Scarred Hearts: Edison Cresanto Axton (Season One)

Ch. 02: Crossing Chords

Ch. 02: Crossing Chords

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Fritz's POV

The air hung heavy with unspoken words as I watched him scan the crowd, his face a canvas of conflicting emotions. Guilt gnawed at me like a famished rat, gnawing at the resolve I'd built over weeks. Mom's voice, laced with disapproval, echoed in the cavernous space of my mind, "Edison Cresanto Axton? That guy? He's not good for you."

But was she right? Was Willowbrook Institute the only key to unlocking my future, the only path to happiness? Mom's disapproving frown wasn't just about Edison, I realized. Deep within her steeled gaze flickered a flicker of fear, of losing me as I chased my dreams.

Taking a deep breath, I braced myself. Leaving was the only way to chase my aspirations, but leaving without a proper goodbye, without offering him some form of closure, felt like ripping a melody from its sheet music, leaving it incomplete and forever unsung.

With a final, conflicted glance at Edison, I turned towards Mom, my steps heavy with every beat of my conflicted heart. As I settled into the car, a single tear escaped, a salty testament to the love and friendship I was leaving behind.

The world blurred into a fast-forward reel as we journeyed towards Willowbrook Institute. The thrill of new beginnings battled the constant ache of leaving Edison behind. Every note I played, every melody I practiced, felt hollow, missing the familiar counterpoint of his violin weaving its magic beside mine.

The engine purred softly, a lullaby in stark contrast to the storm brewing inside me. Each mile separating me from Edison felt like a betrayal, a note played off-key in the symphony of our friendship. Glancing in the rearview mirror, I caught a glimpse of the familiar oak tree, a silent witness to countless musical dreams and whispered secrets. Its branches seemed to beckon me back, a leafy chorus pleading for a different melody.

The acceptance letter to Willowbrook Institute, tucked away in the glove compartment, mocked me with its stark reality. It was the culmination of years of relentless practice, countless sacrifices, and a burning ambition that had fueled my every move. Yet, in that moment, its once vibrant colors seemed to dull, its promises overshadowed by the gaping hole left by Edison's absence.

My fingers tightened around the steering wheel, knuckles turning white. Had I sacrificed the very essence of my music, the joy of shared harmony, for the sterile pursuit of individual excellence? The question echoed in the quiet car, echoing in the silence that had replaced the laughter and creative chaos of our shared practice sessions.

Tears welled up in my eyes, blurring the road ahead. Each passing stop sign felt like a marker of the growing distance, not just physical, but the emotional chasm I was creating with every revolution of the wheels.

Would I find the same soul-stirring connection in the sterile halls of Willowbrook, devoid of Edison's understanding eyes and the playful banter that fueled our creativity? Was ambition truly worth the price of severing a musical connection that resonated deeper than any note on the scale?

The road stretched endlessly before me, mirroring the path I had chosen, a path paved with uncertainty and the haunting melody of an abandoned duet. As I continued the journey, the engine's purr became a somber counterpoint to the discordant symphony playing out in my soul.

Days bled into weeks, and the initial shock of separation began to dull. I immersed myself in my studies, the rigorous practice sessions and demanding classes offering a temporary escape from the emptiness within.