A song is playing in his head.

He wonders if that means he's crazy, because he's never heard it before. Yet it stays there and plays over again.

It reminds him of Amy. Amy the golden ballerina with golden hair and her golden boyfriend that who is gone and who she won't let go of. Amy who will never love Ephram like he loves her but somehow makes him fall again just by hinting with him and hurting him over and over again. She toys with him as if he is a yo-yo that she brings up close to her and then drops to the floor. Much to his disappointment and misery, occasionally, she does an "around-the-world."

He tells himself all of this as he listens to the song in his head as if he is listening to his Walkman; the music is so real. He wonders if the song is something that he played once--maybe an exercise that he did in taking his early years of piano lessons.

But he finally comes to the conclusion that he's never heard of it before, because he continues to add onto it in his head, making it more elaborate and making his left hand play along with his right in the piano that is in his brain. As much as he wants to hide it and deny it, Amy the heartbreaker is his inspiration, his motivation, his muse. The song is telling a story.

Finally, he realizes that he's getting too ahead of himself, that maybe he should sit at the piano and compose instead of doing it in his head like a dumbass. So in the auditorium he goes to the piano bench, the place where it feels like home, where he is confident and where the "real" Ephram emerges, and he plays around to get warmed up for a bit, and then, he begins to write.

Like an author can create an unreal world and play God with a pen, Ephram is now in control of everything in his life just by touching his fingers to the ivory. He calls the shots.

He tells a tale of pain through the music: of his pain in his pining for Amy and her pain in pining for Colin.

He tells of the pain in love that was doomed to die before it was born.

He continues a few days later, after Amy's breakdown at the recital, after she once again made it clear to him that she didn't need him. Every note he writes is full of passion; every chord will be forever etched in his memory. There is so much sorrow and loneliness and beauty in each measure. He plays for hours, but it doesn't matter because the pain in his fingers doesn't compare to the pain in his heart.

"What are you playing?"

Ephram knows that voice like the back of his hand. Oh, great, he's thinking; thank you, God. Please, please dangle her in front of my nose again! "I-uh, nothing." Quickly he hides his notes. He doesn't want this careless girl to uncover his obsession.

However, she has seen the scrawls of ties and stems and notes in his handwriting. She asks curiously as she walks up to him, "Did you compose this 'nothing'?"

Change the subject. That always works. "Hey . . . what are you doing here, anyway?" He hopes that doesn't sound rude, so he adds, "Th-there's no rehearsal."

Casually she offers the excuse, "Oh, I had I free period so I thought I'd. . . ." Her voice fades away and then she admits, "That's not true."

His heart is pounding as she sits next to him on the bench. "I came because I wanted to tell you something." She pauses, unsure, and lightly touches a few keys before she continues. "Yesterday when I told you that I was okay . . . I wasn't. I'm not, I'm not okay."

Can I make you okay again, Amy? He could slap himself for his thoughts of devotion.

She sighs. "I remember in fourth grade. Miss Kisslinger's class and Miss Barber's class went on a field trip to the brewery." Her eyes are shining wistfully as she reminisces. "And on the way back home, I got into the wrong bus. Colin thought they had left me behind. He walked back three miles and stayed at the brewery till nightfall, trying to find me. Couldn't leave me behind." She pauses again and looks at the piano and then into his eyes. "What were you playing before?"

Speaking of her recital yesterday, he begins nervously, "You said nobody brought you flowers but, come on. It would've been your first solo, so . . . I wanted to make sure someone remembered. I wrote you a song," he concludes sheepishly.

"Will you play it for me?"

"No . . . it's not finished. . . . " It needs to have an ending she'll remember, he thinks. The last part has to be the best. And it needs to be edited. The bass clef is a little--

But Amy simply says, "Please?" and that is all it takes. He doesn't know if she truly means it or not, but there is pleading in her voice. In a moment his fingers are on the keys and he is playing the sad, soulful melody again. His stare is fixed on the keys and on getting every note right, but somehow he knows that she is looking at him. He is, like his mother once said about him, in his element when he is on that bench.

After she leaves he finishes the song with no trouble at all, because a picture of Amy the Golden Ballerina is still fresh in his mind. And when she's there, it all just . . . flows. Maybe it's because he knows that he will never, ever have her. Maybe it's because no matter what he does for her, she will never understand his love. Maybe it's because he cannot deny her anything, even helping to bring back her boyfriend, because he loves her so much.

Whatever the reason, Amy Abbott, the one who created the love doomed to die before it was born, is his muse.

--Fin--

[A/N: Aww, how sad! I hope you liked it. Did you like that line about the authors, my fellow authors? Please review and/or email me! --Elle]