The thing they don't tell you about child prodigies is that, more often than not, they fall off the face of the earth before they even reach adulthood. The pressure to succeed, the rising improvement of peers, and the fact that there's always another younger, far greater prodigy to take your place meant our relevancy was short-lived.

Burnout, they called it.

Or as I liked to call it, the way the world worked. A cruel one, but that was just reality.

But like many burnout high school students, I had thought college would be the ultimate make-or-break moment—a new beginning in hopes of chasing that dream of being the next Yo-Yo Ma of musicians I had envisioned when I had first picked up the violin at four years old. I knew the chances were slim and that being on the fringe of a mental break was inevitable, but I couldn't be what every child of first-generation Asian Americans fears: a failure.

Giving up on the violin would be the epitome of failing, and I had already failed in my parent's eyes one too many times.

So under the duress of my parent's wishes to pursue anything STEM-related, I bet my entire future on music, even if it meant being as tautly strung as the strings on my instrument. It had to work, or everything I had lived for and ultimately given up on was for naught.

That was what I had hoped would happen after high school, anyway. 

That my name wouldn't futilely disappear from the names of prodigies, replaced by a hundred more that would surely out best me. 

Until my latest competition against my Berklee College of Music peers proved there was no hope for a has-been prodigy. 

Tenth place. Last place. 

What a joke. 

The icing on the cake was that out of those ten students, our orchestra professor, Alan Hiroshi, had announced I'd be the soloist in our traveling showcase. The irony of it all was a headache to work around that not even the bus ride here helped with. Even the most upbeat or soothing playlists couldn't quell the impending panic attack I was bound to face in Manhattan.

The Manhattan, yes. In New York City, where dreams come true, as they say. What a load of bull.

My only dream was to let this showcase be done with. 

Our professor pointed to the Empire Hotel, with its massive red sign up top. It looked way too extravagant for a traveling college orchestra, but Berklee was a private university, no doubt enough money to splurge with our increasing tuition. And yet, we still had to pay a percentage to go. But as much as I didn't fancy the idea of performing a violin solo, being this close to Julliard was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. 

I had always wanted to go there, where the prestigious of the prestige go—where prodigies went. A place where I was sure that even if I had placed tenth out of ten contestants, I'd be a hundred times better than I was now. If I could sneak away from practice this weekend, that was where I would hang out. Maybe it'd re-spark any residual hope I had left of making a name for myself.

The rest of our chamber orchestra stayed with the bus as I accompanied the professor to retrieve the keys to our hotel rooms. Most had fallen asleep for the three-and-a-half-hour ride, while I was too anxious to sleep the way there, knowing that our concert was tomorrow night, and I doubted I'd be able to do Romance in F Minor any justice.

But alas, here we were, and we couldn't not hold our concerto after renting a bus and spending an entire weekend in Manhattan. The cancellation fees for a venue were probably as much as a plane ticket, if not more.

"Welcome to the Empire Hotel," a bellhop said as he passed by with a luggage cart. Professor Hiroshi nodded and led us to the receptionist, who smiled at us. 

"Hi, I have a reservation from today till Monday morning. Under Alan Hiroshi," he greeted, pulling out a sheet of paper from his folder with the confirmation number. The lady punched it into her computer.

"Alright, I have your five rooms ready to go. How many keys per room did you need?"

"Four—wait, five rooms?" He counted on his fingers, silently tallying for every person in our entourage. "I swear I reserved six."

"It lists five doubles, sir."

He pulled out his phone, scrolling for a second before groaning. "I thought I added an extra room before we left. Is there a way to add on another? I'm so sorry about that. I know purchasing rooms through this site was a terrible idea."

"I am sorry, there really are no extra available rooms at this time," the staff said, pointing to a map on the desk. "I can recommend a few other nearby hotels if you'd like. It is one of our busiest times of the year, so I cannot guarantee they will have accommodations."

Professor Hiroshi sighed. "No extra rollout beds either?"

"We don't have any, sir."

"I could just sleep on the floor," I suggested. "Or a couch."

He didn't listen, instead pulling out his phone to research hotels. "There's gotta be somewhere near us with a room—"

"Weren't you saying it's better that we're all under one building?" I reminded him of our conversation before heading onto the bus. Keeping track of an orchestra was hard enough in Boston; New York was its own beast. "It's fine."

"I'm not going to have you sleep on the floor the entire weekend."

