carefully-constructed mask. It felt like my face was on fire.
I couldn’t look at them. I tried to pretend everything was fine, all the while staying away from Leo, just in case he guessed. He had enough to worry about without me freaking out about a little live music. Why the hell didn’t I just tell him how hard this was for me?
Because it’s not fair. It’s not something he can fix.
It wasn’t all about me. This was his dream, his bar. Like I’d told Callum in the diner, I was just the hired help. I didn’t call the shots here, and live music was our point of difference. We needed it, he was right. Otherwise this was just another bar, destined to blend in when I knew he wanted it to stand out. He deserved to have exactly what he wanted.
I hid in the hallway as the soundcheck continued. It was torture. I took a deep breath, letting it out slowly as I sagged against the wall at my back. I closed my eyes, as if that would drown out the twang of the guitar, or the bass player messing around. Having nothing visual to hang on to just made it worse. The music became everything. Every note was accentuated.
I could hear it in the way they talked to each other over the music. The excitement in their voices was toned down, but it was there. That passion, that love of playing. It was all so clear, especially to me, because I’d had that too, once.
The memories began to crowd in on me, filling up the emptiness and pushing my body to the brink. I felt like a balloon in that crucial second between not being full enough, and about to burst. I was walking on a knife’s edge, and it was cutting into my flesh.
Breathe.
Standing on stage, in front of thousands. The first note played, reverberating through the air around us. The excitement as the crowd picked up on the song. The guitar in my hands, vibrating through my ribs as the music filled the space between my head and my heart, picking me up and taking me along for the ride.
Breathe!
I forced myself to breathe in through my nose, out through my mouth, over and over again until I realised I’d have to get back out there before Leo came looking for me.
It was one thing hearing Leo play his guitar in the house, it was another to be confronted by this. The memories were too much, the sense of loss was enormous.
I remember in the hospital, looking down at my bandaged arm and feeling my music ebbing and flowing through my veins. In my highly medicated state, my grief and my music were inextricably linked. I could feel the music inside me, as if it were searching for a release, some way to escape from my soul. With my hand gone, my arm a mess, and consumed with guilt, it dried up like autumn leaves, crumbling to dust.
I couldn’t play anymore, and I didn’t want to sing. In my twisted, tortured mind, if I couldn’t do one, I didn’t want to do the other. I didn’t know if Leo quite understood that. He still asked me to join him from time to time when he played, but I couldn’t bring myself to. It would’ve felt like recklessly tearing open a wound that may never heal again.
I didn’t have it in me anymore. It was gone, ripped away from my body, just like my hand.
The days after he found me in my apartment were a blur, but there was one moment I’d never forget. I was curled up on my bed, with my bedroom door permanently closed. I could hear him playing his guitar through the walls, and it unravelled my tortured mind. I couldn’t understand why he would do that to me, when he knew how broken I was. I burst out into the living room and begged him to stop. I wanted him to see how much he was hurting me.
He put his guitar down. Then he told me that music would save me, I just had to let it.
I had no idea what he was talking about. My music had left me – didn’t he get that? No more piano, no more guitar, no more words or chords or melodies or harmonies. No more bridges or choruses. Nothing. Gone. All of it.
Still, he didn’t give up. Eventually, when my head
I couldn’t look at them. I tried to pretend everything was fine, all the while staying away from Leo, just in case he guessed. He had enough to worry about without me freaking out about a little live music. Why the hell didn’t I just tell him how hard this was for me?
Because it’s not fair. It’s not something he can fix.
It wasn’t all about me. This was his dream, his bar. Like I’d told Callum in the diner, I was just the hired help. I didn’t call the shots here, and live music was our point of difference. We needed it, he was right. Otherwise this was just another bar, destined to blend in when I knew he wanted it to stand out. He deserved to have exactly what he wanted.
I hid in the hallway as the soundcheck continued. It was torture. I took a deep breath, letting it out slowly as I sagged against the wall at my back. I closed my eyes, as if that would drown out the twang of the guitar, or the bass player messing around. Having nothing visual to hang on to just made it worse. The music became everything. Every note was accentuated.
I could hear it in the way they talked to each other over the music. The excitement in their voices was toned down, but it was there. That passion, that love of playing. It was all so clear, especially to me, because I’d had that too, once.
The memories began to crowd in on me, filling up the emptiness and pushing my body to the brink. I felt like a balloon in that crucial second between not being full enough, and about to burst. I was walking on a knife’s edge, and it was cutting into my flesh.
Breathe.
Standing on stage, in front of thousands. The first note played, reverberating through the air around us. The excitement as the crowd picked up on the song. The guitar in my hands, vibrating through my ribs as the music filled the space between my head and my heart, picking me up and taking me along for the ride.
Breathe!
I forced myself to breathe in through my nose, out through my mouth, over and over again until I realised I’d have to get back out there before Leo came looking for me.
It was one thing hearing Leo play his guitar in the house, it was another to be confronted by this. The memories were too much, the sense of loss was enormous.
I remember in the hospital, looking down at my bandaged arm and feeling my music ebbing and flowing through my veins. In my highly medicated state, my grief and my music were inextricably linked. I could feel the music inside me, as if it were searching for a release, some way to escape from my soul. With my hand gone, my arm a mess, and consumed with guilt, it dried up like autumn leaves, crumbling to dust.
I couldn’t play anymore, and I didn’t want to sing. In my twisted, tortured mind, if I couldn’t do one, I didn’t want to do the other. I didn’t know if Leo quite understood that. He still asked me to join him from time to time when he played, but I couldn’t bring myself to. It would’ve felt like recklessly tearing open a wound that may never heal again.
I didn’t have it in me anymore. It was gone, ripped away from my body, just like my hand.
The days after he found me in my apartment were a blur, but there was one moment I’d never forget. I was curled up on my bed, with my bedroom door permanently closed. I could hear him playing his guitar through the walls, and it unravelled my tortured mind. I couldn’t understand why he would do that to me, when he knew how broken I was. I burst out into the living room and begged him to stop. I wanted him to see how much he was hurting me.
He put his guitar down. Then he told me that music would save me, I just had to let it.
I had no idea what he was talking about. My music had left me – didn’t he get that? No more piano, no more guitar, no more words or chords or melodies or harmonies. No more bridges or choruses. Nothing. Gone. All of it.
Still, he didn’t give up. Eventually, when my head
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