouldn't say so. I did stop once, after all."

You know what that would mean in a competition, don't you?

I looked down at my sneakers.

"Immediate disqualification."

Yet you kept going. Even if there's a chance that it would have been futile. Why?

...

Why, you ask...

"Because someone out there was listening."

Is that so?

Is that really what you think?

The voice began to fade like smoke into the air.

Looks like you still have some growing up to do, Winterfield.

"I must say, I completely misread you my boy!"

That large, jovial man who was looking daggers at me before now stood at my side as I exited the backstage door, patting my back with all the jolliness of Santa Claus and laughing heartily all the while.

"Asher Winterfield, huh? I must say it had been a while since I heard your name, you'll forgive me for my lack of initial faith... oh, but I always knew you'd come through, my boy!"

"Haha..."

To be honest, I could hardly register a single word he was saying. My mind was still spinning from what I'd just done, and I felt unsteady on my feet. Still, I plodded through and back to the practice room where I left my case.

"Take a breather, young man! I trust Miss Melody will be along to see you soon."

He shut the door behind me as I stood in that dimly lit room.

Deep breaths.

I set my cello down carefully, loosened the threads on my bow, set that down with the cello, and then my whole body caved in.

Luckily, the sofa I sat down on to tune my instrument before going on stage was there to catch me. I fell uncomfortably and face first into that leather seat, extremely winded.

Did I really just do that?

My heart was still pounding at a feverish pace. The sweat on the back of my shirt had become cold.

...

I just needed a few moments.

To catch my breath.

...

I really did do that, didn't I?

I did that...

The door opened. A shred of light from the hallway stretched across the walls of the practice room.

"...To think I would find you like this."

The sound of a familiar pair of heels walked over to where he laid. When he didn't respond, she peered curiously at his face, which was pressed into the seat of the sofa. Asher Winterfield seemed to have fallen asleep, despite the incredible odds.

"Just a two minute piece, yet you're already in this state..."

The weight of the sofa shifted sightly as Octavia Melody took a set right beside him.

"Really, what am I to do with you...?"

"I'm out of practice..." She recalled him saying.

"I believe it now for sure. But to think it would be to this degree!"

Octavia looked down at him with an indescribable feeling in her chest.

"If you sleep like that, you'll wake up with marks on your face, you know? Honestly..."

She scooted closer to him.

"I'm right here, yet you insist on sleeping in that uncomfortable position. You sure know how to offend a girl, don't you?"

Carefully, so as not to wake him (though she felt that even the roughest handling wouldn't rouse the very tired looking Asher), she shifted the boy's head onto her lap. He made a lackluster noise from the disturbance, but it seemed like he was still dreaming.

...

Octavia parted a section of his hair with her fingers in a delicate motion. His hair was rough, messy, black like her's, but mysteriously not as dark. It was a bit fun to play with.

When she looked at him like this, all sorts of things jumped at her. His face, still a bit red from the excitement, was handsome and well proportioned, and his skin fair like that of a prince's (she didn't know, of course, that it was only because he didn't get very much sun). His form was slender yet broad, perfect for a cello player. The mole underneath his left eye was also very endearing.

And despite everything, he slept on her lap so peacefully, just like a baby.

"You're incredible, you know that?"

She had a bit of his hair twirled between her index finger.

"I never expected you to show me up like that, Asher Winterfield."

Truly, you made me look like a fool after everything I'd said and done to you.

You had the last laugh in the end. I could hear it, you know?

In your playing.

Within the notes of that Prelude, Octavia could still remember seeing it clearly.

The image of a young boy who loved and played classical music with his whole entire heart.

"So stay with me, okay? Because I still have to show you what I can do too."

She smiled and leaned close, whispering into his ear—

"That's a promise, alright? Superhero Asher."

Huh?

When did I fall unconscious?

My memories are hazy... though my consciousness was held together by mere threads, I could recall someone entering the room. Then, a really soft sensation... warmth like I hadn't known for so long...

I sat up in the sofa. The room was now well lit, and everything was as I left it.

Everything except...

There she was. Sitting in the opposite corner, a book in her hand.

Octavia looked up at the sudden noise, and our eyes met.

Just like the day we met, her face betrayed no expression.

"Awake now, are we?"

I rubbed my eyes. "How long was I out for?"

She checked her watch.

"Three hours."

Three hours, huh?

...

"Three hours?!"