I didn't argue, but I had an inkling that Hiroshi hadn't expected me to come with the orchestra. After coming in last place at the competition, I didn't think he'd even let me play for our school's traveling showcase, let alone take the soloist's part. Only the best of the best was supposed to come on this trip, and for whatever reason, he believed I'd earn a second chance at performing last minute. He must've booked the hotel in advance and hadn't adjusted for my attendance. 

"It's only three nights," I told him, sparing the patient receptionist an apologetic glance as she held out the stack of key cards.

He shook his head. "No way, kiddo."

"I have a spare bed in my room," came a voice behind me. Neither of us had even sensed the guest's presence. "I didn't mean to overhear, but my checkout date is Monday as well."

We both turned around and—to my mistake—saw a ghost of my past of nearly four years. Or to the person I had ghosted all those years. The distinction wasn't that much of a difference.

Cameron Langley, the star college baseball player, and ex-boyfriend, looked exactly the same as before, with dark bangs over his thick brows. His features were more chiseled than before, and instead of our alma mater, he wore a navy sports hoodie with a giant Y for Yale.

Except, it couldn't be Cameron Langley. Cameron lived in New Haven, Connecticut, in a dorm on campus at Yale University. There was no reason Cameron Langley, my high school boyfriend, should be in some hotel lobby in the middle of Manhattan. 

That is until I spotted the suitcase and a baseball bag with two bats behind him. Of course, a baseball game.

But how was it possible that the Cameron Jack Langley was staying at this precise hotel in Manhattan for a baseball game at the same time as I had a concert?

"That is very kind, but I couldn't have one of my students sharing a room with a total stranger," my professor said politely, completely unaware of the sheer panic on my face at someone who was the furthest from a total stranger. "While we appreciate the offer, I'd have to decline."

"Cameron Langley," he introduced himself. "Sorry, that probably sounded too forward—about the room, I mean. I'm a student myself—Yale's starting third basemen; my coach is just outside. I actually know Ethan from high school."

"Oh." The professor raised a brow. "Is that so?"

They both turned to me, and I wanted nothing more than to disappear. Why didn't I opt to stay behind on the bus?

I hummed, trying to avoid seeing that gentle smile on Cameron's face. One of my many hubris with him. "Yeah, we did."

Cameron tilted his head, but there was no way I would admit to my professor that our relationship had gone way beyond that. Besides, he hadn't said it either, and I wouldn't out him to someone else. I had seen the reports of him being called a "ladies man" to the latest "college heartthrob." It's likely he wasn't even out to his team, let alone the school.

I could tell by how Hiroshi's face scrunched he was considering the offer. It took everything in me not to say something, but Cameron beat me. "While I have no clue if that's against either of our school's policies, it beats trying to find another hotel room, right?"

"I wouldn't know about any policies, but I suppose it would be alright if you two are comfortable sharing a room." Hiroshi sent a worried glance, but there was little I could silently tell him in just a glance. Even if I had pulled him aside to explain our complicated situation, I'd still need a hotel room; last I remembered from Googling the hotel, availability was as tight as the receptionist said. "Ethan?"

"Is that really such a good idea?" I mumbled, pointing my words to my professor, even though Cameron could listen in. "It's been years since I've seen him. Maybe it's not such a good idea?"

I hated that my words sounded more like a question, the uncertainty leaving an opening for hope on Cameron's end. 

Cameron cleared his throat, hurt evident from hearing me. "I've got practice today, and my game's Sunday, so I should be out of your hair for the most part. It's not like you'd have to stay in the room beyond showering and sleeping. I could hang with my team if you'd rather stay there too. But if it really bothers you that much, there's probably a hotel with at least one opening. Or I could find someplace for myself."

His eyes fell before reaching my face again, softening as he waited for my response. 

Damn, those cursed eyes. It was like his pleading puppy-dog look when I called things off between us. I had barely resisted them then, and even now, I found it all too enticing. Not to mention that we did have a lot to talk about, as much as I didn't want to. Breaking up with him had been the hardest thing I had done, more than any other audition, concerto, or performance I had done thus far. 

And I knew it was wrong of me, knowing that it probably broke him more than it did me, especially when I hadn't bothered to explain why.

"Fine," I managed to say, avoiding his obvious stare and turning to my professor. "I'll stay there. It's only three nights."

I looked away from the obviously pleased look on Cameron's face. "Okay," he said, turning to the receptionist. "May I get an extra key for room 512?"

She shrugged, no doubt confused about the whole exchange, before reaching into the desk. 

Hiroshi placed a hand on my shoulder, whispering, "You sure this is alright?"

I hesitated before forcing a smile, muttering so only he could hear, "He wouldn't kill me, at least. But don't be surprised if I arrive at one of our rooms to sleep on the floor."