There's a thin line between love and hate. 

A tiny strand separating the balmy Moorish cover of care and desire from the arid wasteland clutch of heat and despair. 

That strand, for Oscar Wellington, was the strings of his violin.

His body swung in tandem with the symphony, bow sliding on strings like warm butter over hot toast. 

His fingers danced from top to bottom and back on the fingerboard, the ease with which he conducted his performance. 

His muse - the instrument held between the slant of his jaw and the blade of his left shoulder.

Omitting our existence, our composer laureate was knitting his own story on the podium. 

Oscar was trying to hold back his paramour - the violin - from walking away, swaddling it with the dips in his notes, the vibratos of his pleadings. 

But then, when she walked back, with short sharp strokes, he pushed her away.

The love he held for her, of stifled moans of the heart were narrated with the longer slides on the string. 

Then they were smashed with detest and resentment as he hit his bow back and again, whiplashing the strings. 

His fingers pushed his muse into the threshold of his heart, as he slid down the board.

Leave or enter, the choice was hers. 

He only just began playing.

The classroom was frozen as the maestro bled his heart. 

We were drenched in the torrent of the symphony. 

His eyelids remained shut, soft heaves of his chest from over his blazer as his bow-holding right hand descended lower and lower before vertically aligned to the hardwood flooring. 

He was spent, having given everything in these five minutes.

All around him - we - his apprentices remained suspended in midair. 

The piper led us human rats to the river of musical enlightenment. 

Dive and drown in the discord. Let go of what you have ever learnt, of the past. 

Be baptized with a new soul. Then float and swim with euphony.

My jaw remained unhinged for several minutes. 

Might as well be hours since he performed, I don't know. 

All I knew at that point was he was my God and me, his disciple. 

For a whole year from today, I had the privilege to learn from the maestro.

A girl sitting next to me helped her index finger under my chin, pulling up my fallen jaw. 

Her touch brought me back to the pale reality. 

I was back in the world of pain and suffering, already craving for my next fix.

"I might need surgery," was my justification for my unhinged jaw. Or the way I was hypnotized by Oscar's music. "The way he plays, I won't ever be able to close my mouth."

Soft giggles rose beside me. 

"Hi, I am Lily," the girl whispered, tilting her hand to my side. 

I took it. "Hi, I'm Mia. Nice to meet you."

Her finger gestured to the spaces between her chair and her legs. "He is so hot, I might have left a wet patch behind."

Her words were enough for my lungs to roar up the air like soot from a chimney. My vision hazed with tears. 

The music stopped.

We were the culprits who halted Oscar's musical journey to paradise. 

Murmurs around us were sharp enough to be heard. 

Lily and I were cowards to look up. 

At the sound of zipping the violin case, I knew Oscar was displeased to continue playing.

It was not every day that a child prodigy at the age of seven and a philanthropic maestro by twenty-five would perform for us before beginning his class. 

No, Oscar was already ten steps ahead, trying to tell us with his performance, what he expected.

Perfection.

And what did I do? 

Disturb the creator while he was moulding the universe. 

Great going, stupid.

My burdened head refused to lift. 

I could feel the room heating up with angered stares and muffled criticism. Chatters around us led a chill to soar from behind my neck. 

My eyes etched the tiled floor, grey and white into my memory. 

It might as well be the last recollection I'd have. 

My insides were shivering to a point, I was heating and melting simultaneously. My breathing may have appeared composed, my lungs were exploding with every silent minute, with every reactionless moment.

I don't know about Lily but I've been in trouble for talking too much in the past. 

I witnessed the brown shiny oxfords standing toe to toe. 

A strong cologne scent wafted into my nose and I gnawed the insides of my cheeks from smiling. 

Yes, even after all this, I couldn't help but toss away my grin. 

"Talkative girl number one," his sweet voice called. 

Strands of hair on top of my head blew gently with his breath.

I picked up my face. 

Neatly trimmed brows conjoined over emerald greens and stared back at me before shifting its focal point to Lily. His tan skin dusted a shade of pink when he sighed. 

Discontentment-filled air hit my face.

Melting into a puddle of shame, I hung my head and memorized the finer details of his shoes, small yet intricate work just before the tip to the royal blue pants he donned. 

My neck was straining like I carried heavy sacks of remorse on my back. But nothing could get me to look up.

"Don't do it again, talkative girl number two." Yet again, the field of hair on my head danced under his airy instructions. "Understand?" 

This time, his words held lesser force. Toned down like a request.

I nodded rapidly, glancing at him once more.

Fetching his black bag and a smooth silvery case from a seat affront, Oscar walked out. 

All I could do was watch him turn the minor distance between us into yards and miles. Scan his figure-hugging crisp white shirt aligning itself to the muscular moulds of his upper body, his pants encasing his perfect...

STOP IT MIA. 

The class was dismissed. 

My fellow troublemaker stood in perfect silence till the last living soul left the room. 

