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As I step out onto the dark stage, I feel like my life has come full circle.

There are many similarities to how this started, yet, everything is different.

There is no spotlight.

There is no audience, save one.

Nearly 10 years ago, I stepped out onto this stage to a packed house and played Bach’s Chaconne, unknowingly capturing the attention of a monster.

Unknowing that my life was about to be irrevocably changed forever.

The horrors I endured afterward turned me into a completely different person.

Still, despite how hard I tried to rework myself into the model of perfection, that goal was never achievable because there was still a core of me buried deep inside.

My innate personality refused to bend to anyone’s will.

Many in the psychological field have researched the question of, “how does trauma affect you?”

I can’t speak for everyone, but I’ve come to believe that every piece of trauma I went through molded me into the person standing on this stage.

Am I more than just my trauma? Absolutely.

That core part of me that allowed itself to be buried out of a sense of self-preservation never actually died.

She came out when I needed her most, and that proves to me that every day I survived was another day I was able to safeguard that part of myself.

She knew when the time was right to claw her way to the surface.

She did it on countless occasions, each one ensuring I’d live to open my eyes again.

And she did it when I needed to defend myself and the people I love.

She’s doing it again right now.

As a low overhead light gradually comes on, it creates just as much shadow as it does illumination.

I smile because it’s the perfect setting for my crowd of one, and for what I’m about to do.

Coming up to the stage, my hands were clammy and nausea wreaked havoc on my insides.

The sight of a darkened theater and only my violin sitting onstage would be enough to give anyone anxiety.

I’ve done a lot of work on myself over the last two months: therapy, medication, and open communication with the people closest to me.

I’ve been officially diagnosed with PTSD, anxiety, and bouts of depression.

Despite all of those things, I’ve continued to push myself past invisible barriers erected by my brain that, very often, tell me that I’m weak.

That I still need to safeguard that core part of me.

That history is bound to repeat itself.

I suppose, in a way, it’s right.

Tonight is a perfect example, though my brain is going to be severely disappointed in the outcome.

Picking up my violin, I place it to my chin and bring the bowstring up, poising it just so.

As my heart rate picks up speed, my gaze sweeps through row after row of empty seats.

My eyes dart from left to right, then down to up, before finally reaching one of the private boxes on the upper balcony.

Just as my attention lands on the box’s sole occupant, a dim light matching the one above my own head glows to life over Deacon’s sitting form.

In true Deacon fashion, he’s not dressed as he should be, but neither am I.

Instead of red satin, there are blue jeans, and instead of a tux, there’s simply a plain black t-shirt and pants.

As soon as we make eye contact, the nerves turning my insides into a curdled milkshake dissipate entirely.

“Are you ready?”

He asks from above, his voice echoing around the large room in a way that makes the sound reverberate louder than any amount of trauma could ever combat.

I used to think that relying on someone to fix me meant I wasn’t strong enough to do it alone.

I don’t think that any longer.

The strength I feel now is my own, but the bond that’s formed between mine and his, has made me feel invincible.

It was never that I couldn’t do it alone but that another person, this person, helped me find that part of myself that I’d buried deep, and it wasn’t until he reached into me and pulled my soul out to meet his that I became cognizant of the fact that I could do anything.

My chin still perched on my violin, I say, “I’m ready.” And I realize, as the first notes of Bach begin to echo off the walls, that I am.

I’m ready to let go of the past.

To bleed away all of the pain and misery that followed a night very similar to this one.

I play the song only once because that’s all I need.

History won’t repeat itself, and neither will the song.

Lowering my instrument, I realize that my eyes are completely dry.

I didn’t cry this time, and that proves to me that the song no longer holds power over me, and neither does the man that turned it into a weapon of punishment.

As the reverb of the last note dies off, I look up to the box again.

Deacon is standing now.

He doesn’t clap or holler or otherwise cheer me on.

He simply stands there, a look of pride overtaking his features.

“I think I’m ready to go home now,” I say.

Home .

Our home.

After the culmination of the ordeal two months ago, I realized that I don’t need a big house, a fancy car, or designer clothes.

In fact, the house that had started as a claustrophobic little box was now the only place I wanted to be.

Don’t get me wrong, I’d still play because ever since the day I read that letter, the music has come back in full force.

But I no longer need to go out and stir up trouble.

I no longer need to drown out the voice in my head because she’s been noticeably quiet.

Our house in the woods is home; of course, we’ll build onto it as we need to, but for now, the most important thing in my life resides inside it.

My very own shooting star, there to help me shine anytime I feel the darkness creeping in.

Amelia gave birth to a beautiful baby boy about a month ago, and Merrick was a complete marshmallow for that child.

Granted, he had no fucking idea what he was doing, but the look in his eyes whenever he stared down at his son made my chest ache.

Another thing that made my chest ache, though in a completely different way, was thinking about Alexi.

One month ago, he came for the diamond.

As he stood in the living room of our tiny house, he might as well have been made of mist.

He wasn’t there anymore.

What had taken his place was a specter, and the nickname he’d tried so hard to outrun made so much sense now.

The visit had been brief, Deacon handing over the diamond gladly, but as we’d walked Alexi out the front door to his car, it felt like a funeral procession.

I had the sneaking suspicion that we’d sent him to his death, and there wasn’t much of him alive to begin with.

After he was gone, Deacon and I agreed that, with Merrick’s help, we’d track down the music box and continue the search for his long-lost love.

He gave up his life for us, and the least we could do was to find his and give it back .

I both see and feel movement to my left, turning to find Deacon standing just off stage.

I was so lost in my own thoughts that I never saw him leave the box.

Putting my violin back into its case, I approach him, handing the case off.

He puts his arm around my waist and, much like that night ten years ago, I leave the theater arm in arm with a man.

As the circle comes to a close, the biggest difference is that this time, it is the one fate chose for me.

It was written in the stars, after all.