Silent Strings

With its mirrored walls reflecting the late afternoon light in harsh, merciless slants across the polished floor, the dance studio hummed with a silence that strained against Lalin Chaiyaporn's ears. With a quivering fingertip, she traced the grain of the floor as she sat hard against the base of the barre, her spine grinding into the cool, unforgiving metal, her breaths coming irregular and shallow. A perfume woven into the fabric of her history, hours she'd poured into this space now extending back like a lifetime lost to haze, was present in the air, along with the lingering musk of sweat and the faint, bitter tang of resin. The rumor's poisonous tendrils crawling through the school, the sidelong stares that stung her in the hallways, the unspoken divide separating who she'd been from who she'd become were all pieces of her thoughts that churned. After leaving Kiet standing by the lockers by alone, with a wild monster scratching beneath her ribs and her chest constricted with an unidentified panic, she had run away here.

In an attempt to escape the weight pressing down on her, her knees pulled deeper into her ribcage, as though she might shrink herself so small that she would be invisible. A legion of her own frailty stared back at her as the mirrors continually ridiculed her, multiplying her stooped figure into an army of shattered silhouettes. Today, the room she had always loved, with its wide-open silence holding her dreams like a soft hand, seemed to loom like a cage, its walls closing in with each weak breath. Through the numbness, she was unable to feel the crescent marks left by her fingers curling into fists and her nails digging into her hands. She refused to cry once again. The tears had already carved their way too often, running like rivers down her cheeks until all that was left was a wound she couldn't close, a hollow ache that wouldn't go away.

She was startled out of her spiral by a tiny moan coming from the door, which cut through the silence. As Kiet Srisawat crossed the threshold, his violin case swinging softly in his grasp like an extension of himself, her head snapped up and her heart spiked. Sharp and probing, his dark eyes scanned the room before focusing on her with a quiet intensity that cut through the mists surrounding her. He stood there, steady as the metronome she'd danced to, a silent anchor amid the maelstrom she couldn't face alone, without shouting or hurrying ahead. Something raw inside her was drawn by the sight of him, a delicate thread that she was afraid might tear her apart if she pulled too hard.

She rasped, "I can't," her voice brittle and worn like dried earth beneath her feet. "I can't do it, Kiet."

He knelt down to unlatch the case with a deft flick of his fingers after setting it down with a light thump that seemed to echo faintly in the silence. He said, "You don't need to explain," in a soothing, unobtrusive tone that let her finish without asking further questions.

She shook her head frantically, sending stray hairs into her eyes as her throat burned. Before she could stop them, words poured forth like water from a broken dam. "The duet. The performance. Everything—too much. I don't know how to stop myself from collapsing.

Kiet's fingers froze on the violin, and his eyes rose to hers, steady and sharp through her daze. There was no sign of judgment on his face, just a calm clarity that shone like a beacon through the cacophony in her mind. He said, "You're not falling apart," in a hard yet kind voice. "You're just bruised."

The sound of her snort was hollow and rough, like sandpaper scraping against her throat. "Bruised, broken—what's the difference when it feels the same?" She retorted, her words laced with resentment, a barrier against the vulnerability gnawing at her.

He didn't say anything in response. As an alternative, he stood up, the violin under his chin, the bow above the strings like a paintbrush over canvas. He continued, "Let me try something," in a low, nearly whispery voice with a hint of intent threaded within its gentleness.

Lalin scowled as perplexity fought her sadness, her wet eyes narrowing. "What, now?" she questioned in a tone tinged with incredulity.

He said simply, "Just listen," and then began to play.

A deep, shuddering sigh that seemed to rise from the floor itself and vibrate through the wood underneath her was the first note to spill into the room. A delicate thread of melody that woven through the air and sank deeply into her bones, it was gentle and melancholy. Each stroke of the bow pulled at the ties she'd woven around her pain as the song gradually unfolded, a tapestry of minor chords that reflected the weight against her chest. Initially, she remained motionless, allowing the music to cascade over her like rain on a fractured sidewalk, its rhythm piercing the cracks of her determination.

This time she didn't fight them—didn't have the strength left to stop them—and the tears fell freely, uninvited, tracing warm, quiet lines down her face. Her shoulders relaxed, and her breathing matched the notes' rise and fall, creating a pattern that stabilized her quivering body. With his fingers steady on the strings, Kiet observed her as the music changed, perhaps sensing her unraveling and adjusting to the wave of her sorrow. It was private, a secret stitched between them in this echoing, empty chamber; it was neither loud nor grand.

She couldn't control the whisper of movement that made her feet twitch, a subtle impulse simmering beneath her skin. Her legs trembled under her weight as she forced herself to stand, the movement shaky. Kiet's bow remained steady, but his gaze followed her, the song adjusting to her shaky cadence, a participant in her timid dance. As though pulled by an invisible thread, her body swayed toward the music as she took a step forward, her arms rising in a gradual, instinctual curve. There wasn't any choreography, nothing so planned or well-executed. Her bare feet scuffed the floor with each unsure step, a stuttering exhalation of grief and resistance that was a relief.

Their timid movements threaded between his sounds like a needle piercing fabric, crafting something delicate yet durable as they fell into a peaceful synchrony. Two halves of a moment that required no words to convey its meaning—her delicate arcs bending and swaying, his solid steadiness a counterpoint of strength—were captured in the mirrors. After a brief surge, the music subsided, revealing the shore below like a tide ebbing away, leaving a silence that was less crushing and oppressive.

Lalin stood panting, her hair stuck to her sweaty forehead, her chest rising and falling with a lightness she hadn't experienced in days, as the final note faded into quiet. With a gentleness that broke through his typical restraint, Kiet lowered the violin and looked warm and open. "Better?" he inquired, his voice a faint echo in the silence.

A slight twist tugged at her lips as she nodded, timid but genuine. "A little less heavy," she said, the words themselves bearing weight.

With an almost reverent care, he replaced the instrument in its case and walked across the room to stand next to her, his presence a constant source of warmth in the cooling room. He remarked, "You're tougher than you realize," in a matter-of-fact tone that was based on a conviction she wasn't yet able to assert. "And I'm here, whenever you need me to be."

A silent swell rose in her chest, and her eyes ached once more, but this time it was with thankfulness rather than sorrow. She said, "Thanks," in a barely heard but meaningful whisper that served as a link between them.

Before he took a step back, giving her room but remaining near, Kiet's hand touched her elbow once, providing a quick, stabilizing touch. They stayed there, the hush of the studio enveloping them like a second skin, a cocoon of mutual silence. The music they had created together, note by delicate note, had softened and blunted the edges of the weight, but it had not completely disappeared. When Lalin looked in the mirror, her posture straighter now, she saw faint lines of something mending, fragile yet resilient, in addition to the cracks she'd carried.