When the World Held Its Breath
Aubrey's Pov
Three weeks had passed, and every one of them had been hell inside these walls. The building felt suffocating, as though it had learned my breathing patterns and tightened around them. The only mercy was the white sprawl of New York beyond my windows—snow-dulled streets, quiet rooftops, a city momentarily softened.
I slipped my silver watch around my wrist, its weight grounding, and drew the black tie snug against my collar. I stood before the mirror longer than necessary, studying the man staring back at me. For the first time in years, I cared—truly cared—about whether I looked right.
I rehearsed every sentence I planned to say to her, mouthing them in the silence, refining each word as if it could save me. I practiced them more obsessively than I ever had my violin for the competition, as though the right phrasing might steady my hands the way music once did.
I finished with my perfume—the one she liked. I had caught the moments when she leaned in, almost unconsciously, as though my scent spoke to her before I ever did.
I wondered what she would look like tonight. I glanced at my watch—7 p.m. There was still time before the event, too much time to think. I imagined her expression when I confessed, the moment her face would betray what her words might not. And I wondered—quietly, relentlessly—what her answer would be.
9 p.m.
I stood in the lobby as guests filtered in, their voices blending into a low, indistinct hum before the competition began. My eyes remained fixed on the entrance, waiting, searching, while my body moved on instinct. I greeted people as they approached—nods, brief smiles, words I barely registered.
And then she walked in.
Everything else receded. The noise dulled, the room softened at its edges, as if the world had decided to hold its breath with me. She was there—and in that instant, the waiting ended, and something far more dangerous began.
Emma looked ethereal. She held a bouquet of red roses that burned vividly against her black dress, and for a moment, I forgot how to breathe. She was practically glowing—soft, unreal, as though the light had chosen her.
Her lips were painted red, her hair swept into a careless, messy bun that only made her more arresting. The dress was modest yet devastatingly beautiful: black lace, body-hugging without excess, its high neckline refined and deliberate. It fell to the floor, skimming the ground as she moved, elegant and unhurried. A silver pendant rested at her collarbone, catching the light each time she shifted.
I couldn't believe my eyes. She didn't simply enter the room—she altered the atmosphere.
Her eyes moved through the room, searching—careful, restless. I could see it even from where I stood. She had never belonged to spaces like this, and it showed in the way she held herself, poised yet uncertain, as though she were bracing for impact.
Then her gaze found me.
The restlessness faded, replaced by something softer, something unguarded. For a brief moment, the noise of the room dissolved. No conversations, no music, no polished smiles—just the quiet pull between us. I felt it settle in my chest, heavy and unmistakable.
I straightened without thinking, my grip tightening around the glass in my hand. Whatever I had rehearsed, whatever control I believed I still possessed, began to fracture. She was here. And suddenly, nothing else mattered.
For a suspended moment, the lobby ceased to exist. The space between us felt charged, fragile, as though crossing it too quickly might shatter something unspoken. We moved toward each other slowly, instinctively, each step measured yet inevitable—drawn by a gravity neither of us tried to resist.
Her heels clicked softly against the marble floor, each sound echoing louder than it should have, while my own footsteps felt muted, distant. The crowd blurred at the edges of my vision. All I could see was her—how the light caught in her hair, how her grip tightened briefly around the bouquet as if steadying herself.
When she smiled, it wasn't rehearsed or polite. It bloomed naturally, warmth spilling into her eyes, and I felt something loosen in my chest. By the time we stood in front of each other, the air between us was thin, intimate, humming with everything neither of us said.
"This is for you. I hope you like flowers," she said, extending the roses toward me, her voice softer than the room around us.
I reached for them, my fingers brushing hers for the briefest second—enough to make my breath hitch. I studied the roses, their deep red almost violent against her black dress. "Thank you," I said quietly. "I love them."
I looked back up at her, stunned all over again by how ethereal she seemed, how unreal this moment felt.
"May I take you around?" I asked, offering my hand with deliberate care, as if the gesture itself mattered.
She laughed softly, amused by my formality, and placed her hand in mine. The contact was light, almost cautious—but it sent a quiet shock through me. Every instinct urged me to intertwine our fingers, to close the distance completely. I knew my body would betray me, from my fingertips to every unspoken want beneath them.
