The Keys.

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Romance  |  House: Booksie Classic
Short story from year 11.

Submitted: July 23, 2013

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Submitted: July 23, 2013



Her fingers fidgeted along the black and white keys every time her head turned to the window.  The piece, she could play by heart, but it was her heart that tugged her, like pulling strings on a puppet, to glance at the window.

He wasn't going to be there.

At least, that's what she told herself; yet, like a metronome, every 16 measures, she felt her eyes gravitate towards the clouded window of the school practice room.  She shook her head, returning the flowing melody to its utual ppace.

She wouldn't allow herself to think of him.  She had no reason to.  He wasn't hers; she had to right. In fact, she wasn't even interested in him. Right? He was just a friend to her, nothing more...she hoped.

His face flashed in her mind and her pointer finger slipped.  Her head shook as she cursed under her breath.  Why was she thinking of him so much? The rhythm blended in the back of her mind as her throughts drifted to him. 

Dammit, she knew this would happen; she was just too stupid to realize it.  Yet, in the plain sight of all but herself, she craved teh sound of his voice, the glint of adventure in his eyes, the comfort of his smile.

The keys clashed again and she cursed once more.  The silence swallowing up the sounds reverberating from the piano was too intense for her; the sound-proofed rooms made her dizzy with thought.

He wasn't hers.

She...but she didn't wan't that, anyway.  Yeah, she didn't want him.

The silence broke when she took in a breath and let her fingers weave together the sounds printed within the sheets before her.  The sound gave her something to focus on, but her pieces had become easy over time; her focus was soon glazed over.

She wondered if he could hear her playing.

Was he in the building?

Would he lke this kind of music?

Would he like her?


She was becoming creepy and she knew it.  A loud sigh marked her exasperation as her fingers fell from the keys.  


The knock on her door woke her up from her bubble of thoughts.  Reaching for the doorknob, the curious voice in the back of her head, the one who puppeteered her with her heartstrings, prayed that, somehow, he found her.

A wrinkled face peered through.

"I'll be using this room for a lesson soon," the teacher hissed, returning her to the harsh, real world.

She gathered her belongings as the door shut with a click.  

A dim haze settled over her heart, heavy with the thoughts that had been scattered, free, just moments before.

She wondered if he could hear her playing.

Would he like this kind of music?


Would he like her?

© Copyright 2018 Kathryn Thorne. All rights reserved.