I checked the time on my phone in a panic as Octavia regarded me with an unimpressed expression. "You heard me the first time, didn't you?"

I ignored the jab and rubbed my eyes harder, willing away the sleepiness.

Good god. Three hours after a two and a half minute song? There are limits to fatigue...

And after all that mouthing off to Octavia, that's what I had to show for myself? My entire face burned with embarrassment.

So uncool...

I mean, it's not like I was really trying to impress her in the first place, but you know...

My mind suddenly picked up on a memory. Mischievousness welled up within me like helium in a balloon.

"But you know, I didn't know you could get so emotional." I smirked as I looked back at the black-haired beauty, who froze up in response. "Yelling in the middle of a performance, crying right afterwards..."

"Looks like little Miss Melody isn't without her imperfections, hm?"

Bingo. Her face suddenly flushed with a deep pink.

"I did no such thing! It was all your imagination." She huffed indignantly. "More importantly, what was the big idea with stopping in the middle like that? And that atrocious playing right before? You know you'd be disqualified immediately if you auditioned or competed in that state, don't you?"

I couldn't hold back my laughter. Octavia's cheeks puffed out like a hamster when she got mad!

"You...!" She looked like she wanted to throw the book in her hands at me when she saw my expression.

I laughed so hard it hurt. It had been so long since something was this funny. So long since my heart trembled like this.

"Well..." I wiped away a few tears, holding back more laughter. "Sorry to have made you stick through that playing, and with me while I was out, Octavia."

"Tavi."

...

"Huh?" I did a double take.

"Call me Tavi." She faced the wall, so I couldn't make out her expression.

Still, the tips of her ears were red.

I smiled at that.

Not a flower on a high mountain, not Beethoven, not some goddess. Just a girl with a big heart. Even if there were many other things I still didn't know about her, I knew for sure that was Octavia Melody.

"Got it, Tavi."

I scratched my cheek awkwardly. "Um— you can call me Ashy if you want, I guess...?"

The book I was expecting her to throw at me earlier came flying towards my face. The binding of a hardcover met with the bridge of my nose at an uncomfortable angle.

"Who would call you that!? Idiot!"

Oof.

The Children's Recital had already long concluded by the time I regained consciousness. I was told by the Headmaster that many parents had to drag their kids away from the Academy when the affair wrapped up, trying effortlessly to convince them that I would still be there by the time they went home and came back. Guess that meant I was expected to come again.

The sun was beginning it's descent, and I needed to get home. I hadn't seen Uncle all day, after all, and there was still the issue of Alexis to take care of. But I was optimistic about it all— my life outside of music seemed to shine more colorfully as a result of what I went through today.

Octavia, keeping true to her word, offered me a ride home. During the half hour of commute, rather than the awkward exchange of words we had while going to the Academy, we instead had an animated discussion on music. What pieces would fit a performance for the children, like what mix of technique and expression would best entertain the audience, along what kinds of things we liked to eat before or after playing a big piece, the styles of music we preferred and which composers made the best pieces for certain instruments.

Almost before I knew it, we'd arrived in front of my home. We both exited the car and stood at the curb, now bathed in the light of the sunset.

"A coffee shop, huh?" Octavia commented, stroking her chin pensively as she looked upon my humble abode.

"We're not in business right now, but there'll be a grand re-opening next week." I looked sideways to her. "Will you come?"

She smiled, pretending to think it over. "I do enjoy a good iced latte. Try and brew me a good one, will you?"

I scratched the back of my head while laughing nervously. No way I could tell her I was still a total novice at the whole thing... I'd have to really press my Uncle to teach me how before that happened.

More importantly, I'd get to see Octavia Melody again. That stood out to me more than anything else.

"Now," she spoke as she motioned for her chauffeur to come forwards, "I believe this belongs to you?"

Of course. My cello. I took the case in my hands and adjusted the strap over my shoulder.

"It's a shame we couldn't enjoy dinner," she spoke wistfully, "I could have taken you to any five star restaurant tonight with ease... but alas, your poor uncle awaits you in fear of the unknown. I'll have to let you go for today."

I smiled at her grandeur. She really liked to show off, didn't she?

Today was truly amazing. I had to show her my gratitude.

I began, "Thank y—"

"But I'm not done with you just yet, Winterfield." Octavia turned to face me and cut me off, now serious. "I really meant it when I said that I believed in you. You can go farther than where you went at the Children's Recital today. You can soar to even greater heights if you truly put in the effort."