But for now, the gentle graze of her hand against mine was more than enough.
Everything I had ever wanted stood in front of me—close enough to undo me. The realization settled heavily in my chest, dangerous and intoxicating. I found myself trailing her through the room, orbiting her without meaning to, as if leaving her side would break whatever fragile spell held us together.
"You look stunning," I said quietly, unable to stop myself. "You shine so brightly, you could blind someone."
She tilted her head, amused. "Should I take that as a compliment?"
"Among all these people," I replied, my voice steady even as my pulse betrayed me, "you look like a star."
Emma looked away, but not before I caught the faint bloom of red across her cheeks. I wondered if it was the words—or the way I hadn't looked away.
"Aubrey."
Michael's voice cut through the moment. He was already walking toward us.
"Michael," I said, forcing myself to shift my attention, "this is Emma."
I shot him a look—this is her—but he remained infuriatingly unreadable. His gaze lingered on Emma, assessing.
"Have we met before?" he asked.
I felt Emma shift beside me, subtle but immediate. "I don't think so," she replied, her tone calm.
The silence that followed pressed in on me, tight and uncomfortable.
"Michael," I said suddenly, the words leaving my mouth before I could stop them, "snowflakes are beautiful, right?"
Both of them stared at me.
"What?" Michael asked.
I swallowed, then repeated it—slower, deliberate this time. "Snowflakes are beautiful."
Emma's expression flickered with something unreadable. Michael just looked at me like I'd lost my mind.
I didn't care. Some things didn't need explaining.
Michael went still. Not visibly—he was never the type—but something in his eyes shifted, sharpened. His gaze moved from me to Emma, then back again, slow and deliberate.
"Snowflakes," he repeated, testing the word like a key in a lock.
His eyes lingered on her a second longer this time. Too long. As if he were seeing past the dress, past the polite smile, searching for something familiar beneath it.
Then it clicked.
A quiet exhale left him, barely noticeable. "Ah," he said simply.
The corner of his mouth lifted—not a smile, not quite. "Now I see."
He turned to Emma, his tone unchanged but his attention sharper. "It's nice to meet you properly," he added, as though correcting something he hadn't known was wrong before.
I didn't say anything. I didn't need to.
Michael had finally understood what I had been trying to tell him all along—and for the first time that night, I wasn't the only one who saw her.
"Ah," Michael said smoothly, glancing toward the hall, "the competition is about to begin. May I escort you to your seat, Emma?"
Then he turned to me, his tone shifting just enough to remind me of reality. "And Aubrey—you should head backstage. You need to get ready."
I looked at Emma. She was still watching me, her gaze lingering as if she were memorizing something she might need later.
"Make yourself comfortable," I said quietly. "I'll meet you after the competition."
She nodded, a small, tentative motion.
I took a step away, then another—only to stop. I turned back, my resolve tightening around my ribs.
"Emma," I said, my voice lower now, deliberate. "Please stay after the competition. There's something I need to tell you."
Confusion flickered across her face, questions forming before she could stop them.
I didn't give her the chance to ask.
I turned and walked toward the backstage corridor, my heartbeat loud in my ears, knowing that when I returned, everything would change.
During the competition, I had never felt more alive. Every other time I held the violin, I despised it—resented what it demanded of me—but tonight, I was ready to compromise.
For the first time, every note rose from my heart and reached my ears, raw and unfiltered. I closed my eyes and surrendered to the sound, focusing on each note as though my life depended on it. Sweat gathered along my forehead, my grip tightening, my breath measured—everything narrowing down to the music alone.
When I opened my eyes, the sound hit me first—a thunder of applause swelling through the hall, layered and endless. It should have grounded me, but instead my gaze cut through the darkness, searching desperately for one face. The lights were still low, the audience reduced to silhouettes, the air thick with sound and heat. Then the stage lights shifted, and the room gleamed.
And there she was.
Emma was impossible to miss. She sat as though she had always belonged there, perfectly placed within the chaos, radiant and unmistakable. Her hands came together in steady rhythm, clapping with unrestrained joy, her smile bright enough to outshine the dimness around her. She was beaming—not for the performance, not for the competition—but for me. The realization settled deep in my chest, heavier than any applause.
