Blind

 

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Luhan’s throat hurts. He’s been practicing for days, but all that comes out of his mouth is a mess of sounds, with creaks and cracks and painful hitches. He sings alone in the empty practice rooms after school, where only the piano and music stands keep him company. When the bell rings to let out class, the hallways are strangely silent after the students have piled out, and his footsteps echo eerily down the hall. He picks a different room every day, and meanders his way slowly through the music building until he knows it like the back of his own hand.

 

Sometimes he’s thankful to be alone. It’s peaceful, and he can focus on practicing. Other times he’s frustrated to tears, but when he leans his head against the stand and cries silently, there’s nobody there for him.

 

Luhan knows he can sing well; he knows it’s in him. He dreams of pouring his soul into his song, of expressing emotion never heard before. Somehow, though, it never works out that way when he wakes up.

 

He’s having another one of those hopeless days, when he’s sure he’ll be the last one to get the song in his class again. His vocal cords are strained, dry, and he talks in hoarse whispers. Luhan shakes his head angrily when the familiar pressure starts building in the back of his eyes. The tears change the music room into a strange place, where everything is blurry and distant and watery. He hugs the piano bench, and finally, finally, lets himself collapse into wet, ugly sobs, that inevitably hurt his throat even more.

 

When he’s mostly dried out to sniffles, a foreign voice fills the room, calm and confident, loud and soft at the same time.

 

“Hey.”

 

Luhan looks up to see a strange boy, sitting crosslegged in front of him. His skin is lightly tanned, and face angular in a square kind of way.

 

Luhan wipes away his tears embarrassedly. “Who are you?”

 

“That’s not important.”

 

“Then what is important?”

 

The boy his head to the side. “What’s important is that you don’t give up.”

 

Luhan shakes his head and peers at him through red eyes. “Are you a singer?”

 

“I’m not. But-”

 

“No, you listen to me. You have no idea how I feel, how all of this,” he swipes a hand carelessly around the room, “how all of this feels. You say you don’t sing? Then how can you come marching in here and tell me how I should feel?”

 

The boy matches Luhan’s defensive stare with a balanced gaze. “I may not sing, but I dance. And, essentially, aren’t they the same things? They’re both forms of art, are they not?” He sighs deeply, as if drifting in a cloudscape. “I’ve been through it all, so don’t tell me I haven’t. I’ve heard you singing every day, trying to get everything perfect. You know it keeps getting worse and worse.”

 

He blows his hair away from his face and switches his legs around. “Here’s some advice: take a step back and breathe. You’re blinded to what you can do, because you tell yourself you can’t do it. I think if you do this...  you’ll find what you’re really capable of.”

 

He rises, brushes off his pants and exits the room. Before he leaves, he pauses and turns back, pinning Luhan against the wall with his stare.

 

“By the way... you have a beautiful voice.”

 

Then Luhan’s alone again. He sits against the piano bench, not thinking about anything in particular, but just breathing, just being. When he stands up and takes position again, his throat feels a little less dry, a little less tired.

 

And this time, when he sings, it’s even better than the dreams.

 

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