The violin that had been broken that day was the first handmade violin Lennon had ever given me. At the time, he had spent nearly all his savings on it.
I was reluctant to use it, but he had comforted me so gently, saying, "Claire, you dummy. I’ll only be happy if you use it. I’ll give you one every year from now on."
But after that, he never gave me another violin again.
He always had reasons. He was too busy, he had no time, he forgot... or he was attending Mia’s performances instead.
My gaze fell on the violin with its broken strings lying on the bed. Bitterness swelled in my heart.
I had believed in an unbreakable bond of love with Lennon Sullivan. I had trusted in the deep, nurturing connection between Mia and me as coach and apprentice. But in the end, it all felt like a puddle of mud, trampled and meaningless.
I had poured years of effort into apprentices I had carefully cultivated. I had placed my faith in a lover who was quietly betraying me, all under my nose.
Closing my eyes tightly, I resolved not to cry anymore. They were not worth my tears.
Later, during a rehearsal, I unexpectedly caught Lennon’s gaze from the audience.