College had made him a stranger to many of his small-town friends. There was an awkwardness between them now, especially with those who chose to stay in town. Schroeder tried not to take it too personally.

In some ways, he enjoyed it, being more than what his small town had held for him. Going to college and doing what he loved meant the world to him. He'd graduated from a toy to a real piano and had actually composed a few pieces. In many ways, he had grown up.

But there was a presence at his piano that he missed.

He'd found you quite obnoxious growing up - always following him around, asking if he loved you, and other things similar to that. You'd gotten on his nerves at the best of times, and he only tolerated you in others.

...And yet, he missed you. He missed looking up over the keys to see your smiling face, ready to ask him another one of your silly hypotheticals.

But the two of you weren't children anymore. There was no way you still felt the same way about him after all these years. The way you'd drifted in high school told him that. You were probably going to marry that Charlie Brown anyway.

That was, until he sat down to play a song for his friends - since he could do requests now - at his mother's real piano. And he looked up over the keys to see your sparkling eyes winking merrily at him from over the embossed surface.

It took all of the self-control he possessed to keep his fingers moving, and to keep producing the tune when his heart was pounding so.

"...Old habits die hard, I suppose." He commented.