She stepped forwards, now very close to me. A mere inch, or perhaps less than that, is all that separated our faces.

Her eyes shone in that moment of twilight. "I know you can."

...

I opened my mouth to speak, "I—"

"But, again, whether you want to or not is up to you," Octavia turned away quickly, "I'm still not forcing you to do anything."

She tucked a bit of hair behind her ear, a rare blush appearing on her face. "S— so in the meantime, while you think about it, I suppose I'll let you have my cellphone number!"

The gesture shocked me at first, but I slowly eased into it.

"Sure, Tavi. If that's what you want."

"I— I mean, how else will we get in contact again? Don't take it the wrong way, fool! They wouldn't let you just waltz back into the Academy without me to guide you, understand?"

As ridiculous as ever, Octavia Melody. Perhaps in addition to having a big heart, I should also refer to her as the girl with an even bigger mouth.

"I'll text you later! Make sure to respond within 30 seconds, or you'll definitely hear from me!"

With that, we parted ways. Her extravagant limousine drove off and turned the corner. The image of her still burned into my retinas. Her seriousness. Her smile. Her laugh. Her anger.

Seriously...

Keeping up with her was even harder than keeping up with sheet music that I could no longer even hear.

I chuckled to myself as I pulled out the keys to the front door— to find that it was unlocked.

I tentatively opened and peeked in to find...

Alexis Capella, my childhood friend, sitting at the front table with my Uncle, who looked less than pleased at this sudden turn of events.

Our store had large, dark, tinted windows that allowed generous sight of the street, but not so much vice versa.

Meaning they had seen everything.

She saw everything.

My Uncle looked at me with worried eyes, making a gesture with his hand to his neck that I couldn't quite understand.

The blue-haired girl before me smiled with a sickening sweetness, like the thorniest rose to have ever been, as she rose from her seat and slowly walked towards me.

"You sure..."

Uh oh.

"...looked veeeeeeery cozy—"

Not good. Your eyes are scary, Alexis!

"—with Octavia Melody just now, didn't you, punk?!"

Not good!—

"GAAAAAAAAAHHHH!"

And for the second time that day, my face took a sound beating.

Author's Note

Fermata: a symbol that tells the performer to hold the note as long as s/he would like, but certainly longer than the written note value.

Verse Three: Crescendo

(3) Dolce

"Seriously?! You ran into the Octavia Melody?"

Did I forget to mention a certain someone? I may be unable to hear the sound of the cello, nor can I pursue classical music as a profession anymore, but that doesn't mean I'm a loner.

"Duuuude, what is wrong with you?" A girl with shocking blue hair and a lazily strewn together outfit of a tank-top and shorts yelled almost drunkenly as she sunk further into my chair. As usual, we were lounging about in my room — a common after-school affair between friends. "You didn't get her number or anything? For reals?!"

This obnoxious girl is known as Alexis Capella. She sometimes prefers to go by her "stage name," though - Vinyl Scratch that is. Don't ask me where she got that idea from. Apparently she believes "Alexis" is too posh for her, but that "Alex" is too boyish for her tastes. Yet another thing we can never quite see eye to eye with, especially when Alex is just plain easier to say.

One look at her and you know she's not the quiet, meek, "good girl" type - not just her dyed hair, but her wildly punk sense of fashion, an attitude that I've never seen on even the most seasoned musicians, and more energy than I've seen in even the most hyperactive puppy. Still, she has a heart of gold. You just might need to wipe away some grime to get there.

I know it better than anyone, having been friends with her before and after the incident. I have her to thank for getting me through some difficult years. On top of that, she gives me something to do in my spare time— seeing as she's all about the aspiring DJ life, I offer help with her music production and do some backstage stuff whenever she has an event. I still remember how most music is structured after all, even if EDM isn't really my thing. Alexis isn't always the most receptive to my feedback, but no doubt she has me to thank for some of her tracks hitting some high numbers on the internet.

How we met? I'll save that for another time.

She was obviously upset with me today for no reason, as usual. Still, I was grateful to have her company over the summer break. At the very least, this would fill in the gaps between helping Uncle out at the store.

I sighed, cracking open a can of soda while tossing her a spare. "What kind of chauvinist do you think I am to ask for someone's number the first time I meet them?"

