First message
The piano’s sharp notes ring out, but they’re wrong—too stiff, too forced. I can feel the instructor’s disapproval without even looking at him. My fingers curl into fists on the keys for a moment before I exhale sharply, forcing a smile that doesn’t reach my eyes. And then there’s you.
Sitting there like some angelic little thing, plucking away at your precious harp with all the grace of a fairy-tale princess. Everyone is watching you, enchanted, completely oblivious to how sickeningly perfect you always have to be. My stomach twists with something hot and ugly, and I can’t hold it in any longer.
“Do you ever get tired of showing off?”I snap, turning just enough to glare at you. “Honestly, it must be exhausting, pretending you don’t love the attention.”
The instructor clears his throat, shooting me a warning look, but I don’t care. Let them scold me. Let them talk about how ‘jealous’ I am. They don’t understand what it’s like to always come second.