The Last Row

It took me eight years to help my cellist wife, Selena Heart, overcome her isolation and self-destructive tendencies, survive multiple suicide attempts and finally make it to the Aurelian Hall in Valdena—a stage reserved for the world's finest performers. During her darkest year, she could barely hold her bow. I was the one who kept finding her locked away in her room and staying by her side through every loss of control and breakdown. She wrote her first complete piece, titled My Dearest Love, for me and said she would play it for me for the rest of my life. Once Selena became famous, her schedule filled up with concerts around the world. She was so busy that she could spare only ten minutes a week for me. Every time I finally got those precious ten minutes, I would ask her to play My Dearest Love for me. However, she always closed her eyes tiredly. "Performing is exhausting enough as it is; I don't want to deal with the pressures of work after I get off work." I hated to put Selena through that, so I never brought it up again. Then, one Saturday, I was sent to Valdena on short notice for an assignment. After the concert ended, I heard that familiar melody echoing through the empty concert hall. The audience had long since left; only Selena's male assistant, Theodore Lawson, remained fast asleep in the front row. Meanwhile, Selena sat in the center of the stage, playing My Dearest Love over and over again, lulling Theodore to sleep. Someone reminded her that it was time to rest. She looked at him instead and whispered, "It's alright; he enjoys it." That night, Selena played for three full hours. It turned out she was not tired or refusing to bring work home; she simply had no desire to play for me ever again. I did not go in to confront her; I just turned and walked away. That same evening, I accepted a three-year overseas assignment with my company in Northland. After submitting my application, I took off the wedding ring I had worn for eight years. She texted me at the same time. Selena: [The concert is over. Let's move this week's ten-minute session to next week.] I deleted the chat without replying. Since My Dearest Love had a new audience, it was time for me to take my leave. Chapter 1 When Selena Heart got home, it was nearly 1 a.m. She carried her cello case behind her, still wearing the black shirt from the concert. It was not until she reached behind me and her eyes fell on the word "Valdena" on the screen that she suddenly stopped. "Did you go to Valdena today?" "Yep." I was pressing the touchpad, deleting a repetitive recording annotation. "I was given an emergency assignment to interview a conductor." "When did you arrive?" "Afternoon." Selena was silent for two seconds. "Why didn't you come see me?" "I was busy with work. I came back as soon as the interview was over." I did not look up. From the corner of my eye, I saw her tense shoulders relax, as if she finally confirmed I had not entered the concert hall or witnessed what had happened after the concert. She set her cello case against the wall and rubbed her wrist. "I played for too long today; my hand is cramping up again." She sat down beside me and held out her right hand. "Could you massage it for me? And get the herbal bath ready too." Over the past eight years, this had become a habit that required no explanation. At her worst, Selena’s right hand had been too weak to even hold a glass of water. To learn how to massage her, I had sought out a physical therapist, meticulously noting the location of every muscle in a small notebook. Which point to press when a specific finger grew stiff; which medicine to use, depending on the severity of the pain. She would close her eyes, and I would know exactly what she needed next. Tonight, I simply stared at her hand. There was a fresh, red mark on the pad of one finger — a souvenir from playing for far too long. She spent three hours lulling Theodore Lawson to sleep. She had sat in an empty concert hall, playing the piece she had written for me, over and over again. That was why she was so exhausted. That was why she was in such pain. That was also why she still turned to me to help ease that ache after she got back. I closed my laptop. "Let your touring team handle it." Selena’s hand hovered in mid-air. "What?" "You have therapists on your team." I slid the laptop into my bag. "Have them give you a massage after your concerts from now on." She stared at me, slowly frowning. "Shawn Bennett, are you still upset about those ten minutes?" I did not respond. She pulled her hand back, her tone tinged with a hint of weariness. "You’ve seen my schedule lately; it’s not like I’m intentionally avoiding spending time with you." "Sure." "How about next week?" She acted as if settling a pointless dispute. She believed it to be a generous enough compromise after a brief