She shot me a look as she deftly caught it between her feet (I was almost kind of impressed by that before realizing her athleticism puts her on par with your average zoo monkey). "You know that's not what I mean dude! How do you not know Octavia Melody? I mean, you of all people!"

Speaking of getting to know people, I was apparently about to get the full run down on this Octavia character. It had been a few hours since I ran into her at the park, and although I only mentioned it briefly to Alexis, this was the reaction I got.

"What's the big deal? It's not like the conversation really went anywhere after that. All that happened was..."

"O- Octavia. Right. I'll try not to forget... again."

Looking satisfied, she took a step back and turned away.

Weird. She talked like we knew each other from somewhere, when frankly, I had no idea who this girl was nor where we could have possibly met. My memories of my childhood were a little fuzzy, but I definitely would have remembered a person who had her looks or personality.

"And you?"

The sudden question surprised me.

"Me? Oh, uh..."

I cleared my throat, trying to match her flow. "Asher. Asher Winterfield."

She chuckled. "Which superhero is that?"

I smiled in spite of myself. "If trash cans can become superheroes, then it's just me."

We started walking as we talked, somehow. Though a little awkward at first, unsure of whether my presence was wanted or not, I naturally felt myself easing into it. She was easy to talk to somehow, and over very little things like the weather or which flowers were in season.

I asked the most burning question on my mind.

"Earlier..." She perked up, apparently surprised that I was initiating the conversation. "That was Bach's Prelude, right?"

The inquiry seemed to tickle her fancy somehow as her smile became—was it just my imagination?— a little mischievous.

"And how could you tell?"

Feeling a bit blindsided by the question that seemed obvious to me, I opened my mouth to reply—

But realized my answer would be wrong. I was not a cellist, nor was I a musician. Not anymore.

"I.. just recognized it. Heard it on the radio, you know."

"Ashy, come over here and take a look at this."

Urgh. I wish she'd stop calling me that. I even respect her dumb stage name, so why is she incapable of showing a fraction of that courtesy towards me?

"Look at what?" I sighed, getting off my bed and walking over to the blue-haired girl, now using my computer as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

"This." She pulled up a news site and shoved the monitor in my direction. I leaned in to get a better look.

There she was. The girl from the garden, Octavia Melody. Her picture on full display in a bold red dress, with the headline:

Finalists Announced for the 2018 Ekuestrya International Music Competition.

I whistled. That was an event you definitely knew regardless of whether you were a classical musician, a DJ, or even an average Joe. It was a multi-faceted type of festival that celebrated the best performers of all genres of music, though I only ever remember being involved in the classical music section of the competition. Alexis sent in a few of her songs for auditioning every few years, but had diminishing returns with nearly all of them. That was the kind of challenge you faced trying to achieve first place in such a prestigious competition — the steepest there is. There was the prize money and the free overseas tour to shoot for, but nothing was worth more than your name on that gold medal at the award ceremony and the fame that came with it.

I know that as well as anyone else. After all, there's Ekuestrya 1st Place medals from 2009 to 2012 collecting dust in my closet right this moment.

But, there she was, standing on a red carpet next to about a dozen other faces. Octavia, with a cello in hand, standing with a stiff pose and an equally stiff face — quite the contrast to the individual I met this afternoon. She looked more like a statue in that photo than a person.

"She's a freakin' celebrity dude! And check out that bod..." Alexis giggled as she lecherously ogled my computer screen.

I sighed, flicking the rambunctious girl square in the forehead with my fingers, making her yelp. "Easy. I don't think you're her type."

"Uuugh..." She whined as she massaged her forehead. "Yeah? What makes you so sure, loverboy?"

I sighed and stared at the ceiling, trying to best think of a way to put it...

"W- Woah!"

In a supremely embarrassing act of idiocy, my foot got caught on an upturned brick on the path, and I nearly found myself tumbling into a nearby rosebush when—

I felt her hand on mine, pulling me back. Close shave.

"You're quite stiff, aren't you?" She commented, apparently not too phased by my slip-up.

"Er..." I could feel my face flush. "I'm... sorry?"

She gave me a look. "Why are you apologizing? Do you do that all the time?"

How was she so good at this? Putting on pressure?

"I'm s—" Oops.

"Well," I recovered quickly, not wanting to get pushed back, "what should I be saying then?"

She sighed. "Rather than 'sorry,' how about 'thank you'?" She put her hands on her hips. "And I don't mean just for times like this. I mean for everything else in life. Thank you's are always better than Sorry's."

