I used to be. I’ve been taking lessons since I was five, and Mom had me playing songs for family and friends even earlier than that. But that was until last year. I played a piece for the school talent show, and Maddison and her crew—the girls who gave me hell back then—giggled loudly the entire time. Then, after the show, Maddison came up and said, “Good job” with a shit-eating grin. The kind that lets you know she actually means That was embarrassing to watch.

The same happened when I played as part of the orchestra in the local theater production. Maddison hunted me down at school and, laughing again, she told me she saw me play at the musical. Again, there was a joke there only she and her friends got. Then the last straw happened when Maddison found an old video I’d posted of myself playing, and she tagged a bunch of her friends in the comments, who then went on to tag other people. Obviously, there was some sort of group chat happening in the background. I never found out what they said, but my imagination could fill in the blanks just fine.

I’ve never been able to even think about playing for people without getting nauseous since. All those years of practice, right down the drain.

But when Rose and I spoke at the rugby game, she told me some things about her life that made me feel weirdly seen. She knows—even more than I do—what it feels like to be hated by people you’ve never personally hurt. But it’s more than that. She feels like she was given this incredible opportunity by life, and that she’s screwed it up beyond repair, and she doesn’t know how to become the person she wants to be. If anyone can relate to the frustration of feeling like you’ve fallen short of all this potential you had, it’s me.

Suddenly, something’s wrong. I snap out of my thoughts, wrench my hands away from the piano, and whip around.

I knew someone was behind me. It’s Rose, leaning against the doorframe on her left side, a weird look on her face.

I want to die on the spot as I try to figure out a way to explain myself. Nothing instantly comes to mind.

“Well, don’t stop on my account,” Rose says in a cheerful voice. “I was enjoying that.”

Her voice bounces off the high ceiling with the same vibrating richness of the piano. And there’s something about her posture right now, how she’s resting her weight on the door all casual and careless, that makes my mind foggy again. She’s teasing me in that way she always does, her voice warm and her eyes laughing, with a tiny edge of legitimate mocking that stops it from tipping into cheese.