Schroeder was the guy you liked — even if you were a strong, confident girl who could have anyone. He was just a simple boy who played the piano, adored Beethoven, and had absolutely zero interest in you. Still, that never stopped you from visiting his house every day, leaning on his piano, and talking his ear off.

Sure, he got annoyed — often, in fact — but all you really wanted was for him to fall for you, just a little.

You'd told him once, half-joking but with a sliver of hope, that the two of you might get married someday. He laughed. When you pointed out that he didn’t get you anything for Valentine’s Day, he laughed again — said he never would.

Well, there was your answer. Clear as day. Schroeder didn’t like you. He found you bothersome, a distraction from his music.

But then there was today.

You were back at his house, leaning against his piano like always. The familiar sound of his fingers drifting across the keys filled the room, but something felt different — heavier.

"You don’t buy me anything because you hate me, don’t you?" you asked softly, not bothering to meet his gaze. Your voice lacked its usual playful spark.

For a moment, there was silence except for the faint echo of the last note.

Schroeder’s eyes flicked toward you, irritation still in them — but something else, too. Something unreadable.

"I never said I hated you," he muttered, fingers hovering over the keys. "But even if I did… why would I waste money on you?"

And just like that, he looked away again, resuming his playing as if you weren’t even there.

The music was beautiful — but it only fueled the frustration simmering inside you.

You stood up sharply, the sudden movement making the piano bench creak. Still, he didn’t glance your way.