contemplation. "I’ll set aside 20 minutes for you next week. How’s that?" 20 minutes — exactly double the original 10. Should I be happy? I certainly would have been if it were in the past. I used to clear my entire evening, turn down all other work, carefully select a restaurant, and check repeatedly to ensure she did not have any last-minute concerts. Even if I only got those 20 minutes in the end, I would tell myself that she had done her absolute best. However, she sat in the empty concert hall, playing for Theodore for three full hours just last night. He was asleep in the front row. Afraid that halting the music might wake him, she endured the pain in her wrists, playing the same piece over and over again. Each rendition lasted well over 20 minutes. It turned out the time I spent an entire week longing for was just enough for her to lull another man to sleep. I lowered my gaze, offering no reply. Selena waited a few seconds. Taking my silence as consent, her tense expression gradually eased. "Don't make the herbal bath too hot — just like before." With that, she turned and walked into the bathroom. Soon, the sound of running water filled the room. I made no move to fetch the herbal packets. Nor did I kneel by the tub as I once had, carefully adjusting the water temperature degree by degree. Instead, I reopened my laptop and logged into the company system. The confirmation letter for the Northland assignment had been sitting there quietly for hours. It was a three-year term with my departure in seven days. At the very bottom of the page lay a blank space, waiting for my signature. Selena’s voice drifted out of the bathroom. "Shawn, is the bath ready?" I gripped the mouse, hovering over the "confirm" button for a second and then clicked. A prompt appeared on the screen: [Application officially submitted]. I stared at the screen and did not answer her for the first time. Chapter 2 The next morning, I made an appointment at the visa center. The transfer paperwork was rushed through. I needed to personally confirm each item — the no-conviction certificate, the academic certification and the work visa documents. I put the documents in a file bag and took the suitcase from the top of the closet. When the suitcase landed, it raised a thin layer of dust. It had been bought three years ago, yet I had never used it. Selena disliked traveling. To be precise, she disliked traveling with me. She could travel to dozens of countries for her concerts, but always said that her personal schedule would affect her performance. Just as I was putting my winter clothes in the suitcase, my phone rang. It was Selena. When I answered, the other end was in chaos. Some people were calling for a doctor while others hurried to get the equipment set up. Her agent, Alex Bain, lowered his voice. "Shawn, Selena's recording was halfway done when her hand suddenly stopped responding." I held a stack of visa materials and remained silent. "She's locked herself in the lounge and won't open the door for anyone." Alex's voice grew more urgent. "Shawn, you need to get over here; she'll only listen to you." Over the past eight years, I had received calls like this far too many times. The worst instance was when Selena snapped her cello bow, and the splintered wood cut her palm. When I burst through the door, she was curled up in the corner, her hands covered in blood. Clutching my sleeve, she asked me repeatedly if she would ever be able to play the cello again. I sat with her until dawn that night. She said, "Shawn, I'd probably be dead if it weren't for you." "Shawn?" Alex continued pressing. "I'll contact her doctor." I pulled up my contact list. "Have the doctor go over and take care of it." "But Selena won't let anyone in." "What about Theodore?" There was a pause on the other end of the line. "He's at the door." "Then let him stay with her." I hung up and sent over the doctor's contact information. Ten minutes later, Selena called me herself. "Why didn't you come?" Her voice was hoarse, strained with the remnants of an uncontrollable fury. "I'm handling the paperwork for a transfer." I watched the line of people waiting outside the glass window. "The doctor will be there any minute." "I don't want a doctor." "Then who do you need?" She fell silent for a moment. "You know perfectly well." Of course I knew. She needed someone to hold her hand and assure her repeatedly that her every finger could still move. She needed someone to tell her repeatedly that there was nothing to fear whenever her breathing grew erratic. I had done those things for eight years. I once believed that as long as I stayed by her side, she would eventually turn toward me when I needed her. I later realized that being needed was not the same as being loved. "Selena, I can't just drop everything and rush over every single time." The breathing on