It started on the year anniversary of moving into this shitty apartment. Now, when I say that, I ain't knockin' where I live-it's fine--but it's not a palace or anything. See, divorcing from my family kind of left me with these things called bills and part-time piano playing, part-time bartending, and-Death, do I ever use the word lightly-freelance producing hadn't exactly gotten me the Ritz. Instead, it got me something close to two closets masquerading as bedrooms and a kitchen that doubled as a dining room and living room.

The neighbors were mostly pension collectors; the last one being a particularly ornery old guy who liked to listen to Matlock at ear-splitting decibels at 5 AM. Maybe I'll end up in hell for saying this but thank Death the old guy kicked the bucket a few weeks before and had left the only shared wall I had suddenly silent. So the plan had been to take my favorite six-pack and my trusty keyboard and make my way out onto the balcony. It was the best place in the apartment; a three-by-six ledge with just enough grating to keep a toddler from tumbling. At 2 AM, it was also the best view in the city.

So there I sat, one year down with how many ever to go, a little pathetic but at least with a beer in my hand. I leaned against the edge of the sliding door and took a long, malty sip before clinking it against the cement. I crossed my legs so I could carefully balance the portable keyboard on my knees. I didn't need a warm-up since I'd just spent hours playing in that mind-numbingly boring hotel lobby, but I stretched my fingers all the same. I took one more sip of my beer before letting them rest on the keys while my eyes searched out into the colorful array of city lights.

I was just starting to get into my flow-finally forgetting the tired, cliche Beethovens and Chopins-when I heard the slide of the door next to mine. I glanced over at the glass, seeing the soft drift of drapes I didn't recognize as the old man's but there was nothing other than the screen and shadow behind it. I snorted something close to a laugh before muttering, "Well, hopefully it's a friendly ghost."

A sweet, melodic giggle drifted out of the dark.

"Uh," I let the vowel rumble in my chest. "Hello?"

There was enough of a pause that I was starting to think there was a ghost. Suddenly, a tired voice slipped through the screen, "Sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt. Do you mind?"

Hell yeah, I mind! It was my private time, after all, but it was something about the voice. I wasn't lying when I said it was exhausted, which I easily could have excused with the hour, but it wasn't just that. There was a drag in the pleasantness. Pain. Sorta like… "Nah." There was a little extra jitter to my fingers, but I brought them back to the keys.

"You could… do you mind playing what you were just playing? I liked it."

Hell yeah, I mind! That was my private song, after all, but… that voice sounded just as empty as my melody.

So I played.

I played for hours.

I played through four out of six beers.

I played and that door never closed but at the same time, I never saw a face, nothing to give shape to a voice that was only just keeping some kind of loneliness at bay.

I played until the fuzz of alcohol and sleep deprivation finally caught up with me. "Uh, I'm going to bed," I announced through a grimace. Why the hell are you even saying anything? Could you be any more uncool?

"Good night," the voice murmured softly.

"G'night," I echoed as I stood and tucked the keyboard under my arm. I slid the screen and then the door, pausing with just one foot into the tiny bedroom. "I… I, uh, well, my name's Soul."

"Maka," she replied quietly. "Thanks for the music, Soul."

"Yeah, no problem, Maka."

A hand moved but there was still no face. The door closed with an eerie slowness.

Maybe she is a ghost.

I guess I assumed I'd see her. It's not like I stalked the halls, but there was never a moment when she was going in or out- or at least not in that kind of rom-com coincidence sort of way. So I didn't see her, but Maka would open that back door as soon as I put my fingers to the keys. She'd listen the entire time. Sometimes she'd ask for a song again. It was a slow crawl, but after a few weeks, I got the first question:

"How was your day?"

"Huh?" The notes clamored into a mess as my brain followed suit. Is she asking me how I am?

"I'm pretty sure this is a standard question, Soul."

I struggled through an airy laugh. Is she shit-talking me? "A standard question, but not really one I'm expecting from a screen door."

