I stare at the screen, and all I can think is, who uploaded this? My humiliation was never broadcast on TV; probably deemed too depressing, even for that sort of emotionally-manipulative programme. Does someone hate me that much? Is Marko trying to torture me?

I glance from the phone to the boy, but while he’s not sorry to be doing this to me, I see no sign that he’s trying to be cruel. He’s not started the video, because he understands that this is a huge deal for me; he’s offering me a chance to back out

At the same time, there’s a gleam in the boy’s eyes like he’s challenging me to press play. He’s using that same slightly antagonistic relationship that has developed between us; wanting to see if I can keep up; wanting to know if I’m strong enough.

I’m usually good at ignoring peer pressure, but where this boy is concerned I refuse to be beaten. So I clench my fist, reach out a shaking hand, and tap the play button.

I might be staring at a tiny four inch screen, but it’s as if I’m instantly sucked back into that moment of my life: I’m no longer lying on my bed, but standing on that stage, staring up at those thousands of people. I swear I can feel the heat of the lights, and the murmur of the crowd fills my ears as if it’s in high quality, surround sound.

Whoever recorded this was in the audience, and from their lofty position I can’t hear what the four judges in front of the stage are saying. I can hear the crowd, “aww,” however, in response to the young girl’s reply. ‘I’m going to play a song that my mum and me used to play together,’ I mouth the words that I know the girl is saying.

The slight shaking of the view becomes more pronounced as the watcher zooms in on the figure. The girl appears calm, waiting to begin, but I know the inner turmoil she’s going through, all the fears and doubts flowing through her head. And then, with a dramatic sweep of her arm the violin is up under her chin, and she’s started to play.

I know the piece; it speaks to me of long balmy evenings in the garden, my mum at my side, her bow moving in time with mine. And the wonder of the girl’s playing is that it conveys this scene to all those that listen, so that even those who have had no such life experience, feel it anyway, and wonder at the void opening in their chests.

So powerful is the performance, that the watchers are on their feet in an instant, clapping and cheering, marvelling that such a tiny creature can produce such a monumental sound – one that rolls around the theatre and bounces back from the high ceiling. Who is she? Where did she come from? They think they’re witnessing the birth of a star; they think they’ll be telling their children about this moment in years to come.

I know what’s coming, however, and long before the audience notices anything wrong, I hear it: the first dropped note; then a fractional dip in the tempo; an uneven catching of the strings. And still the crowd cheers on, oblivious.

They’re caught up in the moment, too engrossed by the spectacle to really listen to the performance. But quicker and quicker the performance falls apart, until even the most tone-deaf watcher must notice the bum notes building atop one another.

The girl’s inherent talent, passed down through countless generations; the practice she has put herself through, year after year; the skills she has built her life upon: they’re crumbling beneath her, pitching her into darkness.

The cheers falter, and the shouts die, but still the music limps gamely on until the lead judge hits his buzzer, the sudden, harsh sound like a gunshot, putting the performance out of its misery. Startled, the girl visibly jumps; her music veering wildly off course, and then stumbling and falling; ending its life in a discordant death rattle.

Silence from the small phone: the judges speechless; the crowd stunned by the turn from wondrous to pitiful. The girl doesn’t move; she stares at the instrument in her hands as if betrayed, and so she should, for the violin has been her friend since birth. It has seen her through countless trials, but now she barely seems to recognise what it is or what it does.

‘Enough,’ I say, quietly, pushing the screen away. I can’t bear to watch that girl as her dreams crumble and her life begins down its slippery slope to where it is now.

The judges were kind enough, even the ones that buzzed the girl out. “Practice and come back next year,” I remember the lead saying. He didn’t realise how condescending his words were for an eleven year old that had mastered pieces it took others a lifetime to learn. She had been an amazing creature, such a shame what she became...

Marko lets the phone drop, but I can still see the performance running though my mind; over and over, as it did in the months after it first happened.

‘Are you... are you mad at me?’ Marko says, after a moment.

I have to think about his question for a very long time before I utter a word, my eyes still staring fixedly at the duvet. ‘No...’

‘Really?’ He looks worried that he might have pushed me too far.

‘I’m not mad,’ I say, tonelessly.

The experience hurt so much at the time that it was impossible to imagine it feeling any different. I keep expecting that same pain to rip through me, now, but I feel oddly empty, and that fact makes me a little sad. I thought the pain would be with me forever, a reminder of what I lost, but it seems I’ve moved on, and that’s another kind of loss entirely.

‘What happened to you back there?’ Marko asks, turning on the bed to look at me.

