"Don't forget me." you beg, arms stretched out towards her. The lights are shining down on both of you so the world can see everything, but today, you don't mind. There are tears and you're coming undone like a loose thread. She only shakes her head and gives you this sad little smile as she reaches out and takes your hand in hers.
"I'll remember." she says and let's her arm drop. Yours stays dangling in midair, still warm from her touch. She's leaving and that's nothing new. She gives you one last look before she turns on her heel and leaves.
Your arm thumps down by your side. The lights go down.
You don't play piano, but here you are. There's sheet music in front of you, but the notes won't stay still. Instead, you let the music embrace you as your fingers seem to take on a mind of their own. The music always appears to be frantic; dancing around the room like it's dying. All you want is to play something slow, sad, like your soul is slowly being ripped away from you. But your fingers never listen anyway.
You don't play piano; the piano plays you, but here you are.
The sun rises on the horizon without a word. It never was much of a talker, which works just fine for you. You're standing in your bedroom, wearing flannel pants and a white tank top. You stare out at the rising sun and wonder if maybe, just maybe, a blonde girl on the other side of the train tracks is doing the same.
(No. Probably not.)
You shut the curtain.
You find it surprisingly easy to sing a song you don't believe in. It's remarkably simple if you look at the right people.
That night, the piano in your basement plays an angry song into you. You can feel the nuances of the music being carved into your skin, a promise unkept. An ending. Or a beginning, depending on how you look at it. You wear the scars like tattoos. Invisible scars of yesterday.
She hardly ever looks at you anymore.
New York's a bit of a lonely place when you don't have anyone's eyes to compare the city lights to. Or anyone to tell you that someday, it'll get better. Someday, you'll mean something. You'll be something. You'll be important. So lonely, in fact, that you wander into a low neighbourhood and fuck a willing woman just to feel something.
She only takes; she has nothing to give.
You lose and that's nothing new to you. You know it all too well.
Months pass and you don't talk to her at all anymore, or even look at her. That doesn't mean the pain's any less fresh than it was that first day. You miss her and you wonder if she misses you. You wonder if she's in pain and you hope she isn't suffering like you because you wouldn't wish this on anybody; not even her.
(Besides, she's always smiling. She doesn't feel a thing.)
It's summer. It's night. It's raining.
You're standing in her front yard, tossing pebbles up to her window, praying she's still a light sleeper. Praying she'll answer, knowing it's you, with a smile on her face. Praying she'll hear you above the wind. Above everything.
It's summer. It's night. It's raining.
(The window opens.)
Her kisses tell you she hasn't forgotten. It's an old feeling, yes, but familiar, right. It's the best and worst feeling. You feel as if you're flying, but that doesn't mean you don't know the fall will be even harder when you crash. Still, you kiss her like you're dying.
You wake up to sunlight. She turns around and gives you a small smile. But she's telling you to leave anyway. Just before you're ready to climb back down from the window and walk back home, she stops you.
"Don't forget me?" she whispers and it's almost playful. It still stings, ribbons of yesterday resurfacing.
"I'll remember." you say.
The piano isn't touched all summer.
A year passes and nothing changes. You lose nationals again. You've taken up piano again, however. It's the last day of high school ever for you, and you're back on the stage. The lights aren't on this time, though. Everyone's watching you, so they might as well be. Everyone's watching you and you find yourself not caring as the piano slices notes into you. The melody still isn't happy, but you've come to accept that it probably never will be.
As the piano plays you, you sing a song all too familiar to her and afterwards, she finally looks like she's in pain.
She stays in Lima. You move to New York, it's still just as lonely as you remember.
It takes three years, but you do it. You become a pianist at a concert hall. You still only play melancholic songs and people talk about you. Good things, bad things. Nothing you haven't heard before. You bear it all.
You receive an invitation to her wedding six months later. You don't go, but you keep the invitation on your fridge, covering up his face with a magnet.
You meet him and he becomes a friend, but he thinks you're in love. In two years, he proposes and you accept. He kisses you and you close your eyes and pretend it's her, which only makes you want to say yes even more.
You dare to invite her to your wedding. She comes and she wears white because she doesn't understand she isn't supposed to. You don't care because she looks beautiful. Right before you walk down the aisle, she kisses you in the next room. Then you say your vows at the altar, looking at him and thinking of her.
Funny, you two seem to have mixed up this whole getting married thing around. Then again, neither of you ever really did what was expected.
...Then... nothing.
Thirty years later, your husband is dead and you just discovered a lump in your breast this morning. It's been ages since you thought of her, but you think of her now. You wonder if she's happy as you play the piano one more time.
And maybe your ears are fooling you, but a small hint of happiness finds it's way into the song as you think, maybe you'll call to tell her that you're dying. Maybe, just maybe, then she'll remember.
Don't forget me, you beg.
I'll remember, she says.
Sometimes it lasts in love but
sometimes it hurts instead.