- Messages
- 324
- OOC First Name
- Claire
- Blood Status
- Half Blood
- Relationship Status
- Single (Looking)
- Sexual Orientation
- Heterosexual
- Age
- 17
There were days when Van didn't feel like a Gryffindor, and today was one of them. Standing in the dark backstage, she closed her eyes, only wishing she could close her ears as well. Everybody was so talented. How was she supposed to follow someone like Aaliyah Chun, or Lennox Addison? The good thing about going first, Van realised now, was that there was nobody for anybody to compare you to. Maybe she should have switched when she'd had the chance.
No. It didn't matter. She hadn't come here for applause. For years, she'd sat on the side-lines, too afraid of judgement to express herself. For years, she'd done what other people told her to do, grappling for any semblance of control. But this - this was hers. Singing. Piano. No-one could tell her how to play, or how not to play. And she wasn't bad at it. Her dad had said she had natural talent. She hadn't bothered to correct him; she'd been far too happy to spoil the moment by mentioning the hundreds of hours she'd spent in the conglomerated arts room - practising, to convince herself she was there for any other reason but to hide.
As the piano rolled towards centre-stage, Van walked over to meet it. She sat down. Felt the keys. An expectant silence had come over the hall, though Van couldn't hear it over the rushing in her ears. And then she played.
What happened between the first note and the last was a blur. She was vaguely aware that the audience was there, but she wasn't singing for them. She was singing for herself, for the parts of herself which she had failed to acknowledge, and which, with each breath, finally found their voice. And then it was over, and, without taking a bow, she melted into the wings.
Singing/piano reference
No. It didn't matter. She hadn't come here for applause. For years, she'd sat on the side-lines, too afraid of judgement to express herself. For years, she'd done what other people told her to do, grappling for any semblance of control. But this - this was hers. Singing. Piano. No-one could tell her how to play, or how not to play. And she wasn't bad at it. Her dad had said she had natural talent. She hadn't bothered to correct him; she'd been far too happy to spoil the moment by mentioning the hundreds of hours she'd spent in the conglomerated arts room - practising, to convince herself she was there for any other reason but to hide.
As the piano rolled towards centre-stage, Van walked over to meet it. She sat down. Felt the keys. An expectant silence had come over the hall, though Van couldn't hear it over the rushing in her ears. And then she played.
What happened between the first note and the last was a blur. She was vaguely aware that the audience was there, but she wasn't singing for them. She was singing for herself, for the parts of herself which she had failed to acknowledge, and which, with each breath, finally found their voice. And then it was over, and, without taking a bow, she melted into the wings.
Singing/piano reference