Mom started fussing the moment I walked in.
“You didn’t take an umbrella again, you’re going to get sick again...”
“I’m not five anymore, Mom... Stop babying me.”
“If I don’t look after you, you’ll completely let yourself go!”
She’s always been like this, and it drives me up the wall.
“How would you know?”
“Just look at your room: it’s not a young woman’s space, it’s a dump! No wonder Bodhan doesn’t pay any attention to you!”
That was a low blow.
Normally, after a comment like that, I’d explode, and we’d end up yelling at each other for at least half an hour. But today... today I just gave a sad smile and stayed quiet.
Bodhan... He really doesn’t notice me in the way I wish he would. But it’s definitely not because of the mess... Honestly, do people fall in love with something specific? We’re not robots; we can’t program ourselves to love a particular person. Feelings don’t follow logic—they’re irrational.
I’m the same way... I should’ve given up on this idea long ago and stopped chasing after him. But no, I can’t. Every time I think of him, every time I remember his voice, my heart warms.
Even if he doesn’t notice me, it doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t change how I feel. I still love him.
I looked at Mom, who had gone quiet now, probably not expecting me to stay silent. When our eyes met, she turned away for some reason and headed to the kitchen.
Lately, I’ve really started to think that being with Bodhan is something I’ll likely never have. He’s the best at everything, so driven, while I’m just mediocre... My dreams of being with him will probably remain nothing more than the childish fantasies of a little girl in love.
I took off my shoes and went to my room while I still had the chance.
Calling it a dump was an exaggeration, of course, but my room wasn’t exactly spotless either. I hated dusting, and some of my clothes were piled on a chair instead of in the closet.
My desk was a complete mess of sheet music, notebooks, pens, and random clutter. Crumpled pieces of paper littered the floor.
I sat down at the desk and opened the top notebook. Flipping to the last page with notes, I scanned the music, then pulled my phone out of my pocket, plugged in my earbuds, and opened YouTube. I navigated to my “saved videos” and selected one, slipping the earbuds into my ears.
The video featured a young violinist I listened to constantly. He played practically flawlessly. If I had even half his talent... Then my parents and Bodhan would support me.
If I could just win those darn competitions... If I weren’t so afraid of the stage after that incident... Then they’d all still be on my side.
But now, all I can do is mimic young talents here at home, where almost no one hears me and no one expects anything from me.
Yet no matter how well I learn to copy, I’ll probably never perfectly capture this Dmitry’s style. But I’ll at least try... One more time.
I played the recording again, but this time I closed my eyes, focusing on the sound of his violin.
A third-generation violinist, a genius—everything came so naturally to him, and I... Honestly, I think I’m just jealous of him. I remember him from my first performance in Kyiv, back when I was still considered a little star, a talent. He’s only a couple of years older, but even then, the gap between our abilities was staggering...
Still, even if the whole world is against me, I want to keep playing... Somehow, I’ll get into the conservatory, it’ll work out... Everything I’ve done can’t have been a mistake...
But right now, I shouldn’t be thinking about that. Focus.
I reached for my violin case, but then my eyes caught the clock.
It was already half-past eight, so playing wasn’t an option—my stepdad doesn’t like it when I play after eight, saying I have all day at school and another five hours after that to practice.
I got up from the chair, closed my eyes, and assumed my stance. As I do every evening, I imagined the violin and bow in my hands and...
First-second-third-first-first-third... More emotion. Stronger. Don’t be afraid to let the sound out. Faster. Yes. Right here... Softer and quieter, and then... then the sound builds and...
The click of the door handle snapped me out of it, and I opened my eyes.
“Sweetie, what are you doing?” my stepdad asked, noticing my probably odd pose, as if holding a violin but without one.
“Rehearsing,” I said with a smile. “This kind of rehearsal won’t disturb your TV time.”
I don’t know why I was angry... Who was I angry at right now? Myself? For being weak? For just going with the flow? For the fact that, no matter what I say, deep down I’ve already given up?
“Sweetie, why are you being rude?” he asked, frowning slightly.
“Sorry,” I said, lowering my hands, still “holding” the imaginary instrument and bow. “I have a performance coming up soon. And by the way...” I looked at him. “Stop calling me ‘sweetie.’ I’m not your daughter. I don’t need this pretense—I’ve told you before. Call your real daughter Marina that. Speaking of, where is she?”
“Marina will be home by ten; she’s at a friend’s birthday party...” he said, a bit flustered. “Ksyusha, you know I love you like my own...”
“Please, enough,” I interrupted. “Just let me practice, okay? Please...”
My stepdad sighed and left the room.
I sat down on one of the two couches and closed my eyes, trying to get back into a creative mindset.
But before I could sink into the melody I needed, I heard the door to my room open again.
Opening my eyes, I saw my mom standing in front of me.
She walked over and sat down beside me.
“Oksana, why did you speak so harshly to your father?” she asked calmly.
But I knew that behind her calm tone was a storm of emotions, because she only called me Oksana when I’d really messed up. I’ve never liked that name... “Oksana” means “stranger” or “outsider” in Greek. And that’s exactly how I felt, even here in my own home.
My real father divorced my mom when I was barely four. I haven’t seen him since. I barely remember what kind of person he was or how he treated me, but I do know he was a musician, and when he left us, he gave me a small, ornate keychain shaped like a violin.
The coating on the keychain has worn off several times; it’s scratched and scuffed, but every year I take it to be recoated and restored, because it’s the only thing I have that reminds me of my father.
A father who probably doesn’t even think about my existence.
My mom has tried to throw the keychain away a few times, but I’ve always managed to save my “treasure.”
“Ksyu...” Mom touched my hand with hers. “Your dad loves you. Don’t be so hard on him...”
“He’s not my dad,” I replied quietly. “And he never will be.”