I couldn’t picture it, but found myself desperately trying, eyes closed, stomach pressed tight against the counter’s edge. For the first time in months, I allowed into my mind the image of Lilly Hall and Lincoln Center—light spilling in interlocking pools, gorgeous crowds clustering around each building’s doors, silhouetted figures waiting by the fountain for their dates to arrive while, inside, musicians listened with bated breath for the first chair oboe, tuning their nerves to match its perfect A.

I swiped on mascara, an arbitrary nod at respectability, and headed over. The traffic was synched, letting me walk the entire way without waiting for lights. My hands clenched as I left the common sidewalk, but I could barely feel my feet hit the ground.

The rondo echoed in the Lilly Hall lobby, and only then did my step falter. I knew the music; everybody knew it, right? But there was a new energy underneath—a sense of having fallen through time and stumbled into Mozart conducting his own piece.

It was a work-through, the orchestra’s main conductor, Emil Reinhardt, hovering in the wings, arms crossed over his Amberley T-shirt—but there was still a scattered audience here watching in rapt silence. Oscar was dressed in the shorts he’d worn earlier today, the orchestra members similarly casual. Aside from that, this could have been a season opener of the philharmonic.

He was . . . electric. Such an overused word in music criticism, but I swore there was lightning bursting from his fingers, his baton, his incredible hair. I sat in one of the velvet seats, tucking my knees under my long skirt so I could clutch my legs tight.

I couldn’t see his face but I knew what it would look like. Joyous. Rapturous. A man in love. There was nothing unformed about Oscar in this moment, nothing of the nervous boy he’d shown me in the courtyard. Up at the podium, he was himself, powerful, unapologetic. He was Mozart and he was Oscar Bell and he was every member of the orchestra and he was the audience, and, right now, he was the entire world, because he was this music that was playing, lanterns in a night garden, stolen kisses, laughter.

The final notes resounded. The twenty people scattered through the house burst into applause—and I headed for the lobby. I can’t.

A man walked out ahead of me, holding the door so I could pass. He looked dazed too, like he’d been kissed by a supermodel. It took me a second to recognize him as the New York Times reporter from earlier today. This would go in the piece he was writing. Oscar’s brilliance. His promise. His work with the great Martin Chertok and this prestigious school. His incredible future.

As the reporter left the building, I stood in the empty lobby, excitement and despair coursing through me in alternating currents. And something else. Something dizzy.