He never played when anyone else was around, only you.

His fingertips moved gracefully across the ivory, building slow, dreamlike phrases. The kind of melody that made you feel like the world was underwater.

You had always wondered what he was thinking as he played, what storm brewed behind those long, dark lashes.

But when he played, the only thing on his mind would be you.

It wasn't in the way people often thought of love; there was no hunger in his music. It wasn’t desperate or burning, it was devoted.

He didn’t need to look at you, for you were already in every note. Every pause, every aching swell, every movement of his joints.

You had unknowingly breathed life into his silence. Into the shadows of his fogged mind. He never said much, but here, this was the only language he trusted with your name.

When the final chord faded into the stillness, he let his hands rest once again on the keys. His eyes opened, immediately landing on you—who sat on the inside of the piano comfortably.

You inspired his creativity.

".. How was that?" he said softly, his lips barely parting as the words escaped.