Strings of the heart

Chapter 4: Unspoken Warnings

Conductor.

The director.
The leader.
The heartbeat of the entire orchestra.

Him.

My chest went tight.

Rohan scanned the room, meeting eyes with different sections — violas, cellos, trumpets, first violins.

Then, briefly — painfully briefly — his gaze landed on mine.

A flicker of surprise.
Recognition.
And then… the smallest, warmest smile.

My fingers trembled around my bow.

Beside me, Nethmi stiffened.
I felt it — the way her posture changed, how her breath caught.
When the smile faded and he looked away, she leaned toward me.

“Don’t look at him like that,” she whispered, barely moving her lips.

My heart jolted. “What? I wasn’t—”

“It’s better if you don’t,” she said again.
This time the words were sharper.
More warning than advice.

I stared at her, confused.
This wasn’t like her.
This wasn’t the Nethmi who would normally bump my shoulder and joke about cute musicians or how I overthink everything.

She kept her eyes glued to the stand, jaw tight.

Something was wrong.
Something she wasn’t saying.

But the rehearsal started before I could ask.

***

Rohan lifted his baton.

“Let’s begin with Sibelius — Andante Festivo. From the top.”

The hall inhaled as one.

Then the music began — soft at first, like a prayer.
My bow glided, shaky but steady enough.

I tried to focus on the notes, on the melody, on the way the orchestra breathed and tightened together like one body.

But my eyes drifted.

To him.

To the clean precision of his movements.
To the way he leaned in slightly when guiding the first violins.
To the calm power in his gestures.

Halfway through the piece, my bow slipped.

Only a tiny mistake.
Barely noticeable.

But I winced.

Normally, Nethmi would lean in, whisper “You’re fine,” maybe even nudge me playfully.

Today she said nothing.

Her silence cut deeper than my mistake.

***

Rehearsal flowed like a river settling into its rhythm, each passage smoothing into the next.
Every mistake — every misplaced breath, every trembling note — was met with Rohan’s steady patience.
He corrected us not with severity, but with a quiet professionalism that felt almost gentle, as if he carried the music inside him and was simply guiding us toward it.

“Second violins,” Rohan said suddenly, his voice cutting through the warm hum of the room. “Your section needs more warmth. Don’t rush your entrances — think of the line as a breath. Follow my cue.”

He stepped closer.

Closer to me.

I lowered my gaze, praying he didn’t see the way my cheeks warmed under his attention.

“Let’s try that again,” he murmured, tone soft yet unshakeably firm.

His eyes swept across the section — across all of us — but when they lingered on me, even for that fleeting heartbeat, something in his expression softened.
Then he turned back to the podium, but the warmth he left behind clung to me like a second skin.

I swallowed, breath tight in my throat.

Why did his voice feel like music itself, sinking into the spaces between my ribs?

Why did Nethmi stand beside me so stiff, as if she wished she could vanish from this place entirely?

And why, in an orchestra full of brilliant players, did his brief smile feel like it had been shaped for me and only me?

***

We played until my shoulders ached and my heart thudded against my ribs.

Finally—

“Good work,” he said. “We’ll stop here for today. See you all tomorrow.”

The hall exploded into chatter.

But Nethmi didn’t say a single word. She packed her violin quickly, avoiding my eyes.

“I’ll see you later,” she muttered, then walked away—quiet, withdrawn, gone before I could follow.

I watched her leave with a twist of unease in my chest.

Everyone else was talking in groups. Laughing. Planning lunch.

I suddenly didn’t feel like joining anyone.

So I did what I always did when the world felt too loud.

I went to my book café.

***

The bell above the door chimed softly when I pushed it open. Warm air, the smell of coffee and old pages, gentle violin music playing in the background—it felt like stepping into safety.

I didn’t go to the tables like most people. Instead, I slipped quietly between the tall book racks, letting the shelves shield me from the world. This was my little hiding spot—my sanctuary.

Today, I picked up a poetry book I always turned to when I felt upset: A Sun Will Rise Tomorrow. Its words were familiar, comforting, like a soft hand on my shoulder. I lingered there, letting the lines wash over me, reading slowly, breathing slowly, letting the world outside fade.

When I was done, I carefully placed the book back in its secret nook—the spot I always chose so no one would borrow it from the library. It was my little ritual, a way to keep a piece of calm all to myself.

As I tucked the book into its hiding place, I sensed a movement on the other side of the rack. Someone—or something—was there. But I didn’t look. I didn’t need to. I let it go.

With a soft sigh, I turned and walked toward the door, the cool evening air brushing my face as I stepped out. Thoughts tangled in my head—about the rehearsal, the glittering-eyed conductor, Nethmi’s strange silence.

The world outside felt heavier than usual, though the streets were calm. My mind clouded with questions and quiet worries as I made my way home, holding the warmth of the poetry book in my heart, even as the rest of the day lingered in shadows.

Everything was changing.
And I wasn’t sure if I was ready.

But I also wasn’t sure if I wanted it to stop.

***