After that, we both booted to our original alignment. Default factory setting.

On my first day of the class itself, I was a sore thumb. Yes, the first day. 

I had somehow, read and reread my class schedule more times than the existence of the universe itself but every time, managed to assume the first day to be yesterday. 

To my list of uselessness, I could add wrong-date reading as a talent too.

Still, I was ecstatic to have a friendly face in class. 

Lily was a curvy, tanned Brazilian with a round face and a button nose which reminded me of anime characters every time I looked at her. Her features along with her pink-streaked hair stood out in a crowd.

We walked back to my dorm for a break. 

Lily stayed with some girls nearby, whom she befriended on a road trip. Lily's love for BTS stood out from the moment she enquired about my music preference. 

I hardly knew anything K-pop-related. You could say I was ignorant, having assumed it to be a makeup brand.

Ignorance wasn't bliss.

Lily, in our short walk from class, drilled in me the history of its origin and some of her favourites. 

Exo, Super Junior and Wonder Girls weren't characters from comics but bands. 

At nineteen, I felt like a hundred. 

"We can listen to one song from a band one day at a time and then you will love them too," she said.

Pfft.

My mom served me baked beans for a whole year, hoping I would eventually like it. 

If my mother couldn't succeed in forcing me to like beans, how on earth was this little anime girl going to accomplish the task of making me like music I'd never heard before. 

But Lily seemed determined.

Before I could state my reservations, her playlist was already airdropped into my phone and she jumped onto the next topic. 

"Hey, do you want to come with me for a party thingy tonight?" 

"Umm. I have to practice."

The selection for the first chair was in a few days. 

With Oscar's first impression of me already crumbling into a pile of ash, I had to ensure my performance impressed him. 

But my protests fell on deaf ears.

Lily walked inside my room. 

"Gosh this is so damn cool," she squealed.

Checking each corner and flinging my closet doors open, her loud gasps caught my attention. 

I was motivated to protest but gave up the idea. Having known her only for a couple of hours, her impression was already imprinted. 

Lily wouldn't budge even if I quibbled. It would be better if she resigned on her own.

After a successful inspection of my room, Lily's beguile journey came to a halt. She stood at the entrance, holding the brass knob. "I will meet you at eight here."

I checked my watch. It was already 4 p.m.

"Lily, I don't want to... I mean..." 

Under her stronger influence, my brain ceased its functioning.

With a wave of her hand and a finger narrowed at me, Lily announced. "8 P.M. Sharp. Don't be late."

A draft set course once she left. 

When the only other companion in the room was silence, I dropped into my relatively stiff bed and dialled my sister.

Ria had gone back to the States for her new semester. 

She merged the call with Mom on Facetime. Three family members, from three different countries were intertwined on screen. 

As usual, Mom was worried about our health and security. Being a mother was a task of all professions imbibed into a single woman. 

She was a doctor when Ria sneezed or a therapist when I whined of homesickness. But for this call, she was most herself.

I had to put on a brave face, pushing away the ball of angst pricking at the back of my throat, every time Mom uttered, "When will I see you both in real time?"

Ria, the brains among us, was agile at diverting topics. "So, how are people there Mia? Did you make new friends?"

"I have plenty of friends back home Ri," my tongue stuck out. Mom only smiled, listening to our banter. "But I did make a new friend today. She is in my class, Lily. And she is forcing me to come for some lame party."

Ria and Mom unanimously tucked their faces on their knuckles, watching me. I needed to elaborate on my apprehension. After all, who would understand, if not my family?

"It's not like I'm not going out, Mom. The selection is in a few days. This is my only chance to perform at the Albert Hall. Do you know how many people are there in my class, competing with me for that seat?"

Ria nodded sidewise. Mom continued her smile. Maybe she wasn't aware of how difficult it was to make the cut. 

"It's the chair, Mom. The chair. "

I had emphasized in the past, how being the first chair was my dream since I came to know of the position. 

To hold command, be the director of the play whom everyone watched, then followed. 

It coursed in my bloodstream as motive and in etched in my mind as the zenith. Every day was a climb, closing the distance.

But Mom seemed to overlook my desperation. All she did was smile like someone sitting for a portrait. I knew I was failing to make her understand the gravity of the situation.

"Beta," she said, her smile reduced to a thin line. "I know you want this bad and you'd strive your best. But..."  

Her eyes danced over to Ria's screen before travelling back. 

"But what?" I asked.

"...but if you don't make it in this attempt, it won't be the end of the world. You have talent and you will make a good name for yourself. Just don't push yourself too hard on this."

"You won't get it, Mom." 

"I do get it, beta. I also know how competitive you tend to get. And I don't want you not enjoying life."

It seemed like no matter what I told them, they were unwilling to understand the pressure of the situation. 

In reality, I was the blind one to not realise. There was no external pressure. It was only internal. The one I created.

~

Babies...

Liked this chapter and Mia's encounter with a bully...

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