His hands moved as if on their own.
Every chord he played and every note he harmonised made his melody more beautiful.
A violin played softly in the background of his song, completing it.
But it wasn't always like this.
Before, he had sat down in front of his piano to play many times, but it never seemed easy to him. He often overthought the song, and even when it was, without a doubt, completed, he felt like it was missing something.
He always felt like it was missing something.
He always thought a song reflected its author.
Because his songs were always missing what he was, in perhaps a very metaphorical way.
But at the same thing, it was oddly literal.
It was when he heard the strings of a violin. He realised he had finally found what his songs had always needed.
And in the one who played it he found what he was missing.
She was a young woman his age. Her ability on the violin could only be described as virtuosic. Always inspired and perfect in its execution.
He had in fact envied her ability, as he wished he could be like that. He often had to think, because the melody never flowed out as if from nowhere when he played.
As soon as they met, they somehow connected, even if their personalities were different.
He was often goofy, and only serious when the situation required it. He was optimist, and tried to keep a positive attitude at all costs.
She was always serious. She was eloquent and mature. Or at least she seemed it. She herself had admitted that she was often foolish. She was often thoughtful and analytical.
But he, John Egbert, had found in Rose Lalonde what he was missing.
The strings over his soft piano song.
And now that she was with him, he finally felt complete.
His song felt complete as well.
He didn't have to think anymore. Once she was there, his hands moved as if on their own.
Every chord he played and every note he harmonised made his melody more beautiful.
A violin played softly in the background of his song, completing it.
And he felt complete too.
