You were sitting in the rehearsal hall with five others your age when a man shrouded in a black turtleneck and slacks walked in.

“Welcome to Hilliard,” he says, slightly detached. “You are the six best young violinists in the world; you know this already as you are here.”

The Hilliard Conservatory in London was gospel among budding musicians; it was hope and intrigue and enigma intertwined with music. It was so easy to fall in love with, obsess over—it was only the most prestigious conservatory in the world. Every young musician who was anyone became familiar with its ways: that it selected groups of the six best eighteen year old musicians in the world at their respective instruments every four years; that these students perfected their craft through a four-year competition during their studies:

“The best of you six, after four years, is guaranteed a chair at the Royal Philharmonic. The rest of you get a diploma from here—guaranteed success, still,” he continues, still detached. As if he’s done this before. “I am Dr. Gottlieb. Work hard,” Was all he said before leaving.

It was then you all realized that the rest would be always second to that top student. You all sat with bated breath in the space as the door shut. How odd to be the only ones who could understand each other, yet naturally forced to loathe each other.