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There was nothing remarkable about that day.
Sunlight—a child—played peekaboo with the curtains, the softness of a temperament which had yet to know of anything uglier than its own vulnerability. Ophelia, in the cliches of a mundane life, woke up and abandoned their bed—how it still clung to the warmth of a body, the impression of someone in every wrinkle of the sheets. Soon, every trace of sleepiness was out of grasp, like dust particles when illuminated, in chase after one another.
Right then, before the onslaught of schoolwork and studying (which would be saved for the early hours of the following day), the wine of ignoring a family known for fracture, when there was only a book waiting to be carved into with the gentlest of touches, one could almost believe in domesticity.
If not for the silence, the hollowness of a small kitchen. All serenity, after all, could only be understood in desolation.
There was something shameful in how long it took to turn the doorknob, to confront a room untouched by everything but the night. How strange it was, to be thrown off-kilter at the lack of a fist in contact with the wall, or the table, or skin—to marvel at an enclosure which had not shattered in the absence of her.
She walked, the pitter-patter of slippers against tile, to a small bathroom. Orange, warm lightning suffused every exposed inch of the space. A brief, cursory glance in the mirror, the tracking of all kisses from time upon ta de face—how had it only been a year since they left?
It was so far away, and unfathomably close.
When there were no longer crusts around ta de eyes—their mouth now tasting of mint—she allowed herself to drown in the routine of it all. The mechanical, instinctual movements of a plain breakfast, the thrum of a stove in repetitive meeting to a pan, that dullness of eating for the sake of feeding yourself, how the earlier low bass of a fire would be replaced by an impatient vocalist in the faucet—the dribble of all that was unfinished congregating in the strainer.
Perhaps, this was what it meant to be a success story—to have escaped and to be rewarded peace.
If only peace didn't equate to boredom.
There was nothing wrong with quiet—of course not, considering how often Ophelia craved it—but there was something unfamiliar about it within a house. Of all the things a father can give to their child, the unsettling nature of calm was worse of all.
A tiny, bitter part blamed that heirloom to be the cause of every mistake she had ever made.
Somewhere, in the miasma that could be called regret, there was the foolish decision to join a frivolous band.
Well, that was harsh.
Ophelia didn't know how to feel sorry, yet, and so they couldn't be.
Without sparing a second glance, she did as all those who share her blood must: she fled—perpetual flight risk in human form, with the straps of ta de cello digging canals into their shoulders, a spare tote bag on her left.
☆
Practice room four had always been their favorite.
When it was empty, at least. Aster had a way of making any space she took up inhospitable, a shrill and whiny inconvenience which buzzed in your periphery for attention, that drug of all wannabes, those who starved for renown.
It was almost a talent, how quick she could crawl underneath Ophelia's skin, how her sheer presence could feel like being unfurled from the inside, pried apart at every exposed seem, stomach acid devouring the organ in the breakdown of its lining. Aster was a woman that didn't deserve focus, yet commanded it—otherwise, she would feast upon whatever inch of skin you left her with.
Most of the time, though, she was just a hassle.
There, naturally, was the hideous similarity between the two of them—something both parties ignored in company, but loathed after midnight. It could not be denied how addicting it was to be special, but where Ophelia had grown too accustomed to being a background accessory to fight for such a title, Aster had never absorbed the fact she was not a star.
Perhaps, in that refusal, she had molded herself into an imitation of the concept. But how did that compare to the real thing?
Ophelia had no answers, just a mild headache.
It was only at the arrival of Rhys—the band's overworked and exhausted manager—that Ophelia realized V had yet to show up. Typically, she was one to come early, making conversation with Ophelia in that half hour before practice officially began, an effort on her part to prevent any fight from breaking out between ta and Aster. Not that the two of them ever actually fought, though their bickering often veered into blatant cruelty when left unsupervised too long.
The three of them, collectively, were the only ones with proclivities towards being punctual.
Practice started late—without fail. There was always someone (read: Seb) that had to be tracked down as to their whereabouts. This meant that everyone tended to simply loiter at the start of any rehearsal, chatting with one another; some took this time to tune their instruments, creating a wild cacophony of voices underpinned by the woody tone of a clarinet, the rich scales of a keyboard, that crunch and otherwise distortion of an electric guitar. There was no viola within the noise.
What was safe about sound was how much it allowed you to hide.
No one noticed Ophelia as they walked up to Rhys, not even wug, until she had tapped upon their deltoid. RIPcord's manager had been fervently tapping away at wugs phone, exasperation bleeding into every movement of their fingers.
"What's up? Something happen?"
Rhys excelled in making a person feel heard—how wug, despite every necessity which called for their input, would make sure to portion out space for you when you sought them. The frazzled edges didn't go away, not completely, but wug never let it impede conversation, in the cradling of another's personhood.
"Where's V?"
At that, wugs eyes had widened slightly, their brows furrowing.
"Oh, uh, ta isn't coming. Quit, I mean. Thought she would've told you."
The worst thing about apocalypses was its entitlement, how it simply happened, no warning, just the floundering of an aftermath—if you were lucky.
It was not the words, but the tone—that palpable confusion with awkwardness at its heel. How soon hesitation could flood a person, that question of whether what you revealed was a secret or not.
Ophelia did not reply, just let themselves meld with the words, allowed ta de body to become a figment of shadow's creation. Rhys, in that horrifying moment of perceiving—unassuming witness—could never have hidden the pity. Wug opened their mouth, but Ophelia had already walked away.
And the world didn't end. Not really.
Practice was more or less predictable; their cello an easy vessel to depend upon, that cup of tea afterwards as subtle and pleasant as always—if only, now, an offering of loneliness, a simulacrum of warmth. That was the thing about wayward suns, how when they moved—which they must do, that inextricable behavior of theirs—the heat went with them.
It did not take long for people to notice an absence, that black-holed oblivion where there once was a cosmic propulsion of energy.
Annoyingly, it was Aster that said something first.
"Take your kicked puppy act somewhere else—you're making me hurl from your pining."
Ophelia, like every sane person must if they wanted to keep their brain cells, ignored her.
"Seriously, if you're that hung up over it just text her. What, forget how phones work, boomer?"
This time ta just rolled their eyes.
Despite what the band—well, just Aster, really—thought, Ophelia was as much dependent on modern technology as the next person; she was rather obliged to check it, considering their job. Though, granted, ta was rarely on social media beyond RIPcord obligations (and bothering Aster, of course).
There was something humbling in the stagnation of an opened DM, how those same letters persisted in abandonment—old reminders to sleep (vehemently unanswered), to gossip about the band, or the latest scandal that had caught on like a wildfire on Twitter.
Those messages remained the only ones to populate the thread—neither of them, apparently, willing to cede ground.
And so, for the first time, someone had beaten Ophelia in leaving.