Eternal Ephemerals

The Weight of Words

Elara had never known how to respond to praise. Compliments felt like smooth stones skipping over the surface of her mind—never sinking in, never settling.

She stood in the dimly lit hallway outside the auditorium, still hearing the echoes of polite applause. Her hands, trembling only slightly, clutched the program from the recital—Elara Wren, Solo Pianist. She had played flawlessly. She knew it. Every note had been where it was supposed to be, her fingers guiding the melody with precision and grace.

"That was amazing," someone said as they passed by.

She forced a smile, a quick "thank you" slipping from her lips before she could think too much about it. The words felt hollow, automatic, as if she were reading from a script.

She didn't dislike compliments, exactly. It wasn't about humility, and it wasn't that she thought she didn't deserve them. She just didn't know what to do with them.

"Elara, you were incredible tonight," another voice chimed in—this time, her professor. His eyes held sincerity, his tone filled with the weight of true admiration. "The way you carried the second movement... breathtaking."

She nodded, said the only thing she could. "Thank you."

But inside, something twisted.

She had known the second movement was good. She had known before she even left the stage. The resonance of the final note had still been ringing in her bones when the applause erupted. So why did hearing it from someone else feel... unnecessary?

What am I supposed to say? Yes, I know? That would be arrogant. No, it wasn't? That would be dishonest. A simple thanks felt like the least offensive option, but also the most meaningless.

The thought made her uneasy.

She left the hallway, stepping out into the cold night air. The city was alive—lights from distant buildings blinked like slow heartbeats, the streets hummed with movement, with conversations she didn't have to be a part of.

She pulled her coat tighter around her, exhaling into the winter air.

Why am I like this?

It wasn't just the music. It was everything. Someone complimented her dress? Well, she had chosen it, hadn't she? Of course it looked good. Someone admired her writing? She had spent hours refining every word, had agonized over structure and meaning. Of course it was good.

Maybe that was it. Maybe that was what unsettled her.

She didn't want empty validation; she wanted recognition. Not praise for the sake of being kind, but understanding—for someone to see why it was good, how she had built it, the layers beneath the surface.

But wasn't that what most people wanted?

She thought back to an afternoon two weeks ago. She had been in a bookstore, flipping through a novel she'd already read, when a girl beside her pulled a book from the shelf hesitantly.

"That one's beautiful," Elara had said, unable to stop herself. "The way the author builds tension in the last few chapters is incredible."

The girl had looked at her with wide, surprised eyes, then smiled. "Oh, really? I was just thinking about whether I should get it."

Elara had nodded, feeling a quiet satisfaction in having shared something meaningful.

She loved giving compliments. She loved recognizing the small things people did well, things they might not even realize about themselves—the way someone's voice softened when they spoke about something they loved, the way a pianist's left hand moved almost imperceptibly before a shift in tempo. She had no problem expressing those thoughts to others.

Did people feel the same way about her? Did they give her compliments because they wanted to, because they had noticed something real? Or were they just filling space, offering pleasantries out of obligation?

Her mind drifted to another memory, years ago.

A summer evening. A birthday party, back when she still went to those things. The candlelight had flickered over the rim of her glass as she sat on a balcony with two friends. The conversation had stretched lazily, the way it did when time felt suspended in the haze of warm air and distant laughter.

"You always seem so sure of yourself," one of them had said.

Elara had frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I don't know. You always act like you already know when something about you is good. Like if someone compliments your dress, you already knew it looked nice before they even said it."

She had laughed it off at the time. It had seemed ridiculous. But later that night, lying in bed, she had replayed the words over and over. Was that how people saw her? Unmoved? Unimpressed?

She had never meant to be. She simply didn't know what to do with praise. It was like trying to hold water in her hands—there for a moment, then gone.

She turned a corner, the crisp wind biting at her cheeks.

Would it always be like this? Would compliments always feel like a transaction, like an interaction she was meant to participate in but didn't quite understand?

And what if—what if—she had been wrong about people all along?

What if her own compliments, the ones she gave so freely, were received the same way? What if the girl in the bookstore had only smiled out of politeness? What if all the times she had thought she was genuinely appreciating something about another person, they had only heard empty words?

The thought made her stomach tighten.

Had she ever truly considered how her words landed?

The idea that she might be just as incomprehensible to others as they were to her was unsettling.

She slowed her pace, her breath fogging in front of her.

Maybe she had been looking at this the wrong way. Maybe it wasn't that she didn't need compliments. Maybe it was that she didn't know how to believe them.

Maybe part of her had never learned how to accept the idea that someone else's perception of her could be as real, as truthful, as her own.

She exhaled, pressing a hand to her forehead.

If she let herself believe that people meant what they said—if she allowed herself to feel worthy of their words—would it change anything?

Would it feel real?

Or would it always feel like nothing at all?