Mia sat at my piano, her dark hair still in the braid I’d weaved, my jersey hanging from her shoulders. It sparked a primal need in me, seeing my number on her back as her hands moved over the bone-white keys. I couldn’t see her thighs, but her feet were bare where they worked the pedals beneath the bench she sat on, her delicate ankle still sporting that dainty chain she’d had on the day of our fake engagement.
Her entire body moved slowly and fluidly with the music she played, the chords devastatingly sad and yet somehow laced with hope.
For a long moment, I stood tucked away at the edge of the hall, shoulder leaned against the wall as I watched and listened. She was singing softly — so softly that I couldn’t hear what the words were at first. But as the song worked to a crescendo, her voice rose with it.
“I’m holding on to echoes, to whispers in the dark,
Wondering if you feel it, too, or if I’m just another spark.
I’m reaching through the silence, hoping you’ll take my hand,
But maybe I’m just chasing dreams in a shifting, sinking sand.”
If the lyrics weren’t enough to sucker punch the air right out of me, the way she sang them would have been. Longing and hopeless desperation were tangled in every word, and I could almost see them physically manifesting as ropes binding herbody as she swayed with the song, her hands moving effortlessly as she brought that sad music to life.
I didn’t know who she was singing about.
I had absolutely no right to eventhinkit was about me.
And maybe it was the wind and the rain pelting against the windows, the percussion of it drumming up my heartbeat. Maybe it was the tension from the night, from the last twomonthsof wondering what was going on inside that head of hers.
Maybe it was just sheer selfish curiosity.
But I decided in that moment that I had to know.
My feet were moving me across the living room before I’d even made a conscious decision to do so. I took each step slowly and quietly, careful not to disturb her, as if she were a bunny in the woods and one quick movement would have her skittering away again.
She was so beautiful.
She was sobreathtakinglybeautiful.
I cataloged the long slope of her neck, the delicate outline of her shoulders, the narrow bend of her waist beneath my jersey the closer I got. My heart was racing in my throat by the time I reached her, and I knew she felt my presence only by how her body slightly tensed, by a minor skip in the music — just enough to make me stop.
I stood a few inches behind her, chest tight with anticipation as she continued playing her song. She wasn’t singing anymore, though. She was silent. And when she angled her chin just enough to offer me a subtle angle of her profile, I swore I saw the pulse in her neck mirroring mine.
Mia only afforded me that view for a moment before her attention was back on the keys, and with every ragged breath I took, my thoughts ran wild.
Say something.
What do I say?
Tell her how you feel.
How the fuck do I feel…
I have nothing to give her.
She’s too good for me.
I’m not her type.
But maybe she wants me, too.
Maybe all this pretending hasn’t been so fake.
She’s been cold, distant… she hates me.
Or does she love me?