Suddenly a bit of blonde hair snuck into view, a delicate curve of a shoulder pressed into the crosshatch. "OK- now, how was your day?"

My brain was about as useful as a down jacket in a heatwave so I sat there with fingers still poised as if I could produce more than just a dumbfounded stare at a corner of skin.

"Earth. To. Soul."

"Uh…" I muttered useless vowels and consonants under my breath before the answer came in an embarrassingly stressed octave, "Regular?"

"Regular," she sighed. "Can you define that?"

"Stupid," I huffed. "Is that a little more descriptive?"

"I guess." There was definitely an eye-roll saturating that but it wasn't as if I could see it. All I could see was still just a hint of straight, flowing hair.

I tried to start the tune again but my rhythm was off, so I stopped with a sigh. "What about you?"

Silence sat between us but all I could hear was my heart pounding in my ears.

"Regular-" finally came the shaky answer.

"What's regular?" How those words managed to stumble out of my mouth was beyond me, but there they were- alive and well and driving me crazy with the wish I could gobble them back up.

"Weird." The screen complained as she lifted her hand to clear the hair from her face. Her nose had tilted enough that I could catch half an eye and the moisture that was lining the bottom lid.

The joints of my fingers ached, my head was starting to pound, but I peeled the word off my tongue with all the honesty in me: "Sorry."

"What?" That brought more of a turn, enough now to see the shock widening one jade eye.

"Weird's the worst," I murmured. "Bad or good is pretty clear, right? Weird isn't. Guess there's not much I can do other than say sorry."

The laugh she tried to give in reply croaked and when I turned to look at her I saw the line of tears roll down her cheek. "The piano guy is the last one who needs to say sorry," she murmured to herself. "Just… could you play that song from the first night? Please? I like that one the best."

"You have shit taste. It's the worst one," I laughed bitterly.

"I do not," she snapped but the giggle that came after was actually real, no longer wet from the tears that were still sitting on her cheek. "Why do you think that?"

I shrugged and it loosened my fingers, letting them hit the keys and start that song that I had seared into my soul. "I wrote it."

At that moment, she didn't say a thing, but she asked for it three more times before she closed the door.

We locked eyes for a solid minute even though my entire mind was trying to will myself to look away. It was Maka's door but it was a man- middle-aged, glasses, a sardonic grin. He had just slipped his key-yes, a key from his pocket, not knocking-in the door but had paused as I hit the top of the stairs. I wanted to make quick steps to my door but his freeze forced mine. For a horrifying second, I was sure I would open my mouth with some actual human greeting but he gave me a reprieve by disappearing into the slowly opening door.

I heaved a sigh before making my way to my own and slinking into my apartment. My gut was screaming to turn on the TV, but I didn't have the heart to drain out the din of their voices through the thin walls. In the kitchen, most of the sound was muffled making the easy rise and fall of her voice nothing more than a ghost of a rhythm. It was just one sweet call after another and my stomach rolled. Why do you care if she has someone to talk to? If someone has a key to her apartment? If- I swallowed that bitter pill as I reached into the fridge and twisted the cap off a beer.

Because she's talked to me every day.

More than any other living person in this world.

And I like it.

Childish jealousy turned my stomach again before I downed a deep gulp of my beer.

I listened to their hum until I couldn't deny myself a shower any longer. That steamy oasis kept me for an eternity as I tried to gather more than adolescent thoughts.

She's listened to my music every day, not me.

And it's not a hard record to break- I don't talk much at all.

And who the fuck knows if she even likes it.

With a healthy dose of self-deprecation, I dressed and made my way to the terrace. I'd gotten in the habit now of leaving the piano by the door and I almost-almost--left it, but there was enough temper tantrum in me left to snatch it from its resting place. I slipped out of the sliding door as the light started to dim.

I should eat.

You know, something more than a beer.

Ah, fuck it.

