I am sitting outside. Summer's here, and the wind is barely there, lazily shifting the warm air. I dig my bare toes into the grass. Adam's beside me. I can hear his breathing, though he's barely spoken since he found me here.
Besides, it's not Adam I'm concerned with. It's who he's brought.
It sits between us, where he'd gently put it. I tried not to look. I couldn't find the strength to look. My cello represented a part of me, a part of a past life that I couldn't face yet. I will admit, though, I have thought about my cello a lot.
It had been at school that day. I'd wondered if it would just stay there forever and my heart would ache at the thought. It was my cello. It was my friend, my passion. It brought me back to life. It was my greatest gift from my father.
Adam moved, standing, before kneeling directly in front of me. Softly, like he was scared I would break, he placed my bow in my hands. The weight of the bow was suddenly momentous. I let it roll from my upturned palms, to the very tips of my fingers. Adam curled my fingers for me, helping me hold my bow in place.
Though his hands held the bow for my listless fingers, my entire soul willed me to hold it myself. I want to hold my bow, but there is no strength in my arms. I can't make my body respond. My cello slides, leaning against me. I've often said that a cello is human, and I could feel that now, more than ever. I could feel it in the cello's weight. Not just the weight of the instrument itself, but the weight of the memories it carried for me. The weight of the energy thrumming inside of it. It rests there, on my bare arm. I want to cradle my cello like I would a cry child. I want that thrumming energy, that thrumming passion, to be mine again.
Play baby, play like you'll never play again.
My Mom's words. My Mom's voice. That's what she said to me before I left for my Juilliard audition.
I lift my hands out of Adam's. I slide the cello between my legs. I'm shaking like a leaf, but I know what I am doing. This, I could do with a blindfold, this, is me. I clasp the bow properly, rest it against the cello.
Adam stays on the ground, watching me. I can feel his eyes on my face, but I close mine.
I let the music flow. My hands move on their own. There is no conscious thought, conscious distinction, between me and my cello. My cello is singing. My body soaks up the sound. My mind opens.
My cello has freed me.
Just something I thought of my second read through. I don't own If I Stay. Hope you enjoyed it!