"Next up, Alina Winters, violin!" the school principal yelled into the microphone. I winced at the loud echo, ringing in the auditorium.

Stepping forward onto the stage with my violin tucked between my arm, I smiled at the crowd. I had done this too many times to he worth anything. Hiding my sigh as I adjusted the microphone, the audience rustled impatiently. A pang of jealousy, at the violinists who could stand in this very same spot and have the attention of everyone in the room, resonated in my heart. But what kind of musician would even want to be here, in the smallest school in the smallest town of Virginia?

"Hello, I'm going to be playing Ziguerneweisen by Pablo Sarasate. You probably have heard this piece somewhere, as it's pretty famous." I spoke, knowing half the people weren't listening. The real reason they were sitting in front of me was because the teachers mandated it. 

The few adults who were listening clapped for me, and I shook off the anger in me that my hard work was wasted on a high school talent show. It was my second-to-last performance, I ought to enjoy it.

Enjoy what, being ignored and underestimated?

I shoved the thought away. 

Finally, I bowed towards the audience and moved my violin so I was in playing position. Taking a deep breath, I started to play. From the first note, I played with my heart. It wasn't the same as the people who performed for the sake of music, no, my heart played desperately. The feeling of wanting something, deep in my core, took over my movements. This passion, this wholesomeness was what drove me.

I never usually let my mind wander while I was in a concert, but for the sake of my own tolerance, which would be gone as soon as I saw my giggling classmates at the back of the theatre, I let myself think.

My mind whirled over the ending junior year, of the summer break, as my fingers flew over my fingerboard. I would graduate and go to college, and then what? I focused on the power flying from my violin, the sound waves radiating from the wooden hollow instrument. The music, my music, swelled with the vibrato that pulsed so purely in the theatre.

Then I'd automatically be famous? That's not how it worked. Nothing meant anything to me anymore, dates and supposed vacations just more days of music and reproach. Everyone always thought that just because I was good at violin, it came naturally to me. What about practice, the hours of staring into those black music notes and trying to interpret them into a story?

I was playing too fast. Trying not to panic, I gradually let my fingers relax and find their places at a much more manageable speed.

Something in me jerked in anger as another thought popped into my head. Why should I be limiting myself, when I could be something more? 

Half of me, the kind, patient, forgiving side, fought back, but it always lost to my ambition. I was smart, I got good grades, and I was so good at violin, what would I lose?

My focus shifted from my future to my music, and the tension of getting everything right, and yet still sounding good. Memories of a metronome, ticking, swinging side to side faster and faster- it took my own breath away, the music that rang out from my instrument. More than speed, more than power, I played intensely. A bead of sweat beaded on my brow, that I could actively feel slipping down my face.

It almost seemed the notes mischievously glided from my fingers and into the air around me, surrounding me in what felt like an unbreakable halo. And I was in the middle of it.  

Last page.

End this with passion.

I let myself close my eyes, and the last, final, page of my life onstage came through my fingers and my soul. I just hoped everyone was listening. The ending pizzicato sounded clearly, echoing in the gymnasium.

Done. I smiled smugly and bowed, sweeping offstage before the audience could clap.

Burning fire shivered down my spine, offering up another gem to the crown already heavy on my head.

Pride was a sin I was bound to love.