The announcement came moments later, my name echoing through the hall, distorted and unreal, as if it belonged to someone else entirely. My legs moved on instinct as I stepped onto the stage, the floor lights glaring, the faces beyond them dissolving into obscurity.
The trophy was placed in my hands—cold, solid, undeniable. Its weight pulled me back into my body, into the reality of victory. And yet, standing there beneath the lights, my thoughts drifted somewhere they had no right to be.
To Alex.
The triumph felt incomplete, edged with something unresolved, as if even this moment carried a shadow I could not outrun.
The lobby looked different when we returned to it—emptier, quieter, stripped of its spectacle. The applause had faded, the lights dimmed, leaving behind only echoes and polished marble that reflected too much of what I was feeling.
Emma stood near the tall windows, her back to the city, the white glow of New York framing her like a painting unfinished. She was waiting. I could tell by the way her hands were clasped together, by the way she straightened the moment she sensed me behind her.
She turned.
Her smile came first.
"You were incredible," she said softly. "Truly. I've never heard anything like that." She paused, her eyes shining. "You deserved that win."
"Thank you," I said.
She studied me then, as if sensing the shift. "You wanted to tell me something?"
"Yes," I replied. My voice didn't waver, but something inside me did. "But not here."
I gestured toward the corridor leading out to the balcony. "Would you come with me? I didn't want noise or people or music between us."
She hesitated only a second before nodding.
The balcony was quiet, tucked away from the building's glow. The city stretched beneath us in softened lights, and above, the sky lay open—dark and scattered with distant stars. The cold air brushed against my skin, sharp but grounding.
Emma stood beside the railing, close enough that I could feel her warmth despite the chill. For a moment, neither of us spoke.
"This is beautiful," she murmured.
"So are you," I said softly, before I could stop myself.
She turned to me, and the distance between us narrowed—not by movement, but by attention. Her eyes were steady, open, terrifyingly close.
"I don't know when it happened," I continued, my voice low. "Maybe it was the way you look at the world like it hasn't finished disappointing you yet. Or the way you don't try to belong to rooms like this—and somehow still outshine them."
I took a small step closer. Close enough now to feel her breath.
"But I know this," I said. "Every time I think of peace, it looks like you."
Her eyes gleamed—bright, unguarded. For a heartbeat, she looked like the happiest woman in the world, as if the words had landed exactly where they were meant to. Her lips parted, breath hitching, a soft smile breaking through before she could stop it.
"I'm in love with you," I said quietly. "And I didn't want to leave tonight without telling you the truth."
For a suspended moment, she didn't think—she moved.
Emma stepped into me, her hands coming up instinctively, fingers curling into my coat as if her body had already decided before her mind could catch up. Her forehead rested briefly against my chest, her breath uneven, fragile. I felt her lean into the space she had been resisting all night.
"I—" she whispered.
Her arms tightened for a second—almost an embrace. Almost a yes.
"I love—"
She froze.
Something shifted, sudden and painful. Her body stilled, as if reality had caught her mid-fall. Slowly, she pulled back, her hands dropping from me as though they no longer belonged there.
When she looked up, her eyes were wet.
"Aubrey..." Her voice broke, just barely. A tear slipped free despite her effort to stop it. "You're extraordinary. And tonight—you were breathtaking." She swallowed hard, her voice trembling now. "Hearing this... it makes me so happy it scares me."
Hope surged—reckless, blinding.
"But I can't," she whispered, the words choking in her throat.
The pain in her voice hurt more than the refusal itself.
"I care about you," she went on, her voice uneven, fragile. "More than I should. But this—whatever this is—it isn't something I can accept."
"Why?" I asked quietly.
She shook her head, a small, helpless motion. "Because some feelings don't mean permission," she said through tears. "And some stories aren't meant to go where we want them to."
I searched her face for hesitation, for regret, for anything that might undo what she had just said.
There was none—only restraint, only hurt.
"I'm so sorry," she whispered.
She stepped back, just enough to break the closeness—just enough to let the cold rush in where her warmth had been.
And just like that, it was over.