I avoid looking at the invitation list for the next gala, dreading who might be there and how long it will take before something else erupts from the otherwise polished façades.
The air feels heavy with what’s left unsaid, and I’m not sure who will break the silence first.
Every day since the gala, I’ve replayed the scene in my mind.
Her music, her plea, the way the room held its breath.
And then, the swift return to normalcy, as if nothing had happened.
But something had happened.
Something that couldn’t be unseen or unheard.
I feel it every time I walk past the piano, a silent witness to the evening’s events.
It’s like a ghost that lingers, refusing to be forgotten.
The meeting with the director looms over me like a storm cloud.
I know I must be prepared, must have answers.
But what can I say that hasn’t already been said?
I wonder if they see it too, the crack in the façade, the momentary lapse in the carefully constructed illusion.
Or if, like most, they choose to look away, to ignore what doesn’t fit the narrative.
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