Doubt trickles in, pitting in my stomach, craving my attention. Conin and I are happy. We’refinallytogether, so why does that pit feel like a never-ending hole? It craves more, but I can’t give it more, because I don’t know whatitwants. Conin’s filling it, but not completely, and that terrifies me.
What the hell is happening?
“When did you fall in love with him?” Atlas questions me one day. We’re sequestered between a bed of potatoes and a line of evergreen trees. His expression is indiscernible and he’s just as stoic as Conin is. A good chunk of the garden is in the high school’s track field. Students run around its perimeter on the asphalt. I can’t help but feel they’re watching us, judging, waiting for the inevitable.
“A long time ago, I think. I, uh, didn’t realize then I was demisexual, but I knew without a doubt Conin was the one. I never thought he’d reciprocate those feelings.”
“I think he’s always loved you too,” Atlas says with a knowing grin. “From what I observed.”
He chuckles, magnetizing me with his infectious mirth. We cultivate the potatoes, placing them roughly into a wicker basket at our side.
“So, when do I get to hear you play the violin?” he asks.
“Never,” I say.
He’s crestfallen or it’s a ruse, but I’m rushing to tell him that I promise I will, I’m a bit rusty, I was only joking because I’m a sarcastic little—
“You were being sarcastic,” Atlas says.
“Yeah.”
“Well, stop it. I’m serious. I want to hear you play.”
Soon,I promise. He nods, content and satisfied, and returns to his work.
I picked up the violin again a mere few days ago. Conin said he discovered through the grapevine that two Angelics in the community were offering lessons. Instruments were limited, but there were several slots still open. I hopped onto the opportunity immediately.
Sometimes you don’t realize how much you miss something until you lose it. The thrill of the violin underneath mychin, its long, curved frame reaching my extended arm, and the scintillating sensation of the strings brushing against my cuticles. I missed it all, from the upkeep to its sweet trill. The notes resonated far after I released the bow.
The ebony instrument was back in my possession, I was attending lessons again, and life felt okay. Somewhere along the way, lyrics popped into my head again—the same song I’d been testing the waters with before shit hit the fan. Turns out, a relationship isn’t the cure-all for life’s obstacles. The words were difficult to come by still but committing them to a blank page felt more attainable than ever.
A week later, Conin left on a shift with the Angelic Guard. He kicked off training and returned each day with palpable enthusiasm. I’d smile, kiss him full on the lips, and snuggle with him on the couch or in our bed, where we’d drift peacefully to sleep. Pride welled in my heart, geared my mouth upwards into an unabashed smile that couldn’t easily be negated. Conin would beam back, rake his fingers down my hair, and tell me with familiar persistence that he should tie it into a bun again before he became rusty. I let him every time.
“I’m so proud of you,” I’d say. He’d kiss me until my lips grew numb.
Now, he is away for guard training, and I am home alone, left with a brain full of thoughts and a stringed instrument waiting to be played. I pick it up. The strings are familiar, the weight of the bow a comfortable reassurance. I raise it to the tip of the frog, then swipe down with an elegant thrust. My index finger wobbles, emitting a smooth vibrato, which hums deep into my hands, traveling upwards. The sound settles in my ears and brain. It is alive, alive, alive. I am alive. Familiarity washes over me, taking me to wherever it pleases. And finally, unprecedentedly, a knock sounds on the door.
The knock tells me to freeze, so I do. The violin is set down.
With pent-up anxiety, I amble toward the front door, willing for the knocks to recede and for whoever is behind the entrance to go away. Instead, more come. I sigh, grip the handle, and pull it open.
Atlas MacPherson stands over the threshold.
The first thing he says to me is, “I heard you.”
My face heats, but it also feels like all the blood’s been drained out of me.
“You sounded amazing,” he says next. “Can I come in?”
“S-sure,” I reply.
Atlas slips in and takes in the interior of our apartment, which he’s seen plenty of times before. He sidles up to the violin placed on the glass coffee table. I watch to see if he’ll pick it up. He doesn’t.
“I thought you were some neighbor coming to tell me to keep it down,” I say.
“If I were your neighbor,” Atlas smiles, “I’d tell you to play all the fucking time.”
“Oh.”
