the door creaks as you push it open. when it clicks shut, your eyes scan the small cubicle in silence, only the soft sound of your breath resounds. you sink down onto the bench before you close your eyes, running your hands over the smooth wood. you breathe deeply and smile, your shoulders rising and falling with the breath, feeling nostalgic about the deep earthy smell that only wafts from pianos made of wood.
Opening your eyes and returning to reality, you scoop your fingers in the crevice and lift the cover. you exhale softly, in awe of seeing such an old friend again. you trace the keys, running over all the cracks between each one. breathe in, breathe out. sit straight, arms level with the piano, fingers shaped as if you are holding a bubble. you chant the words as if it is an incantation. Breathe in, breathe out.
Storing the ritualistic instructions in the back of your head, you being to decipher the sheet music before you, a code only breakable if educated. a pencil guided by your hand glides across the paper, dark graphite streaking on white. ink smudges your hands as you drag your finger back and forth.
suddenly, rigidity takes over as your back straightens by instinct and the pen returns to its resting place, on a ledge, next to the exotic pictures that make up sheet music. you cautiously stretch your fingers out over the pearl-like porcelain keys, your reflection in the gleam it gives off. your nails create a satisfying clack as you tap lightly over the keys before you push down with your thumb.
a single note rings out. Do, the first and last note in the major diatonic scale, the note C in C major. gaining confidence, your other fingers apply pressure to the keys as well, this time, a chord rings out. mesmerized by the melodic beauty you created, you play the notes of the chord one after another. Arpeggio, you remember.
your fingers move in sync, playing the chord you have committed to memory, but you stop, frantically searching to find the keys to the next chord. panicked, you hastily smash a key. dissonance rings out as you seek recourse by snatching up the sheets of paper laid in front of you. you bang your head on the piano keys, allowing the dissonance to ring further throughout the room.
for a while, faint voices are heard outside. pressing on with more force, solely focused on engraving the two chords into your head, you press the same keys over and over and over again until you are not pressing, you are slamming, until the light chord sounds foreign. finally coming to your senses, your phone is put to use as you set it on top of the piano to record your progress.
fingers fly and notes play on as you play back the mere two chords you taught yourself. the art of being self taught is an arduous task, and you knew that. yet, as you sit there, the code seemingly becoming difficult to crack, the full brunt of being alone hits you. you leave without closing the lid of your precious instrument.
Two weeks.
It's been two weeks since you've last played the two chords that made you shed tears.
Shed tears.
Just like you did six years ago.
Six years ago.
You stopped playing the piano.
The piano.
The reason you hate disobedience.
Disobedience.
Your arrogance stopped you from playing the piano six years ago.
The door creaks again, and it clicks again. the lid sits open, flooding memories back of two weeks ago. one step at a time. you sit again, but you place your fingers elsewhere, moving on from the familiar chords. being able to play the chorus of the song makes you blush in accomplishment. i love you. are you listening? the lyrics read. yes, yes I'm listening. yes, yes i love you.
but if you love something you let it go. and if it returns, it's yours to keep. you stand abruptly and snatch the papers up, closing the lid to the piano, a coffin for your dreams. you leave without turning back. I guess it was never meant to be mine.