Paralyzed, I wage a war with myself. I don’t want to do it. I want to scream “no!” from the rooftops, but that’s a knee-jerk reaction—fear in its purest form. My rational brain whispers that I should try, that this is the kind of risk growth demands. But my heart pounds out a warning:You’ll fail. You’ll falter. You’ll make a spectacle of yourself.
Each word lands like a slap. I’ve spent my life chasing perfection to keep that voice quiet, polishing every flaw until nothing human remained. But if I never let myself stumble, I’ll never touch the kind of music that breathes. I’ll stay safe. Small. Silent.
I realize I’ve been waiting for Nyxx to say something, to try to persuade me, but he’s giving me the time and space to make up my own mind. I’m grateful for that.
Taking a deep breath, I nod. “Okay. I’ll do it.”
“Go you, Anastasia. No media will be there; your parents won’t see or hear it. This is strictly foryou.”
Right. This is for me.
The drive to Hamlin’s town square is filled with nervous energy. Nyxx tries to distract me with outrageous tour stories, but my mind keeps circling back to the impending performance. Listen to me—performance. For all I know, I’ll be performing for pigeons. But still, it feels monumental, and my quaking hands tell the tale.
As we reach the bustling square, panic seizes me. “Nyxx, I don’t know if I can do this. I agreed, and I’ll follow through, but… I wish I could back down.”
He turns to face me, his expression serious but kind. “If that’s what you want, Anastasia, I’ll totally support you, but listen to me. You’re feeling terrified, right?”
I nod, not trusting my voice.
“What if you used it?” he says softly. “Let the fear be part of the song.”
Panic flares low and fast, blooming through me like feedback in a sound system—loud, uncontrollable, impossible to ignore. It seems totally wrong. Counterintuitive. Crazy. And then something clicks. The fear doesn’t disappear, but it transforms. “You mean… use it?”
Nyxx nods, a smile spreading across his face. “Exactly. Channel it. Express it through your playing. Let people hear what you’re feeling.”
Taking a deep breath, I square my shoulders and walk to the center of the square. My hands shake as I remove the flute from the case and raise it to my lips.
The first notes burst forth, sharp and jarring—a high C that wavers before sliding into a dissonant run of chromatic scales. My fingers tremble on the keys, and the tone wavers—fragile, breathy, on the edge of breaking.For once, instead of fighting the imperfection, I lean into it, letting the music mirror the fear churning in my gut.
As I play, something shifts. The discordant notes begin to find their harmony, like pieces of a puzzle slowly clicking into place. The discipline drilled into my muscles loosens, giving way to instinct—raw, untamed, alive. A rallentando here, then accelerating into a series of ascending arpeggios that mirror my racing heart.
When I hit a wrong note, instead of cringing, I incorporate it into the melody. The mistake becomes a motif, repeated and transformed until it’s not a mistake at all but an intentional deviation. My formal training fights with this wild improvisation, creating something entirely new.
The terror that started the piece morphs into determination—shown in strong, staccato passages that punch through the air. Then, as confidence builds, the music soars. Trills and runs flow from my fingers with increasing surety, building to a crescendo that reflects the exhilaration bubbling up inside me. It’s not pretty or polished like my usual performances, but it’s honest. Real. Raw. Me.
When the final note fades, I open my eyes to find a small crowd has gathered. Their applause washes over me, but it’s Nyxx’s beaming face that captivates me.
“That,” he says, pulling me into a spontaneous hug, “was fucking awesome.”
I have a scrapbook back home with all sorts of reviews and articles about my playing that date back to grade school. I think the best review of my lifetime will go down as “fucking awesome” from the Pied Piper himself.
Nyxx’s embrace is warm, solid. I find myself melting into it. For a moment, the world narrows to just us—the steady thump of his heart, the scent of sandalwood and sunshine that clings to him, the way his arms seem to fit perfectly around me.
“Thank you,” I murmur against his chest, not quite ready to let go. “For pushing me, for supporting me… for everything.”
When we finally part, the air between us feels different—charged, alive, threaded with all the things neither of us dares to say.
Nyxx clears his throat, a flush climbing high on his cheekbones. “So, uh… what do you say we grab some ice cream to celebrate?” His voice has gone low, rough at the edges, and it curls through me like a secret.
“Lead the way,” I manage, surprised by how breathless I sound.
He grins, cocking his head in that maddeningly charming way. “Bonus mini-challenge. You in?”
“Maybe?”
“I challenge you to order a flavor you’ve never tried.”
He’s right, of course. I’m a creature of habit—chocolate, or if I’m feeling daring, chocolate mint chip. “I’ll do you one better, Mr. Nyxx. You pick for me.”