I feel his gaze, but I can’t look up to meet it. ‘I froze. It’s as simple as that.’

‘But you were playing so beautifully...’

He speaks quietly, but he’s clearly probing for something, and I don’t know what. ‘My confidence slipped.’ I shrug. ‘It happens sometimes.’

‘But why?’ he asks, almost pleading now.

‘Why are you doing this?’

‘I just... I need to understand,’ he says, his voice taking on an edge of desperation.

I still don’t get why this is so important to him, but I throw my hands in the air and  finally give in. ‘What do you want to hear, that my audition came right after my mum left; or that my condition was getting worse by the day: and the pressure simply broke me?’

‘If that’s what happened, then yes,’ he says, his tone softening now we’re heading for a conclusion. Fine, if that’s what he wants, to hear all the dirty little details...

‘If you must know, I’m pretty sure my mum left because she didn’t want to be tied to a cripple,’ I snap, almost viciously. ‘Music was the thing that bound us; practice was what we did when we had time together; it was what brought us closer, our music joining as one. But the pain began to affect my playing and she left shortly after.’

I feel the lump in my throat, but there’s no way I’ll cry. I’ve not allowed myself that luxury in nearly four years. ‘Auditioning for the talent contest was something we had always talked about doing, ever since The Happy Jacks made it through. So part of me thought that if I could do the same; if I could get on TV... Mum would see that I still had it in me.’

I sigh, and stare listlessly at the bed. I’ve not told anyone this stuff, not Dad, or Mia, or even my old psychiatrists. ‘I thought she’d come running back, but then I messed up my one chance and she didn’t...’ That heartbreak is still just as raw as it ever was.

I hope Marko realises how hard this is for me. He seems to, for he looks suitably stunned by my admission, and when he opens his mouth he can only say, ‘wow...’

I still have no idea what the boy wanted to hear, or why it’s so important, I can only hope he’s now satisfied, because I don’t think I have enough strength to say more. ‘Have you had enough gory details?’ I ask, bitterly, raising my eyes to the boy, and staring hard into his face. ‘Or am I going to get another knock on my door a week from now?’

A sad little smile plays around the corners of Marko’s lips. ‘My curiosity is well and truly satiated,’ he says, quietly, and I think he means it.

‘Good...’ I breathe, slumping back on the bed and feeling knackered.

However, I should have heard in his voice that Marko wasn’t yet done. ‘But...’ he says, thoughtfully, just as I begin to relax. ‘I still want you to play a duet with me.’

Of course this would be his conclusion. My sob story won’t have made the slightest bit of difference; if anything it’ll have made him even more determined to help me. ‘Why is this so important you you?’ I say, sighing. ‘Why not one of the other violinists at school?’

‘Because this event demands the best,’ Marko responds, without a pause.

‘Flattery will get you nowhere, bud,’ I mutter, but inside there’s the glimmer of a smile. Heaving myself upright I eye the boy. ‘Do you want to know why I think it has to be me?’ I ask, meeting his grey eyes, and this time refusing to look away.

‘Shoot,’ he says, staring levelly back.

‘I think you can’t bear the idea that there might be someone in the world that doesn’t adore you.’ I speak the thoughts as they come to me. ‘You think you can save me, and that I’ll then be so grateful I sign up for a lifetime membership to the Marko fanclub.’

I know I’ve hit the nail on the head when the boy just sits there staring at me, his mouth hanging open. Marko doesn’t speak for a full ten seconds, his eyes on me, his forehead creased as he thinks through my words – have I upset him?

‘Wait... go back a bit,’ he says, finally, holding up a hand as if to stop me from speaking. ‘Are you telling me there’s someone out there that doesn’t love me?!’

I roll my eyes, but I can’t help chuckling. Even now the boy refuses to take things seriously – joking about my situation; making fun of himself – but there’s no denying that by doing so he makes the world feel like it’s not so bad, after all.

What do I do? I still don’t think my body can do what this boy wants, but would it kill me to try? If I say “no” now, I’m pretty sure that’s it for the rest of my life – people aren’t exactly beating down my door to offer me a chance to start over. This boy represents perhaps the best, safest place for me to try again; he might tease, and he might push, but he won’t ever purposefully hurt me, and he’ll never abandon me – I feel oddly certain of that.

My resolve is crumbling; I know it, and so does Marko. But my decision is thankfully delayed by the bang of the front door, followed by my dad’s raised voice, ‘I’m home, Pea.’

