HE LISTENS.

He can’t watch, but he listens to you. He knows your talent, you wouldn’t be here if you didn’t have any.

The Holland School of Arts. a school for prestigious artists around the world, mainly in England. Painters, singers, musicians, instrumentalists, and you. Both, of you.

You and your violin got you a seat there, and you took it without looking back. It was your passion— the thing that made you, well, you.

Isaac viewed you as someone who should be grateful, they still have time. They still have a future to love what they do. To do what they do.

He paints. Anything, portraits, skies, trees. It’s his thing. It was his thing. But it can’t, not now, never again. After being diagnosed with Optic Nerve Glioma, he hasn’t touched a canvas. He can’t. He doesn’t even want to draw, let alone look at pencils. He’s losing his love for his passion, day by day, and his sight.

He thought, there’s no point in being at Holland if he can’t do the thing he got here for. He was worried people would think he’d given up, which, he did, or that he fell out of love with painting. He didn’t want cancer, but he couldn’t do anything to stop it, and he hated that.

He hated everything right now. Even the sticks and leaves that fell from trees. He hated them, too.

What he didn’t hate, was the strange girl who sung in the choir. The girl who was in Holland’s theatre almost every night, playing a different melody each time. He showed up for her, to hear her voice, to hear her song. He didn’t hate that.

But now, it was getting increasingly more difficult to see her. To find her. Everyday, in school, he’d walk, almost tripping over his own shoes. He thought this ridiculous. His eyes barely worked anymore.

But he was lead by the sound of her violin. The sharpness of the strings, the soft hum of her voice. That pulled him in.