Page 21 of A Wistful Symphony

Fickle Aubade

T he day after my birthday, I wake up to a gruesome headache and a text from you.

this is not going to work out

I press my temple, fighting off nausea, and stare at the screen, reading it over and over. Perhaps it’s the hangover preventing me from thinking properly, but I can’t fathom your meaning. This. What is this? We’ve barely reacquainted and you’re already ending things. Am I so hard to be around?

What do you mean by that?

The message displays as read, and I wait for more than a minute as the three dots appear and disappear on the screen. They vanish for good. There’s no answer.

You’re leaving, again.

I heave myself off the sofa and toss the phone to the side.

The sitting room looks like a scene from a hurricane disaster, but I’m in no condition to clean it.

Whatever. I leave the mess behind, drag myself to the bathroom and toss my body under the hot shower.

It doesn’t wash away the weight in my chest.

Perhaps sleep will do the trick. My back is sore from the crooked position on the sofa, and I’m in need of a proper rest. I take two aspirins to ease the pounding in my temples, lie on the bed, and close my eyes.

Sleep, however, never comes. Lying awake is nothing more than an invitation for my thoughts to spiral around you.

After an hour of tossing and turning, I finally give up and leave the bed.

Maybe I should play. Music always gives me clarity, and there are some tracks I need to get done for work, anyway. I sit by the piano for hours, facing nothing but the black-and-white keys. The work gets done. My thoughts dull.

It’s alright. My life was fine before you shamelessly tumbled into it, and it will remain the same long after you’re gone.

Why is this weight not fading, then?

Since Monday, I’ve gone back to the studio every day for work. Getting out of the flat, seeing people and having a routine makes me go back to normal faster. When the weekend arrives, the barren solitude in my flat drives the whirlwind of my thoughts towards you.

What are you doing? Are you alright? Why did you leave again? Was it because of me? Was it something I said? Something I did?

When the spiral is close to unbearable, I leave the flat and head to the studio.

Good thing I have a set of spare keys. I jump headfirst into the BBC project, creating with manic drive and revising every bit of arrangement multiple times until I’m too tired to think.

This goes on for a couple of weeks. Ms Thorne is impressed.

We’re ahead of schedule. She likes the way it looks.

It’s fine. It’s all fine.

Except when I peer at the book on my nightstand. I find myself longing to get home and read the part of Sense and Sensibility I’m composing for, eager to know what comments you’d make on it.

Tonight, I come across something written under a line from Edward Ferrars. “ Can’t this guy say what he means?” I can’t help but laugh. On a whim I grab my phone, snap a picture of the passage and send it to you.

Shall we appreciate the irony?

The text marks as read. There’s no answer.

I shut the book, put it away on the nightstand with my phone, and turn to sleep.

“It’s half-past eight. Why don’t you go home?” Ms Thorne asks after opening the door to one of the recording rooms.

I press pause on the production table and turn. “Because I’d be doing the same thing there, and the equipment here is far better.”

“Look, the soundtrack is ace, and this song isn’t due until next week. You don’t need to work extra hours like this.”

“It’s fine. I love this job and I’m having fun with it.”

A half-truth, wrapped up in a pretty bow. I love creating music, but even I need to admit that this spurt of dedication crossed the limits of fun a while ago.

I attempt a smile, but her sceptic brows knit in concern.

“You’re not going to burnout and break down on me, are you, Eric?”

“I won’t. I’ll just finish this segment and go home.”

She stares me straight in the eye and sighs. “Lock everything up when you’re done.” She leaves the recording room, the echo of her heels disappearing through the empty hallway.

I mix for a quarter of an hour and call it a day.

While I’m putting away the equipment, my phone buzzes.

Probably Delia or Ollie wanting to go out or ranting about my secludedness, but it’s just a text in the work group with a picture.

Some silly meme about violas being useless.

I burst into laughter, because it’s a clever one.

I look for your number to forward it, with a message that reads:

I know you’re too busy ignoring me,

but you’re the only friend I have who’ll get this.

The message goes through. You don’t see it. “Idiot,” I mutter, and tuck the phone away.

Another week has passed. It’s the first Saturday I’ve spent at home since my birthday, and I try to do something useful with my time other than the score.

An order my therapist gave me, because she suspects I’m turning work into a neutralising compulsion.