I settled down to the keys, pounding out something that was supposed to sound like Satie but with all the frustration was leaning towards death metal in my ears.

"Are you OK?"

I hadn't even noticed that her door had opened or the voices inside had stopped.

"Yeah," I grumbled.

"That's really convincing…" This time I got the pleasure of seeing the eye-roll, or at least half of it as she angled her face enough that I could catch one eye.

"It ain't a big deal…" I tried to drown all of that out with more clacks of the keys but her ears were obviously in the wrong place again.

"Are you having a weird day?" This entirely gentle offering just barely made its way over the music but it hit me in the gut like a tractor-trailer.

"Could say that." Because it is. It's weird. This whole me coming back to this balcony night after night to play for a girl who I've never really seen and talk to her like she's an old friend is weird. What's weirder is the fact that it's becoming easy. It's becoming part of my day and I-I don't know what this is. What I'm doing. I just know I want to and that's even a weirder feeling on its own. Want. Motivation. Feeling.

"Is there something I could do?"

Any trajectory of my fingers was lost with a faulty electronic bleep of mistakenly pressed keys. "What?" My eyes shot back to the door to catch the earnest half-smile she was showing.

"You always play for me-" her voice at least sounded an ounce more well-rested "-so I guess there should be something I do for you, right? I actually feel kind of selfish, keeping you up all night-"

"It's fine," I snapped the words without thinking but that didn't derail her.

"But it's not." The order in her voice made my spine go straight. "Tell me what I can do."

I searched the skyline like it had an answer while my fingers tapped a few nervous notes into the keys. "Talk." It was too shaky to be a command.

"Talk?"

"I like when you talk." I just swallowed a groan at my own idiocy, a painful grimace pulling at my cheeks. Sound more pathetic. Actually, no chance. You literally couldn't sound more pathetic than right now.

A thoughtful hum buzzed out from behind the screen. "You don't really seem to like to talk though."

"Hence why you talk, not me," I grumbled.

That stupidly melodious giggle trickled out again and maybe my posture evened out for another second as I tried to crane another look at her. "Fine. I'll talk. Let's see… Is your name really 'Soul?'"

I tossed out a half-hearted sigh. "This sounds like it requires me talking…"

"Technically," she muttered. "But seriously- 'Soul?' Were your parents hippies?"

"It's what my brother calls me." I forced every last one of my muscles not to freeze at the admission. I glanced at her again as a few notes played, catching her eyes shining with interest and something close to amusement. The next bit slipped out without a second thought as I studied half of her smile. "Name's Solomon. Outta the two, Soul's cooler."

"Very cool," she laughed. "Older or younger brother?"

"Older."

"Name?"

"Wes." The hairs on the back of my neck tingled in the breeze. Be careful, he's sorta like the devil- you say his name and you call him here.

"I'm an only child," she offered as her finger scratched against the mesh pattern. It was like she was suddenly very interested in memorizing each little nook and cranny.

"He's sorta…" Death, stop it! She didn't ask another question, so she's not lookin' to hear your life story. Just because it feels like you could spill doesn't mean you should.

"A lot more eloquent than you?"

I snorted a laugh. "Definitely. More handsome too. Popular. Take your pick."

"Sounds-"

-Like jealousy? Envy? Plain ol' ugly sibling rivalry thanks to parents that don't have enough love to go around?-

"-sad."

Stone was softer than my muscles, all of me seizing with the word. I dared to force some Rachmaninov from my fingers, that Concerto No. 2 that always made my hair stand on end but the music didn't even compare to a corner of what was washing over me. Sad. I'm just sad. Like a twenty-four-seven veil that I wear, that I live, and I just don't see it. And it takes one word from this girl-

"I bet he's not as kind."

I didn't- I couldn't answer.

"Or hard-working."

"You don't-" Bile was choking at the back of my throat. "You don't know anything about me."

