Page 10 of Broken Hearts

She nods eagerly, and I find myself guiding her, my voice a mix of encouragement and instruction.

“Let your wrist be flexible like this,” I show her, adjusting her hold. “And your bow grip—keep it relaxed but firm. Yes, that’s it.”

“Can you show me?” she asks hesitantly after a few tries.

Before I realize it, the violin is in my hands. The familiar weight brings a surge of emotions, each one a piercing reminder of what I’ve lost. My fingers, once so agile and sure, now feel foreign against the wood and strings.

As I play, the room fills with music that speaks of lost dreams and silent yearnings. The notes flow from deep within, painting a story only I know. For a moment, I’m lost in a world where my injury doesn’t define me.

It’s nothing more than a cruel, ephemeral dress as pain shoots through my hand, jolting me back to reality. The music falters and dies, leaving a void filled with aching silence. My fingers cramp, the violin slipping from my grasp as the physical reminder of my limitations mocks me, and for a second, I feel a fresh coat of hate for Cole.

Reluctantly, I part from the violin when I notice a woman standing by the doorway, her presence a quiet shadow. She’s tall, with an elegant posture that speaks of classical training. Her hair, a cascade of chestnut waves, is pulled back into a neat bun, highlighting the sharp contours of her face. Her eyes, a piercing green, hold a mixture of awe and curiosity as they fix on me.

“Your playing was exquisite,” she says, her voice a soft melody that resonates with genuine appreciation. She steps closer, a respectful distance still between us. “I’m Clara, the teaching assistant for the advanced classes. I’ve seen many students come and go, but what you did there was… it was moving.”

I feel a blush creeping up my cheeks, an unfamiliar yet comforting warmth. “Thank you. It’s been a while since I’ve played.”

She tilts her head, her eyes scanning me thoughtfully. “I couldn’t help but overhear your advice to Madison. You have a way with the violin, and your understanding of technique is impressive. If I may be so bold, have you considered teaching?”

The question catches me off guard, and a bittersweet smile tugs at my lips. “I used to dream of being on the stage, not behind a teaching desk.”

“There’s nobility in teaching, you know,” Clara responds, her voice earnest. “You have a gift, and sharing it could be incredibly fulfilling. We’re actually looking for someone to help at the community center. It’s for underprivileged kids who are interested in music. I know it’s not a grand stage, but it’s a start.”

Her offer hangs in the air, a tantalizing possibility that tugs at my heartstrings. Yet, the memory of my fingers cramping, the stark reminder of my limitations, casts a shadow over the spark of hope.

“I’ll think about it,” I say, the words heavy with both fear and longing.

Clara nods, her smile understanding yet hopeful. “I know it’s not much, but take your time.”

My phone beeps. It’s a text from Nessa.

Nessa: Where u at? Freezing my tits by your car.

Me: Be right there.

“Thank you. I-I have to go,” I finish rather lamely.

As I leave, her words linger in my mind. It felt so good to hold a violin again, to feel the strings under my fingers and the gentle vibration on my chin as the notes transformed my world, but the pain that followed, the sorrow of the realization of my limitations, it was a real blow, probably too much for me to bear. I may never feel the high that playing violin brought me, but at least I’m spared the lows.

“Hey, you okay?” Nessa asks, and I startle.

Lost in thought, I didn’t realize I had already made my way back to the car.

“Yeah, of course.” I nod and force a smile, which I know she doesn’t buy, but like Poppy, she doesn’t pry, at least not yet. “How was class?” I ask, eager to bring the subject to something far less dangerous.

She shakes her head a little and gets into the passenger seat. “It’s okay. A little boring, but you know—the foundations always are.”

Contradicting her crosses my mind, thinking about how foundations, when tied to a true passion, are never boring. My experience with the violin, fascinating every minute, stands as a testament to that.

“I texted Poppy to tell her we’re on the way, and I’m ordering the pizza,” Nessa adds, and I’m not sure if she is oblivious to my internal turmoil or if she is giving me some time to regroup. And knowing that she never misses a thing, it’s probably the latter.

We pull up to our place, and I can see the living room lights glowing warmly through the window. Poppy’s silhouette moves behind the curtains, and I feel a sense of belonging that eases the tightness in my chest.

Inside, Poppy greets us, waving the TV remote. “I’ve selected three rom-coms. Prepare for a night of unrealistic love stories and improbable happy endings!” she adds with a laugh.

She transformed the living room into a cozy nest of blankets and pillows. The TV screen displays the title of a romantic comedy, promising an evening of laughter and light-heartedness. We change into our pajamas, and as I settle into a corner of the couch, tucking my feet under a soft blanket, I feel lighter, as if this simple night with these amazing women is like a balm on the scars in my soul.

Nessa hands me a bowl of popcorn before settling on her side as the film starts.

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