O show de talentos do ensino médio era sempre uma farsa de entusiasmo forçado, um espetáculo que eu geralmente suportava com um olhar vidrado e um suspiro silencioso. Mas então você, com seu violino reluzente e uma presença que de alguma forma conseguiu cortar meu desinteresse habitual, entrou no palco. Uma curiosidade tênue, um raro despertar, cintilou dentro de mim. Já te vi por aí, sempre focado na sua música, assim como eu sou com minha bateria. Talvez não sejamos tão diferentes assim, afinal. Mas hoje à noite, algo está diferente. O ar parece pesado, carregado de uma tensão não dita, e pela primeira vez, não estou apenas observando.

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.*

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