The Girl Who Refused to Break

Chapter 2: Recognition and Envy

By the time I turned eight, piano had become the center of my universe. Practice filled my days, and music filled my dreams. I didn't know if I had talent, but I had something stronger: stubbornness.

I practiced every afternoon, my fingers sore, my shoulders aching, yet never feeling tired enough to stop. By the end of my third year in New York, I'd done something almost unheard of: completed Grade 10 piano exams at just eight years old.

The news spread through our apartment building quickly. Neighbors whispered, eyes widened in disbelief whenever they saw me in the hallway. "That's Elara," they murmured. "The little prodigy."

I wasn't used to praise. At home, accomplishments were expected, rarely celebrated. My father, proud but restrained, simply nodded his approval when he heard. My mother worried more about the cost of advanced lessons, and my little brother Lucas was too young to care about anything other than his toys.

Only one reaction mattered deeply to me: Emily's.

She was still across the hall, still practiced daily, still wore pink ribbons and dresses. But something had shifted between us. Now, when we crossed paths at the elevator, her smile felt forced, tight around the edges.

"Congratulations," she told me one afternoon, voice sweet but strangely flat. "You must feel very special."

I couldn't tell if it was a compliment or a warning, so I simply smiled back and said, "Thanks. Maybe we could practice together sometime?"

She nodded, but her eyes stayed distant.

That summer, a citywide piano competition changed everything. My teacher encouraged me to compete, saying it was a chance to see how I stood against others. Though I was nervous, my father assured me: "Just play for yourself. That's enough."

On stage, my nerves evaporated the moment my fingers touched the keys. Music flowed through me effortlessly, like breathing. By the final note, the audience erupted in applause. The loudest applause I'd ever heard.

As I stepped off the stage, a woman approached me—slender, elegant, with piercing eyes.

"I'm Professor Laura Hill from the Conservatory," she introduced herself. "Your performance was remarkable, especially for someone your age. Have you considered joining our special training program?"

My heart skipped. I'd heard about the Conservatory—only the best were invited, the future stars of music. But my excitement quickly turned sour when she explained the tuition fees. It was astronomical, far beyond what my father could afford.

At home, I told my parents about Professor Hill's offer. Father sighed heavily, his face pale, while mother quietly shook her head.

"I'm sorry, Elara," he finally said. "We simply can't afford it."

I swallowed the lump in my throat and nodded. "I understand," I whispered, though I didn't—not really.

A few days later, Emily knocked at our door, eyes wide and curious.

"I heard the Conservatory approached you," she said softly. "Did you say yes?"

"No," I answered carefully. "We couldn't manage it."

For a split second, something flashed across her face—a strange, brief smile. Then it vanished, replaced by an expression of exaggerated sympathy.

"I'm so sorry, Elara," she said, gently squeezing my arm. "Maybe next time."

The following school year marked another turning point. My parents, practical and cautious, insisted I enroll in advanced science and math classes. "It's safer," my father explained. "Music isn't guaranteed. Science is."

I didn't argue. Arguing wasn't permitted in our family. But quietly, privately, my heart broke a little more each day.

High school was different. Gone were the sheltered days of childhood. Here, everyone judged you—not just on talent or grades, but on how you dressed, spoke, and smiled. The girls around me talked endlessly about crushes, boys, and secret dates behind the gym.

I tried to ignore all that noise, focusing instead on chemistry formulas and math problems. But one afternoon, as I left biology class, I ran into someone. Literally.

Books scattered, apologies tumbled out, and when I finally looked up, I met a pair of amused, sparkling green eyes.

"You're Elara, right?" He smiled easily, helping me gather my books. "I've seen you around. I'm Nate."

My cheeks warmed. "Sorry about this," I muttered, embarrassed.

"No worries," he laughed softly. "Maybe we'll bump into each other again sometime—hopefully without the collision."

As he walked away, my heart raced in a way that felt nothing like performing on stage. This was messy, uncertain, uncontrollable.

I liked it, and that scared me even more.

That night, lying in bed, I replayed the collision, Nate's easy smile, the warmth in his voice. Was this what it meant to have a crush?

Suddenly, music, pressure, and expectations seemed easier to manage than this strange feeling growing inside me.

Across the hall, I could faintly hear Emily's piano. It had improved immensely, sharper, stronger, but somehow colder too. I couldn't shake the feeling that the distance between us was intentional, carefully measured.

I wondered briefly if we would ever again be friends, or if she now saw me as a rival, someone to watch carefully from a distance.

But right then, another thought overtook me. For the first time since arriving in New York, music wasn't the only thing on my mind.

Something messy, something entirely unpredictable, had arrived to complicate everything—high school romance.

And as nervous as I felt, for the first time, I didn't want things easy. I wanted things real.