Ethan Wong, an ex-prodigy violinist, thinks it's not meant to be.
After his latest mental breakdown at his last violin competition, where he placed tenth out of ten contestants, he's not sure why his music professor appointed him the soloist for th...
CW/TW: Heavy topics/discussion of mental health, suicidal thoughts, and ideation.
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Luckily, the halls had emptied as I made my way back to the backstage area. Only a few of my classmates remained, along with Alan, whose pensive frown turned to a sigh of relief. He strolled through the room just as Cameron's hand on the small of my back retreated. It didn't bother me if my professor noticed, nor would I have minded Cameron's hand in mine or on my back; it was clear he was trying to give me space, something I appreciated, nonetheless. Alan spared him a wary glance before turning to me, gripping my shoulders to glance me over. Then in an instant, he pulled me into a crushing hug.
"Don't scare me like that kid," he muttered.
"Sorry," I mumbled, awkwardly patting his arm.
"Don't be. I should've taken your concerns more seriously."
I shook my head. "You wanted the best for me. And I shouldn't have hit you."
"Nonsense, I deserved that. You going to be alright?" He glanced at Cameron. "I can bring your violin to the hotel if you want."
The white case on the ground was propped against other instruments, mostly the cellos and basses. While I'd rather hold it for safekeeping, it wouldn't comfort me any more than it already had these past few days. "Yes, please. I'm going to head back if that's okay. With some rest and food, I should be okay."
Alan nodded. "Of course. Get some rest; I'll text you all tomorrow. Call or text me if anything."
"Thank you," I said again. He smiled and patted my shoulder before sending Cameron a look that I could only imagine came off as a silent warning. Not that Alan could ever look intimidating in front of a baseball player of Cameron's stature.
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They weren't kidding about the rats in New York—they were more like filthy capybaras. I had never seen them that big before, nor had I seen them this gutsy and fearless in front of humans.
After nearly three run-ins with them, Cameron and I safely returned to the hotel with a box of pizza, silently agreeing that we never wanted to see another street rat again. How was it that the bubonic plague was not rampant in these streets? Realistically, I knew why, but if a global pandemic were to spread, I would've blamed it on the New York rats first.
