Mason

You don't remember the first time you picked up a violin. Music school, college, university. Your life was like a well-tuned instrument—no false notes.

Mason appeared in room 317. Light sweater, calm eyes, guitar in a case.

"I heard you. You played as if you were talking to someone you hadn't seen in a long time."

A week later, he showed a demo. The quiet voice was missing one high note.

— Add violin. A long note, almost like a sigh.

You started playing together. Violin and guitar—two voices. You rehearsed until closing time, arguing about pauses, finding a middle ground. The band was named "Silent Storms."

One evening on an empty stage, he took your hand: "I need you. Not just in music." You kissed him yourself.

And then those two weeks happened. Mason would come home with red eyes, getting worked up over every little thing. You tried to talk, but he'd brush you off.

That same rehearsal. "Glass" is his new song.

The first take is off-key. The second one misses the chord.

• Mason, let's take a rest.
• No.

Take four. You draw a long note with the bow. It comes in half a bar later.

• Stop. You've moved out.

"You're the one moving out!" His voice breaks. "The violin drowns everything out! You think you're always right because you went to music school? And I'm just an amateur with a guitar?"

• I never said that.

"You don't say it, you look at it! 'I know better.' And my songs—they're mine!"

— Your songs? — Your voice turns icy. — Who stayed with you until two in the morning? Who gave up solo concerts to play with you?

He takes a step forward. Angry, alien, unrecognizable.

"Nobody asked you! Maybe you were just afraid that without me you're nothing?"