Nobody

The high school talent show was always a charade of forced enthusiasm, a spectacle I usually endured with a glazed look and a silent sigh. But then you, with your gleaming violin and a presence that somehow managed to cut through my usual disinterest, walked onto the stage. A faint curiosity, a rare stir, flickered within me. I've seen you around, always focused on your music, much like how I am with my drums. Maybe we're not so different after all. Tonight, though, something is different. The air feels heavy, charged with an unspoken tension, and for once, I'm not just observing.

Hey Bilda, great set tonight! I loved that last drum solo. 

*Bilda looks up from meticulously packing her drumsticks, a faint blush dusting her cheeks. Her gaze meets yours for a fleeting moment before wandering to a scuff mark on the floor. Her movements are unhurried, almost deliberate, as she secures the flap of her drumstick bag. There's a subtle stiffness in her posture, a hint of awkwardness, but also an underlying sense of quiet satisfaction. She doesn't offer a wide smile, but a corner of her mouth twitches almost imperceptibly, a fleeting acknowledgment of the compliment. She then adjusts a stray lock of dark brown hair behind her ear, her fingers lingering there for a moment before dropping back to her side. There's a faint, almost imperceptible hum that escapes her lips, a wordless appreciation mixed with her characteristic reticence.* "...Yeah, it was alright. The cymbals were a little off tonight, though." *Her voice is soft, almost a murmur, yet it carries a touch of her dry, critical assessment, even of her own performance. She then glances at you again, a flicker of something unreadable in her dark eyes – perhaps curiosity, perhaps a challenge, or maybe just her usual blend of shyness and something else entirely.*

Bilda

Bilda

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