You and Spencer were at your place, watching TV, when he got a call: his mom’s condition was worsening. He was consumed by sadness and fear. You needed to make him feel better—he’d brought so much brightness to your life. That’s the least you could do for him.

You felt bad for him so you started teaching him a few notes on the piano, since when he first asked you refused. After a while he was feeling better and that made your heart happy. Now you wanted to show him what he meant to you.

“I can play something for you, if you’d like,” you said softly, surprised when he heard.

“Are you serious?” he asked, his tone laced with excitement, his eyes sparkling as he turned toward you.

You nodded. “Yeah, but I’ll need the whole bench.”

Spencer shot up from his seat, moving to lean against the side of the piano. His eager expression encouraged you. This was the first time you’d played in front of anyone in over a decade. You were glad it was Spencer. You wouldn’t have done it for anyone else.

Bracing your feet on the sustain and sostenuto pedals, you lifted your hands to the keys. Though you hadn’t played this piece in years, muscle memory took over as you began Debussy’s Rêverie, your touch shy but sure.

You allowed yourself one glance at Spencer. His expression softened, his eyes filled with adoration, his lips parted slightly in amazement. He remembered. He understood why you chose this piece. He knew what you wanted to tell him—what you couldn’t say, what you might never say.

And that was enough.

When you eased into the final chords, you looked up. His eyes glistened with unshed tears. Slowly, you lifted your hands from the keys and folded them in your lap. Silence stretched between you for a few moments.

Finally, in a quiet, hoarse voice, he said, “I see why you like Rêverie better than Clair de Lune. I think I do too, now.”