I step out of the car, and the cold wind instantly makes me shiver. It’s so cold in DC. I would have skipped this invitation, but I needed to get out of the house.
Even though Rosie has been keeping me company—good company, and according to my mom, providing excellent therapy—I still needed to occupy my mind with something that overstimulates my senses, even for a few hours. And playing piano in front of a huge crowd always does that. It’s like getting a high similar to drugs, but without causing any damage to your body.
Everyone flat-out refuses to let me perform in LA, since that’s where I was taken. So now I’m in DC, under my dad’s security.
My parents won’t come inside with me, my dad’s position doesn’t exactly allow for family outings. But there will be asmall army of bodyguards surrounding the stage. Not even a ghost could get close. Which is exactly what I don’t want.
I don’t want this wall of security killing any chance of him showing up.What if he does come and can’t reach me? Or worse, what if they catch him?
They don’t know what he looks like. In fact, they have the wrong idea entirely. The day he took me, he wore a skin mask that made him look like someone else. When Dad asked if he looked like that, I simply said yes. But now they know I lied. They’re still looking for him.
You don’t have to worry about any of this. He won’t come.The part of my brain that’s going to land me in actual therapy pipes up.
Can’t this stupid organ just let me self-hypnotize in peace?I don’t need it telling me what’s possible and what’s not.
You’ll hurt more when the bubble breaks.
Shut up. Just fucking shut up.
I’ll deal with tomorrow’s hurt. I can’t live in it today. I need to keep believing we’re just apart—forced by circumstances. And soon, these circumstances will dissolve, and we’ll be together.
I claw my way out of the suffocating space in my head and return to the present as we reach backstage.
My manager, Eda, is waiting for me.
She pulls me into a warm hug.
“Good luck, Ella.”
I smile back. “Hope it ends well.”
“It will.” She nods, confident. “You’re Ella. Even if you mess up, it’ll be a beautiful disaster, and go down in music history as a masterpiece.”
I chuckle, remove my jacket, hand it to her, and walk onto the stage.
The crowd greets me with applause. I lift a hand in acknowledgment as I walk toward the piano.
I don’t do speeches. I just come, play, and leave. Because of this, haters call me the most arrogant musician alive. Lovers call me the sweetest—someone who doesn’t need approval. Well, there’s always a crowd that would hate you just for breathing. And another that would love you even if you slap someone.
I settle onto the bench and touch the keys. The crowd makes my heart hammer. No matter how many times you’ve played, the adrenaline never stops dancing. It makes me dizzy every time. And that’s the high I’m here for tonight.
I press the keys lightly, and the music I’ve practiced flows through my fingers. The crowd settles. My heart still beats loud enough to feel like a fist in my chest.
I end the first piece. I close my eyes and start the second. Tonight, I feel like experimenting.
I don’t play a practiced piece. Instead, I let something new pour out. It’s been a while since I’ve created a newcomposition. The last time was in that rose garden. My mind floats back to that garden. To a fantasy where I’m playing piano with him.
I’m sitting in his lap, and we’re playing together—a beautiful melody filled with all the longing we’ve endured, and the love that was always meant to bind our souls.
The music shifts as the fantasy dissolves into another—one where I’m alone in that same rose garden. The roses have withered. The low moonlight isn’t soothing now; it’s haunting.
There’s an undeniable pain flowing now with each press of the keys, spilling into the air. Loneliness tears through me. I’m at war with myself. There are only two ways to end it: end myself, or end this darkness. Every moment begs me to bring her back.
Her?
My heart stops.
Once again, it’s his heart beating in mine, creating a melody that carries nothing but sorrow. It won’t let me think. It locks me in a state where my fingers move on their own, and my heart beats to someone else’s rhythm—a rhythm soaked in desolation.