I don’t argue. If I’ve managed to stay as healthy as I am, it’s all because of Sharon, so I won’t question her methods.

She told me to stay clear of anything that resembles the score in order to remind my brain of how it feels to rest. To breathe a little. To think of something other than you.

It’s been close to a month. A month with no call, nor text, nor a single smoke sign from you.

I’m fully aware this fixation makes me look like a love-smitten teenager, but it’s a bit more complicated than that.

It’s the uncertainty that eats me. Not knowing why you pulled away, why you would be so open and flirtatious at first, just to disappear right after.

Having no answers turns my brain into a celebratory feast for intrusive thoughts.

I’d rather you had rejected me right away. It would’ve been less painful.

Today’s chosen activity is a book Zoe lent me half a year ago that I never finished.

A thriller, of all things. For the good part of an hour, it does its job of keeping my attention, and I breathe, relieved, thinking it was the right choice.

Not an ounce of music or romance in these pages.

In the second hour, the little worm of anxiety pops up now and then, and my eyes dart to the nightstand where Sense and Sensibility rests.

I want to pick up the damn book and devour its pages, senselessly thinking I might find answers in one of the tiny notes you made.

No, back to the thriller .

Battle rages inside my head. A thousand voices raise in a cacophony of nonsensical thoughts. I breathe deep. Let them be. If I stay put, they’ll eventually go away.

I’m halfway through some breathing exercises when the doorbell makes me jump out of my skin. Despite the scare, it’s a fortunate distraction. I unlock the front door, only to find my sister in comfy jeans and a jumper—unlike her usual fashionable looks—with a bottle of gin in her hands.

“Weren’t you supposed to go out with your friends?” I ask.

“I was, but you were all over the place today at lunch, so I thought you could use some company.” She holds the bottle between us. “Film and G&Ts?”

“Thought you’d never ask.” I smile and let her in. Delia may seem aloof, but she always knows when I’m not in a good mental health space.

I leave the book in my bedroom and go to the kitchen where Delia is slicing some leftover cheese.

There’s always enough for a charcuterie board in my fridge whenever my sister wants to drink in my flat.

It often happens when she wants to cry her eyes out because of her latest heartbreak, but now she’s the one patting my back for a change.

When she finishes mixing our drinks, I bring everything to the coffee table, and we put some silly comedy on streaming. However, ten minutes in, she pauses the show. “Okay, I need to ask. Has Andrew given you any news?”

I swallow a large gulp of gin and tonic before answering. “No. Not since my birthday.”

“Jeez, what’s wrong with him?”

“That’s what I’ve been asking myself.”

She leaves her drink on the coffee table and turns to me. “And what are you going to do about it?”

“Me?” I scrunch my brows. I’m pretty certain the situation is out of my control, which is why I’m in crisis in the first place. “Nothing. He’s made it abundantly clear that he’s not interested.”

“Has he?” She flashes me a smirk and ties her hair into a high bun. “Why would he give himself the trouble of coming to your birthday, then? Why would he go on not one, but two dates with you?”

“Those weren’t dates.”

“Keep fooling yourself, Eric.” She waves a hand. “He looked so into you, only to ghost you right after? It doesn’t make sense. I think there’s more to this story.”

She has a point. You gave me so many signs that you were open to something happening, only to pull away so suddenly.

But then again, you’re the king of mixed signals.

“Only because it’s you,” “he’s a friend,” “guys should be all over you,” “it’s not a date.

” The push and pull drives me insane, but since you never delivered an ultimatum, hope refuses to wither in my heart.

“For a second, let’s embark on this fantasy of yours.” I run a hand through my hair. “What would I do then? The guy has cut all contact with me.”

“Well, duh, meeting face to face is still a thing.” She rolls her eyes. “He works close to your studio. Wait for him by the orphanage exit and you guys can finally talk things through.”

“That sounds an awful lot like an ambush.”

“Maybe. But he hasn’t given you any other option.” She sits forwards. “Look, worst-case scenario is he tells you to beat it. At least you’d get your answer. Better than spending another month without closure, spiralling by yourself.”

Again, I see reason in her nonsense. Closure. Isn’t that what I came for? Why I gave him my card in the first place, all those weeks ago?

“Yeah,” I whisper, lowering my head. “Better indeed.”