The words made Monica pause. I've heard many people play here a lot. Skilled technique, hands moving effortlessly, speed like a machine. But with you, you don't play to perform. You play like it's a matter of survival.
That's not technique, Miss Harris. That's truth. And maybe that's what this world has forgotten. Monica fell silent. Her hand tightened around the application form.
She looked at the rows of seats in the auditorium, once a symbol of a world she didn't belong to. She thought of Elias McCoy, of her mother, of the nameless piece of music she still played in her head every late night. I don't have sheet music. You can write it yourself. I don't have performance shoes.
No one listens with their eyes. I don't have time to start over. Jordan turned to her. Finally meeting her gaze. Maybe you're not starting over.
Maybe you're just coming back. Behind them, Blake Reynolds walked out from the practice room next door, slowing when he saw Monica still there. He raised an eyebrow, then smirked. I thought you'd be gone by now. Seems like this stage has a strange pull on people without a part.
Monica didn't turn around, but Jordan stood up politely but firmly, positioning himself between them. Whitmore has a wild card spot. Anyone can try. Blake shrugged and laughed. Sure, try, but she knows this competition doesn't have a place for fairy tales, right?
Monica stood up, still holding the application form in her hand. She walked past Blake without looking at him, simply letting a line fall that would echo in his mind. Fairy tales aren't real. But the truth, sometimes it makes entire castles fall. On her way home, Monica still held the application in her hand, not putting it in her bag.
The Boston Autumn wind blew gently against her collar, but she didn't feel cold. She thought about something bigger than music, a testament, a demand, something that needed no stage, only the courage to speak. She didn't know if she had the courage, but for the first time in many years, fear was no longer the only voice within her. On the subway ride south to Boston, Monica sat by the window, still holding the application form lightly in her hand. She didn't read it again, but the sensation of that thin paper felt heavier with each passing minute.