the other end of the line grew suddenly heavy. "Are you still throwing a tantrum?" "No." "Is it just because I wasn't there with you that you're now ignoring my hand?" It was as if she had finally found an explanation for my strange behavior. "Once the recording session is over, I'll make it up to you. We can go grab a meal or catch a movie — anything." I looked down and saw a staff member calling my number. "It's my turn." "Shawn!" I hung up and walked toward the service counter. That afternoon, the studio announced that the recording session had been postponed. Theodore also posted a photo of him crouching outside the lounge door, with hot water and medicine placed beside him. The caption consisted of just one line: [Someone has to stay.] I stared at it quietly for a few seconds and then closed the app. When I got home that evening, I crossed my own name off Selena's medical authorization form. I listed Theodore as her new emergency contact. Chapter 3 Three days until departure. I contacted the moving company and packed the books and clothes to be sent to Northland. There were not many things left. During our eight-year marriage, the only things that truly belonged to me were packed into four boxes. I was checking the overseas address when Selena came back. She did not notice that a pair of slippers was missing from the entrance, nor did she notice that two shelves were empty. She threw a document on the table. "Sign this." It was a video authorization form for the documentary. For Selena's tenth anniversary of fame, the team was preparing to make a documentary to tell her journey from being isolated and self-destructive to reaching the international stage. The planning document had a full ten pages about her low points, but not a single word mentioned me. "The director wants to use the old materials." Selena unbuttoned her cuff. "Hand over those recordings, medical records, and early rehearsal footage you've kept; let Theodore organize them." I flipped to the page featuring interviews. Theodore's name was listed under "Support System During Her Darkest Days." "He didn't even know you back then." Her tone was flat. "A documentary doesn't need to be strictly bound to a rigid timeline. He's my assistant now and he understands my work better than anyone." "What about me?" Selena looked up at me. I pointed to the ten pages detailing the pain, the breakdowns and the rebirth. "Every single day described here, I was there with you." Her expression grew impatient. "Shawn, do you really have to argue about such things?" "I'm just asking." She answered, "It doesn't matter who was there in the past. What matters is who is by my side now." A packed suitcase stood quietly by the bedroom door. She only had to turn around to see it, but she did not. She picked up her phone to reply to a message with a faint smile. I did not need to guess who it was. I slid the authorization form back toward her. "Private information can't be used." Selena's expression darkened. "Theodore has pulled several all-nighters for this documentary. Are you really going to withhold a few documents?" "They're your medical records and my life." "Shawn." She slammed the folder shut. "Stop trying to guilt me using the sacrifices you made in the past." I froze for a moment. It turned out she called eight years of companionship leverage to guilt her. All the first aid techniques I had learned for her, the nights I spent waiting outside the music room until 3am, and the hands cut by shattered glass when she lost control had all become evidence that I held over her head. "Alright." I tucked the documents away into a drawer. "It won't happen again." Selena did not get it. Relieved that our argument had finally come to an end, she turned and headed toward the music room. The following afternoon, the documentary crew arrived at the house for some additional filming. The director asked about My Dearest Love. "I heard this was the first piece Ms. Hart composed after hitting rock bottom. Who was it originally written for?" I stood at the far end of the hallway. Selena saw me, yet she only paused for a second before turning toward Theodore, who was sitting beside the camera. "Once a piece is finished, it no longer belongs to any one person." Theodore lowered his head with a smile. The director immediately signaled for the cameraman to focus on him. Selena did not stop them. That night, I left the transfer paperwork, separation agreement, and apartment keys in her study. At the same time, a notification popped up on my phone: my flight ticket had been successfully issued. I would be leaving here three days from now. Selena did not even glance at the documents. She told Theodore to put them in a drawer, remarking casually, "Shawn's been a bit moody lately; just ignore him." Chapter 4 On the morning of the departure day, Selena did not