Instantly I spring away from Marko, though we were doing nothing wrong. Marko, unfazed as always, watches me go with a grin. ‘Pea?’ he asks, suppressing a laugh.

I don’t bother to explain the nickname to Marko. ‘Hey Dad,’ I call out, and then, to prevent the man saying something embarrassing, I quickly add, ‘I have a guest!’

‘Hey Mia,’ comes the immediate response, drawing nearer along the hall.

‘It’s not Mia,’ I call back, with pointed emphasis in my voice. I turn to Marko and with a forced laugh I add, ‘geez, you’d think no-one else ever visits...’

Marko nods amiably, but he’s not fooled for an instant. Instead, he turns to the door and, before I can stop him calls, ‘hello sir.’

The approaching footsteps falter and stop. There’s several seconds of silence in which I can practically hear my dad’s panicked thoughts, and then the steps return, faster this time. Reaching the slightly open door, Dad doesn’t bother to knock, but bursts straight in, his gaze roving the room before settling on Marko. Then he notices we’re both sat on the bed and his hunted expression takes on the look of a fugitive who knows the police are closing in.

‘W-what are you kids up to?’ I don’t think I’ve ever seen the man so rattled before. Dad is so laid back about most things that I assumed if boys were ever a thing in my life he’d take it all in his stride – I’m now guessing that was wishful thinking.

‘Nothing,’ I say, quickly, but Marko speaks over me.

‘We were just talking about Pen’s violin playing.’

At that, Dad’s ears literally perk up. ‘Really?’ he says, excitement quashing his fears of a moment ago as he slips inside the room and stalks closer.

‘Dad!’ I exclaim. ‘We’re busy here!’

‘Pupo,’ he says, automatically, waving my concerns aside without looking at me. The man’s not as oblivious to social etiquette as he likes to pretend, which means he’s trying to disrupt my alone-time with Marko: a suspicion only heightened as the man plonks himself between us on the bed; forcing me to shuffle over or risk being sat on.

‘Apparently you’re quite the world traveller,’ I hear Marko say from the far side of Dad. I lean around and shake my head, trying to stop the boy, but I’m too late. ‘I’d love to hear more about your adventures,’ he adds, with no idea what he’s letting himself in for.

But for once Dad has something more important on his mind than tales of his youth. ‘Another time,’ he says, his attention fully on the boy. ‘What’s this about Pen’s violin?’

Don’t say anything, don’t say anything, I think, hoping Marko will sense my thoughts. But if he does he chooses to ignore them. ‘Your daughter’s an amazing violinist.’

Marko has said precisely three things, and I can already tell my dad’s been won over to Team Marko. ‘She was once a minor celebrity around here,’ Dad says, puffing up his chest as if he’s the one being complimented. ‘We travelled all over playing for people.’

Marko lets out a chuckle. ‘It’s funny, because when I first met Pen she pretended not to like music,’ he says, flashing a momentary grin my way.

‘Are you kidding? Who doesn’t like music?’ Dad snorts.

‘That’s what I said!’ And the pair of them laugh.

I look between the two men, both of whom have seemingly failed to move beyond their adolescent years, and I suddenly realise that this pair are almost exactly alike. Oh god, I think, I have a crush on someone that is pretty much my father.

Not only is this idea horribly clichéd, but it leads me to another, even more desperate realisation: I have a crush... on Marko... Despite my attempts to not let this happen, I am falling for this boy that is so far beyond my reach that it’s a wonder I can even see him.

I fall back onto the bed, my arms dangling over the far side, not listening to the two boys as I stare at the ceiling. What am I supposed to do with this realisation? There was a time in my carefree tweens when all I would think about was boys; giggling late into the night with Tabatha late as we discussed the sort of guy we would like to meet. But I had thought all such dreams were done; abandoned along with my music at that long ago talent contest.

How has this happened? Why now? Because it’s Marko, I think. Because I trust this boy, and because he makes me feel good about myself...

That’s not good enough, I snap at myself, I’ve got to be smarter than that. I’m one year from finishing school, and all I want is to get through that time without being noticed. The very last thing I need is to be mooning over someone going out with our school’s queen bee. That has the potential to go wrong in so many different ways.

I sigh, and try to convince myself it’s all just a mistake; a momentary infatuation, like that brief stint fantasising about the hobbit from The Lord of the Rings.

‘Perhaps you could put the videos online?’ Marko’s words cut through my rapidly deteriorating thought-processes, and triggering some inbuilt warning system. ‘I’m sure there are plenty of people at school who’d love to see Pen perform.’

