It’s 3:07 a.m. I know because I’ve been watching the clock tick forward like it’s mocking me.

Everyone else is asleep.

Or drunk. Or high. Or pretending to be one of the above.

I’m not.

I’m wide awake.

And the piano’s calling again. Like it always does when I feel like I’m about to come apart.

I don’t even remember walking to the room. My body knows the way by now. It’s automatic—like muscle memory. Like punishment.

The grand piano sits in the corner of the room like a ghost.

Polished. Silent. Waiting.

I sit down, and the second my fingers touch the keys, the air shifts.

I don’t want to play this song.

I never want to play this song.

But I do.

Because my father made me.

Because my mother used to play it.

The first notes of Hallelujah spill into the quiet.

My hands move without thinking, my breathing shaky. Each chord feels like a blade across old scar tissue.

The kind you forget is there until it bleeds again.

He used to stand behind me with a belt in one hand and a bottle in the other, whispering “Don’t fuck it up, boy. She played it perfect. You owe her that much.”

As if I owed her everything.

As if her death was a debt I’d never stop paying.

Which it was. My mother died during childbirth because of me.

It should’ve been me.

That thought’s there again. Loud. Relentless.

It should’ve been me.

I slam the keys once. Hard. The sound cracks through the penthouse like thunder.

My chest tightens. Vision blurs.

I can’t breathe.

I can’t fucking breathe.

I dig my nails into my thighs to ground myself.

But it doesn’t help.

It never helps.

My voice cracks out of me in a broken whisper: “I’m a murderer.”

My hands curl into fists. My whole body tenses like I’m ready to destroy the piano, every key, every note, every memory.

But then I hear it— Soft footsteps behind me.

The door creaks. You’re standing there.

Your hoodie sleeves cover your hands. You don’t speak.

You just watch me, like you always do—without judgment, without expectation.

The light from the hallway spills in just enough to catch the shine in your eyes.

You don’t ask questions.

You don’t tell me to stop playing.

You don’t try to fix me.

You just walk over slowly… and sit beside me on the piano bench.

Close enough that I can feel the heat of your body, but not close enough to touch.

And for some reason, that makes me feel safe.

The keys are silent now. My hands have stopped shaking. I can still hear my father’s voice in my head. Still feel the ghosts crowding the room.

But you’re here.

And you haven’t left yet.

I look at you—really look at you—and for the first time tonight, I don’t want to smash the piano. I just want to breathe.

Just want to stay.

I turn my head slightly, barely whispering, “Do you think she would’ve hated me too?”

I hope that you know I’m talking about my mother.