Mademoiselle!

"To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all."

What if the world woke up one day with this revelation? Supposedly, they would put in more effort in their ambitions. Perhaps, they would try harder to be.

The spring breeze was sweet and the sun shone down at their feet as the trees danced rhythmically in sync. Lush, green heads bobbed up and down, one, two beats to the right, then one, two beats to the left, as the birds joined in this mid-morning harmony, filling the world with sweet, swelling song. Freshly awakened flowers bloomed and thrived as they mimicked their tree friends, bobbing their heads to the right, then to the left, to the right, then to the left... Little wood animals reveled in the branches and dropped nuts on the ground, one at a time, to maintain a steady tempo; clunk, clunk, clunk, clunk.

This was life. This was harmony. This was what the world should be—a world that worked together to create music. And one would only have to stop and live for a while just to hear it.

Jasmine L. Jones closed her copy of The Soul of Man under Socialism with a content sigh.

No, Jazzy Jones didn't want to just exist. Jazzy Jones wanted to live.

"To play a wrong note is insignificant; to play without passion is inexcusable!"

Kit repeated the quote in his head like a mantra as his fingers traveled rapidly down the grand piano. Beethoven's Piano Sonata No. 14 boomed in the background as music oozed through the corners of the walls; a slime of rainbow that materialized into quarter notes, eighth notes, whole notes, when it seeped through the other side.

To Kit, the words weren't just a mere encouragement for him to keep playing. It was a way of life. A remainder that it was okay to fail and fail again, as long as you've tried your hardest and never gave up.

If only people understood that. If only people knew, really, just how unique they were; that it was okay, that to err was to be human. What world would that be?

We often look upon others respectfully and encouragingly, but at ourselves with a critical eye. So wouldn't the world look so much more beautiful if we not only treated others the way we want to be treated, but also treat ourselves the way we ought to be treated?

Kit's fingers raced up the keyboard as he shut his eyes and allowed the music to take hold of him, a line of concentration creasing in between his eyebrows.

There is a man I love.

With her eyes softening with fondness, Jazzy smiled at the recollection. Herself, soaked in rain, beaming cheerily after seeing a matinee of The Importance of Being Earnest. And him... His back turned towards her, his gaze focused studiously at the movement of his hands. His hands on the piano that could produce such pure and vibrant sounds. His hands that created music that could break and bend, that could mend and make whole again.

She had leaned against the door frame and watched him. She had watched him until the clothes on her back had dried, until the sun had set and risen again. Until, at last after days and days of endless practice and endless watching, the man rose from his seat at the piano, and Jazzy fled.

The next day, Jazzy had returned. But it wasn't the right man at the piano at all.

There is a man I love, Jazzy thought bitterly now. But I do not even know his name.

Jazzy lowered her eyes as she repeated the words that Oscar Wilde had once written long ago.

"If you are not too long, I will wait here for you all my life."

All my life...

Jazzy paused briefly. Her large, doe-like eyes brightened as they caught sight of what was before them.

Musical notes of every colour were dancing joyously in the air. Jazzy delighted in them as they approached her and did a brilliant swirl around her; Jazzy's hair rippled in the air as she giggled, and the notes continued on their way.

Clutching her book by her side, Jazzy followed. Step after step, the musical notes led her to the music hall on campus. One by one, each note entered an open door, and the closer Jazzy got, the more urgently the infuriated passion of the piano could be heard.

She popped her head into the practice room and caught her breath. A man with silky black hair and a slender build sat on the bench, his fingers flying expertly on the grand piano. The sun shone on his face, but he seemed to pay no heed, and his eyes were shut with concentration. Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead.

With one last chord played with the most pompous finality, the playing stopped abruptly and the musical notes popped at once like bubbles. Rainbow residue sparkled in the sunlight that streamed through burgundy curtains.

"Alastair?" The man spoke, his back bent at the piano. "Alastair, is that you?"

Jazzy blinked. "Pardon me," she replied in a small but firm voice. "Jasmine Jones, at your service." She fiddled with her fingers. "You don't know me, but I know you. Actually, that's not altogether true, I don't know you, but I love you." Jazzy giggled nervously. The words tasted strange in her mouth—they rolled off her tongue like no word ever had. "I love you; really, really. I stopped by here once upon a time and saw you practicing on the grand piano. I admired your diligence. I admire you."

The man turned towards her, eyes startled, and Jazzy marveled at them. Though all of the man's features looked purely of Asian heritage, with his raven hair and high cheekbones, his angular eyes were of the most distinct hazel.

"I'm sorry," the man stammered. His voice, Jazzy couldn't help but think. It is a very pleasant tenor.

He opened his mouth to tell her just three words.

Just the three.