Who are you?
Lydia had never been one to dwell on people—especially not on individuals she couldn't immediately understand or control. But Sharon Goodnow lingered in her mind like an unresolved chord, a note held just out of reach, refusing to settle.
She caught herself watching Sharon during rehearsals, noting the way she tilted her head when she played, the slight narrowing of her eyes when she was deep in thought. Lydia was meticulous about details—she had to be—but this wasn’t the same as analyzing a score. It was something more intrusive, more frustrating.
Was Sharon... like her?
Lydia had never had to wonder before. She had always known. Women were drawn to her, to her power, her presence. She never had to chase. But Sharon didn’t seem drawn in. Or if she was, she was doing an excellent job of hiding it.
She needed to test the waters.
It started with small things. A lingering glance, a slight brush past her in the halls. Lydia would make a passing comment about the way Sharon played—always just a little too precise, a little too controlled. "Loosen up," she’d murmur after rehearsal, just loud enough for Sharon to hear. And each time, she waited, watching for a reaction.
Sharon gave her nothing. Or rather, she gave her just enough. A barely-there smirk. A tilt of the head. A slow, deliberate blink that made Lydia feel like she was the one being studied, not the other way around.
One evening, Lydia orchestrated a reason to keep Sharon behind after rehearsal. A fabricated critique, a meaningless adjustment. Sharon played along, but there was something in her expression—an awareness of the game, of Lydia’s need to keep her close. As Sharon packed up, Lydia leaned against the piano, studying her. "You don’t take direction very well," she remarked.
Sharon zipped up her case slowly, deliberately. "I take direction when it makes sense."
Lydia arched a brow. "And I suppose you get to decide when that is?"
Sharon gave her a sweet, almost lazy smile. "I suppose I do."
It should have infuriated Lydia. Instead, she felt something stir low in her stomach, something dark and unsatisfied. It had been years since anyone had made her feel this way—off-balance, out of control. She loathed it. She craved it.
This woman is going to kill me.
The obsession only grew after that.
It started subtly—small excuses to keep Sharon back after rehearsals, nitpicking her technique when it was already flawless, pushing her just to see how she would react. But the more Lydia tried to assert control, the more Sharon seemed to slip through her fingers like sand.
Then came the research.
Lydia knew she shouldn’t. But one night, alone in her apartment, with only a glass of wine and her restless thoughts, she found herself searching for everything she could about Sharon Goodnow. Interviews, performance recordings, old articles from her conservatory days. She learned that Sharon had studied in Vienna, that she had won an international competition at eighteen, that she had played with some of the most prestigious orchestras before came back to Berlin.
But there was nothing—nothing personal. No relationships mentioned, no hints, no clues.
Lydia leaned back in her chair, tapping her fingers against the table. Was it intentional? A carefully curated mystery? Or was she reading too much into it? She closed her laptop, pressing her fingers against her temples. This was madness. She had never done this before. Never needed to. And yet, she found herself caught in the cycle of it, an irresistible pull toward something she couldn’t quite name.
The next day, she watched Sharon more closely than ever. She paid attention to the way she interacted with others, how she responded to casual touches from her colleagues, if her body language shifted when she spoke to men versus women. And yet, Sharon gave her nothing. No clues, no indicators. Just the same quiet confidence, the same teasing edge when she looked at Lydia.
It was driving her mad.
One evening, Lydia found herself walking down the hall when she heard laughter—low, warm, intimate. She slowed her pace. It was Sharon, leaning against the wall, talking to a younger cellist. A man.
Lydia’s grip on her conductor’s folder tightened.
Sharon was smiling, her head tilted just slightly. The man laughed again, leaning in just enough that Lydia felt something unpleasant coil in her stomach. Ridiculous. She was being ridiculous. But the thought that Sharon might be… interested in him made Lydia feel something close to rage.
Sharon must have sensed her presence because she turned, catching Lydia’s gaze. Her lips curled into a small, knowing smirk. She didn’t move away from the cellist, didn’t break eye contact. Lydia forced herself to walk past, ignoring the way her skin felt hot, her jaw tight. She needed to get a grip. But as she left the hall, one thought gnawed at her:
Is she doing this on purpose?
And worse—is it working?
The night that followed was restless. Lydia lay in bed, her body tense, the image of Sharon’s smirk burned into her mind. She turned onto her side, pressing her thighs together, but it only made things worse. She could imagine it—Sharon close, that maddening, infuriating little smile lingering as she pressed in, teasing, challenging, just like she always did. Lydia exhaled sharply, shoving the thought away. No. This was wrong. This was ridiculous. She wasn’t some infatuated fool.
But her body didn’t seem to care.
Her breath quickened, her skin flushed with heat. The sheer want of it was suffocating, and for a moment—just a moment—she let herself indulge in it, let the thought of Sharon consume her. The scent of her, her blue eyes, staring at hers, the curve of her lips, the way her hands moved when she played.
It didn’t last long. It couldn’t.
Lydia sat up abruptly, swinging her legs over the side of the bed, her hands gripping the edge of the mattress. Shame curled in her stomach like a fist. This wasn’t who she was. She had control. She had discipline. And yet, Sharon had burrowed under her skin, unraveling her with nothing more than a look. She pressed her hands to her face, inhaling sharply. She needed to end this. Before it became something she couldn’t undo.
One afternoon, Lydia passed by the practice rooms and heard a single violin playing—clean, sharp, deliberate. She knew it was Sharon before she even saw her. She stood outside the door, listening. The notes were perfect, but then—a pause. Then another. A misstep. Unusual. Lydia stepped inside without knocking.
Sharon looked up, startled, fingers still poised on the strings. For the first time, Lydia caught a flicker of something besides confidence—something close to vulnerability. Sharon’s free hand pressed lightly against her wrist.
“What is it?” Lydia asked, stepping closer.
Sharon hesitated before dropping her hand. “Nothing. Just a momentary lapse.”
Lydia didn’t buy it. “Are you ill?”
Sharon smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “I’m fine, Ms. Tár.”
But as Lydia turned to leave, she caught the smallest movement in the reflection of the window—Sharon pressing her fingers to her pulse again, counting, checking. And for the first time, Lydia wondered.
What aren’t you telling me?