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...
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Despite everything, he still had that unrelenting optimism and certainty that I'd do well in my concerto.
"I'm sure you'll do great."
I hated it. Hated that I agreed to stay with him for the weekend, that he said something like that. Despite all this time, I hated that he still obviously wanted to talk to me, didn't hate me, or seemed to loathe that I had broke up with him in the first place.
I hated that I couldn't hate him. I could never hate him. Not for offering a hotel room or for anything he could've said or done—he had done nothing wrong.
Cameron deserved to be angry, furious even, loathe my entire existence for breaking up with him and breaking my promise of staying over a phone call. And yet, he still wore that stupid smile that had made me fall for him in the first place.
On the off chance that I had read him wrong, maybe that smile had been more sinister, a spiteful one for getting me to share the hotel room under a friendly pretense before yelling and screaming at me. Who knows, maybe he had learned to throw a punch by now?
His parting words and forlorn gaze as he left killed any chance of that ever being the case. Cameron was still the same ray of sunshine that didn't have a damned negative bone in his body. A body that objectively got more attractive—granted, most teens do after high school; something about a later maturity range—not that I was lucky enough to forego. Not that I'd care to admit it, but he was more attractive in a way that I found distracting and annoying.
I was supposed to be over him, thought I was, anyway. But being in an enclosed space with nothing but my phone as a distraction made it impossible to avoid recognizing the changes.
I didn't think I could breathe normally until he left the room for his practice. My heart didn't calm down either, wracking against my chest. Traitor.
With Cameron gone, the room felt empty, unbearably silent. He took up space in every room, not in a bad way. Yes, he could be loud and annoyingly clumsy in other ways, but he filled the space in a way that could brighten anyone's mood.
His presence and absence reminded me of what we used to be, from our unlikely friendship to our eventual first kiss and date.
The first time we met was in English class. His coach was the teacher then, and he nearly tripped over my violin case daily and nearly hit his head on the desk once. At first, I hated him, the stupid baseball jock who'd have no regard for someone's instrument even if it was protected in a hard shell case. But every day he'd trip over it, he apologized profusely. No silly banter, no comment or insensitive remark that had to do with my race at all. Just a profoundly sincere apology.
It wasn't that I was the only Asian American kid in class who looked like no one, but many had changed their clothes, appearance, and personality to mimic the trends and styles of people around us. Whether it be the loose-fitting jeans that showed off too much underwear or changed how they spoke and treated people to blend in, I was definitely not one of those kids.