Two thoughts flash through my head in quick succession: firstly that, no, nobody would want to see me perform, and secondly, he’s talking about the collection of clips Dad has of me playing in various competitions around the country.

‘You are not uploading them!’ I exclaim, sitting bolt up.

But neither of them even bothers to look at me. ‘I thought about it, but I’m bad at that internet stuff,’ Dad says. He’s not exaggerating, he’s terrible with technology.

‘I can help you,’ Marko says, eagerly.

A grin splits my dad’s face. ‘You would do that?’

‘Hey, don’t I get a say?’ I interject, but apparently I don’t, because the two men are staring at each other like they’re the ones infatuated with one another.

 ‘I’ll go get the laptop!’ Dad says, and then he’s up and scurrying out of the room.

‘He seems cool,’ Marko says, cheerfully, turning to look at me, a glint in his eyes the only hint that he knows exactly what torment he’s putting me through.

‘Everything is “cool” to you,’ I grumble, falling back on the bed once more, an arm thrown dramatically across my face. ‘This is lit-er-ally the worst...’ I mutter to myself.

Then, above me, I hear Marko’s voice. ‘So, what about my proposition?’ continuing as if our conversation from before was never interrupted.

‘Nope,’ I grumble, my words muffled by my arm, ‘this moment right here; this is even worse.’ It’s like I’m caught in some hellish time loop...

‘Maybe we should ask your dad?’ Marko asks, turning from me.

‘Don’t!’ I exclaim, my voice going higher as I sit upright and grab the boy’s arm to restrain him. ‘I’m serious. It would crush him if you gave him hope and then I said no.’

Marko stares at me a moment and then nods, solemnly. ‘Okay, I won’t say anything,’ he agrees, ‘but if it would mean so much to him, why would you say “no” at all?’

Because I’m scared, I think. Scared to hope; scared of where this could all lead; scared of the power music can wield over me once I let it back in. My life might be flat and joyless at the moment, but at least I know I can handle the things it throws at me.

Marko watches my face; his large eyes filled with way too much understanding for my liking. ‘You watched that clip and you focused on the negative, right?’ he says, finally. ‘You heard your mistakes and you felt your fears, and you saw yourself fail, didn’t you?’

‘Yeah... thanks for the reminder...’

‘Well I saw a supremely brave girl; one who was being hit by everything life could throw at her – stuff that would crush people far older and stronger,’ Marko says. ‘And yet for a while, she still managed to play better than anyone I’ve ever met.’

The girl in the video lingers before my eyes and while my perception isn’t changed by Marko’s words, I understand how he can see her in such a light.

‘Don’t you wonder what it would feel like to be that girl again?’ Marko says, leaning in until his face is mere inches from mine, seeming able to read my thoughts.

I can’t deny there’s a certain alluring quality to that tiny girl, filled with more love for life than seems possible to contain in such a small frame. Who wouldn’t want to be that again; who would actively choose to be the way I am now...

‘I have a new proposition,’ Marko says, pulling back from me.

‘What?’ I ask, feeling both relieved and sad to see him retreat.

‘You help me by playing at my event,’ he says, ‘and then I’ll play with you in this year’s version of the talent contest. Deal?’

It takes me a full ten seconds to process his words. ‘What? No, that’s not a deal!’ I exclaim, confused and a little scared by this new idea; like it’s already a foregone conclusion... which, given how Marko always gets his way, maybe it is. ‘A deal is when both sides get something they want. That’s you getting everything and me getting humiliated... again!’

‘That won’t happen; not this time,’ he says, with complete conviction.

From the corridor I can hear my dad’s footsteps, returning. ‘Why not?’ I snap, wanting this to be over before he gets here.

‘Because next time I’ll be there to catch you if you fall,’ Marko says, his grey eyes boring into me. ‘I know you think I’m this flighty guy that might change his mind a week from now, but all I can say is I won’t. I’ll be there as long as you need me – that’s a promise.’

‘Why?’ I ask, quietly, already feeling lost to this boy’s every whim. ‘Why is this so important to you? Why are you trying to help me?’

Marko sighs. ‘I wish I could make you understand, but just know that I have never been as serious about anything as I am in this moment. I don’t ask for much in life, but if I could have just one wish come true it’s that you practise with me.’

I stare into the boy’s eyes and feel a deep sigh welling up through me. I’m trapped, and I know it. What can I possibly say to turn down such a face? The pleading behind his green speckled eyes; the single line of concentration on his otherwise smooth brow; the worried turn of his lips... the knowledge that he means ever word he says.

If I wasn’t already well and truly besotted, I would be now.