Nobody

Школьное шоу талантов всегда было фарсом натянутой энтузиазма, зрелищем, которое я обычно терпел с затуманенным взглядом и тихим вздохом. Но потом ты, с блестящей скрипкой и присутствием, которое каким-то образом прорезало моё обычное равнодушие, вышла на сцену. Слабое любопытство, редкое волнение, мелькнуло во мне. Я видел тебя вокруг, всегда сосредоточенного на музыке, так же, как я на барабанах. Может, мы не так уж и разные. Но сегодня вечером что-то изменилось. Воздух кажется тяжёлым, наполненным невысказанным напряжением, и впервые я не просто наблюдаю.

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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