I was completely blindsided both by her words and the sudden change in temperament, but ended up nodding in agreement. "Alright then. Thank you, Octavia."

After a tense moment, the black-haired girl dropped the hardened look and smiled. "Good. That's how you should be."

I made a weird face as I recalled the words she said from that afternoon. Basically...

"She just didn't seem like a rocker, okay? And I don't think she goes to raves either, or big parties, or anything like that..."

Alexis made a face at me. "You sure are well informed, huh? Did I even need to tell you about her?"

I stopped, surprised by my own words. Why was I talking like I knew her?

"N— no. But classical musicians generally stick to their craft." I shot the blue-haired girl a look back. "I would know, wouldn't I?"

She stuck her tongue out at me and rolled out of my chair lazily. Alexis was a free spirit all right.

I sighed and picked her up off the ground like litter. "You're gonna get dirty like that. Get onto my bed at least."

"Wh—!?"

Her eyes became wide as saucers and she yelped and swatted at me. "D—don't say it like that, freak!" Was there some red on her cheeks?

So she is a girl after all. I definitely had my doubts before. The sheer thought of it got a chuckle out of me.

"A perv like you..."

Suddenly, I found myself getting— powerslammed?!

"..deserves some punishment!"

My field of vision suddenly took a wild, stomach-churning twist as I found myself landing on my bed with my back, and hard. On top of being rambunctious, this girl also had some monstrous strength when she got serious...

And before I knew it, Alexis positioned herself on top of me. All routes of escape blocked off.

"How's that, huh?" She said triumphantly, literally flexing on me. Her face was still red, but with excitement.

"I give, I give." I reply weakly, a smile on my face despite the circumstances. "You know I can't win against you."

"Hehe!" She had a big, dumb grin on her face— the same one I had seen countless times in my life, one of the few things I still treasured. Her crimson red eyes and infectious joy pierced me, straight into my heart. "You know it!"

"Still though..." She dropped the act and fell against my chest (to which I replied, "oof" as her weight knocked a bit of wind out of me).

"What do you think brought a big shot like Miss Melody to our quaint little town, huh?"

I stared at the ceiling, my head spinning with the same question as I felt her chest slowly rise and fall in rhythm with mine.

"So you are a musician."

I stopped in my tracks while she kept walking. An unpleasant feeling washed over me, and my feet felt planted to the brick path.

"A string player, to be exact." She spoke as if to drive the point further.

"That's not..." A drop of sweat rolled down the side of my face. "How can you tell?"

Octavia stopped a few paces ahead of me and looked back, looking confused that I even had to ask.

"Your left hand." She held up her own to prove the point. "Your fingertips are very rigid. That's how I knew."

Then, earlier, when she saved me from falling over—

"...That's dirty." For the first time, I felt some irritation. I knew it was displaced, there was no way she could have tripped me on intention, and I'm not sure why I was feeling any negativity in the first place, but for her to expose something I hadn't openly stated about myself...

Octavia's mouth formed a smile, but her eyes looked directly at me. "What is?"

I defiantly held her gaze for a moment before dropping it. What was wrong with me? I wasn't seriously about to have a go of it with a girl I just met, was I? No, it was her fault. For making it seem like we met somewhere before. For making it seem like this was natural. Like we were meant to be talking like this on this day, in this moment, in this place. Like it was fate.

"Don't be sour, Asher. I don't point it out to spite you."

While my head was clouded with thoughts, I found my hands in her's once more. Barely having any time to react, I only looked up at her.

"You know..."

Octavia spoke so quietly that it was almost a whisper. There was no one around us, so there wasn't any need... it was as if she was telling me a secret that only the two of us could know. Her face being so close again, I could make out her features better. Long, beautiful eyelashes complimented her deep lavender eyes. She gazed with an emotion I couldn't quite place in her eyes at my hands.

"These hands." She spoke while rubbing the tip of my index finger with her's. "They've worked hard. They have so much passion and warmth. They're the hands of someone who knows their purpose. And I..."

She squeezed slightly as she looked up to meet my gaze.

"I love them."

And when I saw the look on her face, those long eyelashes, those piercing eyes and soft lips... and feeling the gentle breeze of that perfect day on my skin, bathed in the colors of that garden we stood in...

Six years ago, I learned how cruel spring could be.

But today, spring tastes bittersweet.

Author's Note

Dolce: To be performed sweetly or delicately.