Syncopation

The dancing studio's smooth hardwood floor gleamed dimly in the last of the late afternoon sun as it stretched out before Lalin like a mirrored abyss. The soles of her sneakers squeaked lightly against the wood as she moved her weight, restless and unmoored, standing anchored at its center. The smell of sweat, which used to calm her anxiety, now curled tightly around her chest, tightening with each breath, while the biting tang of rubber hung heavy in the air. Her fingers skimmed the barre, its cold, unforgiving metal surface a stark contrast to the pounding pulse in her ears, each beat a jagged echo of the dread that had followed her since her last performance. The memory of frozen limbs and a silent audience clung to her like a heavy cloak that she couldn't shake, pressing down till her knees trembled weakly beneath it. She forced it away by squeezing her eyes shut.

As steady as his silent intensity, Kiet hovered close to the doorway, his violin bag a dark silhouette hanging over his shoulder. His eyes pierced the darkness like a blade of light, steadily focused on her. Attracted by the clipped urgency in her communications over the past week—brief messages that held an anxiety he couldn't ignore—he had arrived early. Lalin's thoughts was forming a storm, and the room was buzzing with the steady, low drone of the air conditioner. Its mechanical hum was a subtle pulse beneath the quiet.

"You holding up?" he inquired, his voice a quiet, calm, yet penetrating thread woven through the silence.

Lalin opened her eyes and saw his image in the mirror, a solid form against her own trembling silhouette. Her mouth curled into a smile, but it was as fragile as parched leaves, its edges breaking beneath the pressure. "Just jittery," she said, struggling to get the words out of her throat. "Nothing new."

With a muted thud that echoed quietly in the empty room, he walked forward and eased his case to the floor. His calm tone served as a stabilizing force amidst her nervousness. "No one's watching," he murmured. "It's just us."

She gave a slight concession by dipping her chin in a shallow nod, but the knot in her stomach remained unrelenting. "I get that," she whispered, her voice ebbing and flowing. "It's just… every time I picture stepping out there again, everything seizes up."

Kiet approached, his steps slow and methodical, coming to a halt just out of her shadow. His presence softened the edges of her uneasiness with a calm warmth that contrasted with the antiseptic cold of the studio. With cautious, probing words, he said, "What if we ease into it?" "Start with the sound, then layer in the steps."

Her shoulders loosened slightly beneath the weight of the suggestion as Lalin let out a breath that shuddered a little. She answered, "That could work," with a glimmer of timid hope.

He bent down next to his case and opened it with a crisp click that seemed to echo slightly. The polished contours of the violin were visible inside the worn velvet. Raising it to his chin, he pulled the bow across the strings, bringing out the first notes of their duet, which was a beautiful tapestry of contemporary beats interwoven with lilting Thai traditional melodies. The tempo of the music pulled her out of the muck of her thoughts as it grew, wrapped around her like a cord. She closed her eyes once more, allowing the rhythm to permeate her bones and her breathing to settle into its natural rhythm—a lifeline she was unaware she required.

The wood beneath her soles was cool as her feet moved, tentatively at first, making tiny, unsure arcs over the floor. Then her movements unfolded—arms flowing upward in a flowing arc, chest tilting as she leaned into the sound—as the tune grew deeper, its notes weaving a bolder thread. For a single, glimmering moment, the terror vanished, and all that remained was the throb of movement and melody, a smooth pulse coursing through her. When her eyes opened, Kiet's gaze met hers, gentle and unguarded, with a glimmer of awe glinting in the depths of his black irises as she spun, her skirt bursting outward like a bloom caught in a breeze.

"You've got this," he said, his voice almost drowned out by the strings' surge, a silent float in the ocean.

Heat rose up Lalin's neck, a mixture of effort and a more subdued, strange sensation that blossomed under her ribs. She said, "It's the music," as she steadied her voice. "Makes it feel… lighter."

His mouth twitched into a tiny but genuine smile, a break in his often composed demeanor. "That's why it's there," he said, his tone tinged with the slightest hint of teasing.

As they continued, the duet developed in halting bursts, a delicate sculpture fashioned from gesture and sound. Kiet's composure calmed Lalin every time she faltered, despite the fact that her nerves throbbed beneath her skin, rising and falling like waves against a coast. Once, in the middle of a phrase, he stopped and lowered the bow to demonstrate a technique he had perfected before his own solos: a quiet inhale through her nose, a steady exhale through her lips. Her breaths matched the beat of the music as she imitated him between steps, the act stabilizing her and mending her ragged edges back into something whole.

Mina hovered in the corridor beyond the glass-paned door of the studio, her sneakers silent against the tile floor. A delicate bridge to bridge the widening gap between her and Lalin, its weight poised precariously on her tongue, she had come with an apology. However, she caught a sight of them through the window—Kiet's bow piercing the air with purpose, Lalin swinging like a reed caught in a light wind—and her determination disintegrated into dust. Envy twisted in her chest like a sharp, unwanted thorn, interwoven with a deep, hollow anguish. She had always been Lalin's go-to person, the guardian of her silences, but it felt like someone else had taken that position from her.

The icy metal of the doorknob bit into her palm when her hand touched it, but she lacked the strength to twist it. Instead, she backed away, her shadow fading down the hallway as the words she had not spoken sank back into her throat like pebbles in a calm pond.

The sharp, relentless thwack of a basketball against concrete echoed across campus in the gym. The repetitive bounce of the ball served as a metronome to Chai's restless thoughts as he wandered alone under the flickering fluorescent lights. The court was striped with shadows from the tall windows, and the air was heavy with the stench of effort and a subtle tinge of disinfection. He had been here for an hour, shooting hoops with a regular tempo to counter the nagging uneasiness that had crept in since his last conversation with Kiet.

Kiet entered with a groan as the door opened, his stance rigid with residual strain, his exercise bag hanging carelessly over his shoulder. Chai straightened, a smile that stood out against the subdued gloom of the gym. "Took you long enough," he remarked, with a hint of humor in his voice.

With a stiff shrug, Kiet put his luggage down, letting it thud gently. "Got held up."

As Chai bounced the ball once and again, his eyes grew piercing and his smile faded. "With Lalin, I'm guessing?"

Even though Kiet's placid exterior was betrayed by a slight clenching of his jaw, he did not sidestep the topic. He said, "We're rehearsing," in a hurried voice.

Chai studied him, his gaze unwavering as the motion of the ball slowed. "That all it is?"

Kiet said nothing, the quiet between them tense as a thread about to break. With a sigh, Chai casually flicked the ball in his direction. He added, "I'm not digging for dirt, man," as his tone grew softer. "Just keep an eye on your step. She is not as wired as we are.

Kiet grabbed it and tightly curled his fingers around the leather, which felt rough against his hands. "I'm not blind," he said in a low, determined voice.

With a challenge gleaming in his eyes, Chai jerked his head toward the hoop after maintaining eye contact for a beat longer. "Show it. "Go for it."

A perceptible friction remained, a tiny gap beneath the laughing and perspiration, suggesting that currents were still rolling beneath the surface as they slid back into their old rhythm, passes precise, shots traded in a dance refined by years of shared courts.