At this, the muscles in his face relax enough for his mouth to twitch. “I had no idea that you watched me.”

“Like, once.” Or a dozen times. It was one of the only occasions when he wasn’t pestering me at school. When he wasn’t causing any trouble at all, but completely focused, his boyish features serious, his fingers elegant and swift over the black and white keys. He played piano like it was obvious, like every note belonged together in their exact arrangement the way stars belonged in constellations, and mistakes didn’t exist. He made it look so easy.

He made everything look easy.

“I do still play,” he tells me, his shoulders loosening a little too. “Do you? The cello? Or the flute?”

It’s been so long that at first I don’t even know what he’s talking about. Then, between the next dip and rise of the plane and my heart, his words register. There was a very short-lived period in my life when I watched a music video featuring a cellist and felt inspired to learn the cello myself. But five lessons in, I realized that I would have produced better music by throwing plates at a wall; even the music teacher, Ms. Torres, expressed her disappointment at my inability to pick up the basics, though she’d encouraged me not to quit. Just because you’re not naturally good at it doesn’t mean you shouldn’t continue.

But what’s the point in continuing something if you aren’t naturally good at it?

So I left my rented cello behind in the music room and never looked at it again. A few months later, I came down with the overoptimistic idea that maybe I wasn’t meant for the cello, but I was meant for the flute. I lasted a little longer with that one, progressing so far as to play a few shrill notes of “Ode to Joy,” but my practice sessions gave everyone—including myself—a headache. It was the same way with all the hobbies I tried out as a kid. I quit karate after just one day, because I injured my hand trying to chop a block of wood. I quit swimming because the chlorine made my skin itch. I quit dance because I couldn’t keep up with the choreography, and the teacher yelled at me in front of everybody. I quit basketball because I kept missing my shots and I hated feeling like I was slowing down the team.

I used to think that modeling was the one thing I would never give up. That all my failures and false starts before it were simply leading me to my true calling.

“I haven’t touched an instrument in years,” I say, in what I hope is a flippant tone. “It’s probably for the best that I stopped.”

“I’m sure Ms. Torres would be heartbroken if she found out.”