"I think that's a stretch," she snapped with enough anger to make any of mine fizzle. "Technically, I've talked more to you than any other person for the past month, and while you don't say much, you show a lot. Not on your face-you've got a mask, I think-but your actions spell things out pretty clearly. Plus, I guess staying in my apartment all day leaves me with only a few pastimes and one happens to be listening to your comings and goings. OK, Death, that sounds creepy…" That twittered off into a high, panicked giggle.

"Why?"

She seemed happy for the instant transition. "Why what?"

"Why do you stay in your apartment all the time?" I wanted to bite back the question as soon as I'd asked it but true to her nature-or at least what I could tell so far-she instantly piped up.

"I made a mistake so I'm sort of hiding out…?" She made an odd grunt, dissatisfaction sitting somewhere in that sentence. "I'm supposed to be the courageous one, but I guess that ran out with… I just can't face anyone right now."

I slid the piano carefully off my knees, resting it on the concrete. I needed the pressure of my knees against my chest, that curling sensation bringing enough pressure to my diaphragm that I felt like I could spew out the words. "Making a mistake is pretty brave."

"What?"

The city lights had all the attention of my eyes but my mind was playing entirely over her. "Means you tried- did something. Means you lived. Isn't that better than spending your entire life second-guessing yourself into staying frozen?" I knew the answer to that question since the beast it'd birthed had been settled under my heart for some time now, squeezing it to death. "Making a decision-good or bad--is brave, or at least braver than the alternative." I didn't think my fear could get any bigger, not after spewing all that idiocy, but as I heard the screen door slide, terror crept up my spine.

I wasn't ready to see her. In a way, I'd created some dream girl there and the reality of it then was going to kill me because I didn't want this to end. At that moment, I was sure her coming out was going to be what tore us apart. I guess I was sorta wrong in more ways than one because all that slipped out of the door was an awkward reach of her hand. Her palm just slid under the divide between our shared balcony.

"Hold my hand?"

"What?" Idiot!

"You know, hand on top of mine, sort of sideways so you can actually grasp?" She was giving instructions to a toddler.

"I know-" I started with blustered fury but swallowed it. "But holding hands with me--"

"Might be nice," she lilted sweetly over top of my words. "So hold my hand, or I'll start calling you Solomon."

I choked out a laugh before eyeing her wiggling fingers. Easy, right? Holding hands? Totally not as if you haven't done that since elementary school. With anxiety enough to make my palm a fucking swamp, a slid my hand over hers, following the order of grasping her fingers carefully. She was warm-so fucking warm-like having a beating heart in your hand. Or maybe that was just how I was feeling: like she was stealing mine right out with her fingers.

A pleasant sigh drifted out into the night. "It's so strange, but I missed this sort of thing. The only person who comes by is my uncle and he's not exactly the touchy-feely type so… honestly, no one's touched me in two months."

I turned my head to hide the shameful pink that I knew was creeping up my cheeks. Her uncle. That's who has the keys to her apartment. That's who visits and talks to her. All that stupid childishness for nothing. And don't start thinking you're something to her- she just doesn't have anyone else.

"I told him but… that's only because he's the logical one. Everyone else, well, everyone else would flip and I just-" there was a hiccuping break in her breath and she squeezed my hand "-I'm still flipping."

I dared to glance at her, seeing that profile covered in tears again. "Hey-"

"Death, I'm so- I'm sorry," she let out a bitter laugh as her other hand came up to clear her face. "You literally just come out here to play piano to relax and now I'm using you as a part-time therapist."

"Not relaxing," I corrected. "Sorta my own therapy. Decompressing."

"Even worse!" She blinked out another batch of tears. "I'm-"

"Fine." Testing boundaries was never my thing but my hand thankfully moved without the defective logic of my brain. Now it was my two to her one, fingers weirdly trying to find enough space with such a tiny, delicate object between them. "This is fine, Maka." Using her name was crossing another border, another thing that made her more real.

"Thank you…"

"Yeah, any time." I mean that.

Her only reply was her fingers pulsing momentarily in mine.