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Struggling against the pain, I drag my arm out from beneath the duvet and reach for my phone on the nightstand to check the time, but my fingers flat-out refuse. The shooting pain travels through my hand, and the phone slides right out of it, hitting the hardwood floor.

Shit.

Slowly, I peer over the edge of the bed. My phone is lying face down near the base of the nightstand, its screen glowing faintly against the dark floorboards.

If I can’t even pick up a phone right now, how the hell am I supposed to hold a violin today? If I show up like this tonight, Julian will see straight through me.

This is the price. I know the price of hypermobility. I have known about it for a very long time.

At first, it felt like a superpower. Back when I was younger, my over-extended finger span felt like a secret weapon, allowing my hands to stretch across impossible intervals and fly through complex progressions. But over time, my body demanded payment.

The result is a chronic, agonising pain.

Those brutal six-hour rehearsals don’t just leave me tired; they leave my joints inflamed, swollen and actively rebelling against me, turning the instrument I love into a tool of physical torture.

I roll onto my side with a loud groan, forcing my uncooperative limbs to swing over the edge of the mattress.

Reaching for the bottle of extra-strength anti-inflammatories on my nightstand, my stomach twists. The simple task of opening it turns into a humiliating battle. The pain in my hands won’t allow me to grip the smooth plastic lid. I have to try with all my might just to pry the child-proof lid open. Leaning my weight forward, I press down with the heel of my palm, using every single ounce of my remaining willpower to force the bottle to click and give way.

The cap finally pops off, and I shove the tablets into my mouth, swallowing with a desperate gulp of lukewarm water from yesterday’s glass.

What the hell is my life right now?

As I shuffle to the bathroom, my knees click and pop with every agonising step. I need a scalding shower.

For twenty minutes, I stand under the light stream, letting the near-boiling water turn my skin a violent pink. I lean my head against the damp tile and let the spray trickle directly over my exhausted shoulder blades and swelling wrists, welcoming the brief relief the heat gives to my slackened ligaments.

Afterward, I sit on the edge of my unmade bed, wrapped tightly in a towel, my hands pressed against the sizzling, electric heat of my heating pad. I lay my fingers out entirely flat against it, patiently waiting for warmth and high-dose medication to finally blunt the sharpest edges of the ache.

Please. I think, closing my eyes as the heat radiates through my hands.

Please work soon.

I feel like crying. I am so far from being in control, it terrifies me.

My eyes drift across the room, locking onto the silhouette of my violin case resting against the desk. At six o’clock this evening, I have to step back into Practice Room C and face Julian Thorne all over again.

How am I supposed to hide the cracks when I’m literally struggling to hold myself together?

No. I refuse to give him the satisfaction.

I can’t afford to be weak today. Not in front of him.

I force myself up, drag my body across the room, and sluggishly pull a fresh set of clothes from my wardrobe. I grab a tube of high-strength heat gel that smells intensely of menthol, squeezing a generous amount onto my palms, and I rub it into my wrists, shoulders, and neck. Finally, I pull a thick sweater over my head, struggle with my skirt, and boots—and their zippers, and brace myself for the day.

He wants to look for the cracks? Let him look.

I’m not going down without a fight.

“From bar twelve,” Jamieson says.

She doesn't need to tell me where we are in the piece, I know this piece the way I know my own joints—every bar, every shift and every painful transition.

I lift the violin, my teeth grinding together as the movement pulls aggressively against my locked shoulder blade. The high-strength heat gel I slathered on earlier is working slightly, the menthol rising in invisible waves. Usually, it’s a scent I try to hide, but right now, it’s the only thing allowing me to get through this rehearsal.

I find the bar and play it.

I could have chosen something safe for my Spring Showcase solo. The safe option was always there. I know exactly what it looks like, and what it gives you in return—which is a performance that nobody can fault, and nobody will remember either.