rush straight to the studio as usual. I was checking the weight of my luggage while she stood at the door of the bedroom and watched me for a while. "Are you free tonight?" I closed the suitcase. "What's up?" She handed me a ticket for the documentary premiere, her movements a bit stiff. "You've always wanted to see me play My Dearest Love, haven't you?" I did not accept it. She frowned and pushed the ticket forward again. "I will play it tonight." Whenever Selena angered me in the past, she never sweet-talked me into forgiving her. She would only bring me a dessert I liked or leave a ticket for me after a certain concert. Then she would just assume I had forgiven her. Eight years later, it was still the only way she knew how to handle things. She said, "I've reserved a seat for you. I'll have dinner with you after the concert." My fingers touched the ticket. Something deep inside me, a place that had long since gone cold, stirred once more. Perhaps it was because today happened to be our eighth anniversary. Perhaps it was because My Dearest Love had always been more than just a melody to me. Suddenly, I felt an urge to believe just one last time. At 7pm, I left my luggage at the airport and hurried to the premiere. A staff member glanced at my ticket and led me all the way to the back. We stopped at a seat against the wall in the very last row. "Mr. Bennett, here is your seat." I was stunned. At the very front of the stage, a nameplate marked "Reserved for Family" sat in the center of the front row. Theodore, dressed in a white tuxedo, took his seat, surrounded by a crowd. As Selena passed by from the side of the stage, she caught sight of him. She paused, leaning in to adjust his bow tie. Warm laughter rippled through the crowd. No one noticed me, sitting in the very last row. The documentary began to play. On screen, Selena walked alone through a long, difficult valley. Theodore appeared as her companion, recounting how she had come to take up her cello bow once more. Watching these fragments of the past pieced back together, I suddenly felt like a stranger. It was as if I had never existed in those eight years. The film ended and the stage lights focused on the center. Selena picked up her bow. When the first melody began to play, my eyes welled up. It was My Dearest Love — a piece she had written for me, one segment at a time, during the hardest winter of her life. It was more than just a reflection of our shared past; it was the embodiment of the heart I had once given her, without reservation. As the concert neared its end, the camera began scanning the audience, its feed projected onto the large screens. A beam of light swept slowly from the front row toward the back. Watching the camera draw closer, my heart began to race uncontrollably. Selena knew I was here. She had said this seat was reserved specifically for me. Perhaps she had simply forgotten about the section for family. Or perhaps she truly intended to return this piece to me this time. The camera glided past rows of spectators. Just a few paces away from me, it suddenly came to a halt. The next second, the image cut back to the front row. Theodore gazed up toward the stage with slightly reddened eyes. The entire venue erupted in thunderous applause. Selena locked eyes with him across the stage lights, her expression tender. I sat in the darkness, slowly unclenching my tightly gripped hands. It turned out the very last row was the seat she had reserved for me. I could be there. I could bear witness. However, I could not be seen. I even found the flicker of anticipation I had felt just moments ago to be utterly ridiculous. After eight years, I still let myself believe that a ticket from her meant I was still her Dearest Love. I did not wait for the concert to end. I rose quietly and slipped away along the side aisle. No one noticed me. By the time I reached the airport, the boarding announcement was already echoing over the loudspeakers. I retrieved my suitcase and switched my phone to airplane mode. Just before the screen went dark, Selena sent a message. Selena: [Why did you leave early?] Then, she sent another one. Selena: [Theodore isn’t feeling great, so I’m sending him home.] Selena: [Let’s reschedule dinner for next week.] I did not reply. The cabin door slowly shut behind me. As the plane began to taxi, the city outside lit up with countless lights. That city contained her concert hall, the applause she lived for, and the new dearest love she had chosen. I was finally no longer sitting in the very last row, waiting for my moment in the spotlight. The plane gathered speed and lifted off the ground. I watched the city recede into the distance, slipped off my wedding ring, and dropped it into the paper bag in the seat pocket in front of me. Selena had no idea yet. This time, I would not be waiting until next week.