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...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Ethan's body language was off when his solo ended, but I hadn't anticipated Ethan's reaction in the halls. I had seen that familiar look on his face as he made himself small; his hunched shoulders and pained expression were clear markers. He was disappointed in his performance, but there was something more to it. Fear.
My grip on the bouquet tightened as he backpedaled from me, physically flinching at my words.
"Shit," I breathed as he took off. I didn't waste any time going after him, not even bothering to hand the bouquet off to my team.
Laser-focused on his retreating frame, I weaved between the crowds, apologizing profusely to those I had nearly rammed into. But that was not the concern.
My only concern was Ethan. I needed to find him; I couldn't lose him.
Maybe I was being dramatic, but losing him in this crowd felt like losing him forever. Obviously, he'd probably return to our hotel room, but the irrational part of my brain reminded me that he easily walked out of my life without any notice. If he really wanted to, he'd do it again.
But that's not what I should've worried about. The fact that he was already on the cusp of a panic attack made my chest cinch with worry. The fear in his eyes and how his body jerked away was the same as the attack in junior year. I couldn't let him go through that alone, not if I could help it.
That was the thing, though. As I halted in front of the bathroom I had seen him enter, I realized there was a real chance that I couldn't help him. That I could make it worse by being there. If just my being at his concert triggered his anxiety, there was little I could do.
But after hearing retching from the bathroom and a terrible-sounding cough, I pushed past the man leaving the door. I checked the stalls, relieved that only the two of us were there. Practically tossing the bouquet in one of the sinks before approaching Ethan's stall.
"Ethan? Ethan, it's me." I knocked on the stall, surprised to find it open. One arm braced himself over the toilet, and another wiped his mouth. I held the door open, unsure if I should give him more space as he didn't seem to acknowledge my presence. "It's me, Cam."
His shoulders tensed, indicating he at least heard me.
"Ethan?" I tried again.
He mumbled something incoherent as he glanced at me over his shoulder. His face was red, tears staining his face. His mouth trembled, shaky breaths still escaping him.
My grip on the door tightened but kept the space between us. "Eth—"
He made a noise before turning around and shoving past me, nearly knocking me off balance, beelining to the sink. I didn't crowd him, letting him wash his face with as much coordination as Felipe when he was completely drunk.
He successfully dried his face with paper towels until he looked up in the mirror. His hands shook as he noticed me in the reflection. His eyes softened before spotting the bouquet beside him. He gripped the edge of the sink.
