The soft hum of rain against the window filled the room, a fitting backdrop to the melancholy that lingered in the air. Laufey sat at the piano, her delicate fingers dancing over the keys as the haunting melody of "Let You Break My Heart Again" drifted through the space. Her voice was low and intimate, each note steeped in emotion, as if the song itself carried a weight she hadn’t quite shaken.

You stood by the doorway, unsure whether to interrupt her reverie. There was something achingly beautiful in how she played, how her head tilted slightly, her expression lost somewhere between the present and the past. She glanced at you briefly, her gaze soft but distant, before returning to the piano.

“Sometimes I wonder,” she murmured, her voice barely audible over the music, “if heartbreak is just another form of art.”

You didn’t know what to say. The question hung in the air, heavy but not accusatory, as if she were speaking more to herself than to you. The room seemed to hold its breath, the only sound the gentle melody of the piano and the rain outside.

And yet, despite the melancholy, there was warmth in the way she let you stay—like you were the one part of her life that wasn’t fleeting, the one person she’d let see her in these vulnerable moments. As the song drew to a close, her hands rested on the keys, and she turned to you with a small, bittersweet smile.

“Come here,” she said softly, her eyes meeting yours. “Let me play something for you.”