“Everyone has to grow up sooner or later.” That’s the mantra I’ve been hearing from just about everyone for years now. Time to grow up, to pick a career, to figure out my future. Time to think about how to live my life after school.
After tenth grade, I could go to a vocational school... I could... I could try applying to the conservatory again! But my parents don’t see a future in it, especially since I couldn’t even stand out in school.
“Grow up...”
But what if I don’t want to grow up? My teacher is always saying I play without seriousness.
Without seriousness!
She says I’m stuck at the same level, and maybe I really should listen to my parents’ advice and think about something else. But...
***
I pick up my violin again. The bridge rests comfortably on my left shoulder, my chin settles into the chinrest, and the fingers of my left hand find their place on the strings. The bow in my right hand glides smoothly across them, releasing the first notes.
My playing is technical, still just technical... What was considered brilliant a couple of years ago is now, at this age, nothing more than average. I’ll never become a true violinist.
My playing is precise. I don’t miss a note. I can sight-read even the most complex pieces with ease. But in my hands, they all sound the same...
The sound builds.
Bodhan, my green-eyed, handsome neighbor, my childhood friend, and the person I’ve loved since we were kids, looks up from his phone and watches me.
I try to hide my nerves. There’s probably a forced crease between my brows by now.
I always furrow my brow when I’m focused on playing. Why do I do this to myself... Just to torture myself. Maybe I really should give it all up...
I glance at myself in the mirror, still playing on autopilot... Light brown strands of my hair fall just below my shoulders.
Bodhan once said I always looked delicate and small, and that made him want to shield me, to protect me from the whole world.
And I’ve always taken everything to heart. So, when I first heard those words from him nearly ten years ago, I declared that I loved him and that we had to get married...
I steal a quick look at Bodhan, who’s smiling now. Our apartments were next door to each other, our parents were friends, so naturally, we were always together as kids. He was often asked to look after me, and I didn’t mind one bit...
Once, when we were in elementary school, I boldly announced that we absolutely had to get married because I loved him. He said it was silly to marry your little sister, the one whose nose you’ve been wiping since forever. I pouted and turned away. He smiled, touched my shoulder, and said, “Tag, you’re it!” before running off. I grinned and chased after him...
I was always running after him. And it wasn’t just about the game of tag we played on the way home. I was fixated, refusing to face reality, and reality often doesn’t match the sandcastles we build in our minds.
As soon as I stop playing, Bodhan looks at me.
“As always—flawless,” he says with a smile, standing up from the chair and pulling his phone out of his pocket to type a message to someone.
His phone buzzes, and he smiles again, typing something back to whoever it is.
I look away.
A long time ago, when I performed my first recital with the other first-year violinists, you looked at me like that... Back then, I thought that despite all your words, we could be more than the “adopted brother and sister” you always called us. We could be...
My hands drop, and the instrument is no longer in its ready position.
“Do you remember what you said to me after my first concert?” I ask suddenly, looking into his green eyes.
There’s surprise in them at first, then recognition.
Back then, he told me I looked like an angel...
I see a faint smile on his face and know for sure he remembers that day.
That time, he looked at me as if I were a real angel, nothing less. Later, when he realized he’d said too much, he tried to joke about my overly childish shoes, but I still remember that look...
“No...” The smile fades from his face. “Was I even at your first concert? I don’t remember anything like that,” he says firmly after a pause.
“Forget it,” I say, looking away.
I walk over to the table where my violin case lies, then place the bow inside, securing it with the latch. Next, I remove the chinrest from the violin and tuck it into its designated spot in the case. Finally, I place the violin itself inside, fastening it with the Velcro strap.
“Let’s put the little doll to bed.”
I run my hand along the neck of the violin and, at last, close the case.
“Ksyu, it’s time for you to let this go,” Bodhan says almost in a whisper, gently encircling my wrist with his fingers. “You’re not just torturing your parents—you’re torturing yourself.”
“How would you know what tortures me...” I whisper back, just as his phone buzzes again.
At first, he pretends to ignore the call, but the phone keeps buzzing, and eventually, Bodhan lets go of my hand, pulls it out of his pocket, and declines the call.
“You know I’m always here to listen. You’re like a sister to me,” he says just as quietly.
“I know.” I pull my hand free. “Will you come to the concert?”
“I’m not sure yet,” he answers honestly. “It’s on Friday, right?”
“Yes. I told you about it almost a month ago,” I say, barely hiding the sadness in my voice. “But... why am I even surprised? We’ve only seen each other three times in the last six months.”
“I’m studying in Kyiv, and you’re in Kharkiv,” Bodhan reminds me. “Of course, we’re not neighbors anymore... And anyway, I took the time to come and cheer you on, for old times’ sake. You don’t really have any friends besides me. Okay, sorry, that was too much,” he says, looking into my eyes. “Ksyu, I’ll honestly try to make it on Friday, okay? Call me tomorrow.”
I just nod.
Bodhan’s phone buzzes again, and he hurries to say goodbye.
I pick up the violin case and sling it over my shoulder.
These walls... It’s been almost four years. Just a little longer and...
I step out of the building. Light autumn rain falls from the sky.
This year has been unusually warm, and even in October, I can get by with just jeans and a jacket. I didn’t bring an umbrella today since the morning sun felt almost like summer.
The rain drips onto my head, my cheeks, my shoulders. It’s gentle—almost like a misty drizzle—so I don’t rush or run.
My heart feels just as damp. There’s a rain falling inside me too.
Just two years ago, when I was still planning to apply to the conservatory, Bodhan was on my side. He was the one who helped convince my parents that I should follow my passion, that if music was what I wanted, then I should pursue it.
It was then, yes, right then, that I realized I truly loved him and wanted to be with him forever. But later, just before the competition, Bodhan told me he’d fallen in love. It was a girl from his department. “Smart, driven, with a strong personality; she’s going to achieve so much in life,” he described her. Now they’ve been dating for six months—he got what he wanted.
Lost in my thoughts, I didn’t even notice I’d reached home...