The Ethereal Dream: Part 2

It had been six months since Annabeth and I had last talked. Life was going on and on, I was still playing the piano, but all were like waste by then. I had lost the only reason for all that I was doing. I would sometimes run into her on the street and she acted like a total stranger, and so did I for some time until the pain was unbearable. Once I followed her after she was out from Ikea, where we accidentally hit each other. We looked into each other for a second, and then she tore her gaze and spoke to the floor, “I am sorry dude, I didn’t mean to hit you.”

The very sight of this broke my heart. I mean, we were never this awkward and then just when I started to forget this awfully crushing feeling, churning in the pits of my stomach, it just resurrects itself to remind me of this.

I held her hand and spoke with a heavy throat, “Annabeth, please. Why all this?”

“Excuse me, sir,” She snatched her hand out of my grip, “You have no right to grab a woman’s hand in the middle of a market, so you better watch out.”

“Okay, sorry miss for my surliness. Have a good day. Take care.” 

“You too.”

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It was nearly Thanksgiving now, and we still exchanged no words. I used to go to her house occasionally, and Uncle Smith had got a piano for himself and had started taking lessons himself. Sometimes he would ask me to review his playing, and sometimes just ask me to play. My practice had made me very fluent in my phrasing, and I had started to sight-read music, so he would find me some sheets and ask me to play that. He always loved challenging me, so he started bringing a lot of Liszt and Chopin, and when I did play them good, he would be thrilled.

Uncle Smith gave me a key to their apartment so that I could come and go when I wanted, but what he didn’t know was the fact that his daughter had been stealing away from me all this while. Sometimes I would get into the house and silently walk towards the hallway where the piano was sitting. I knew when Annabeth was in the house. I would come to play in the house not only for her but sometimes just to change the environment. I always played pieces that sounded desperate to ears, that showed my grief and love towards Annabeth.

Sometimes it would happen that I would come into the house and people would be working as usual. Nobody would ask me any question and just anticipate my playing. I would play and play, and no one would disturb me. Annabeth’s mom would leave a glass of water every time and walk away speaking nothing. I always loved to play Chopin Nocturnes and Waltz and would sit for hours playing them in there.

Once it happened that I came into the house, and sat playing not realising that it was only Annabeth and me in the house. I was a little bummed from earlier so I started playing with Scriabin’s Étude Opus 8 No.12 and I didn’t realize that Annabeth had come down from her room and was sitting on the couch behind me. I played sad and tragic songs in a row, first Brahms Hungarian Dance No.1, then Schubert’s Serenade and death and the maiden, and whatnot. At last just to finish it in a happier mood, I ended it with Clair de Lune by Claude Debussy. 

When I stood up from the stool, the sight of Annabeth sitting on the couch with tears flowing down her rosy cheeks startled me. I had never seen her this vulnerable. It looked like she hadn’t had proper sleep for days. She was frail from probably not eating well. She sat in front of me and looked directly in my eyes. She looked more beautiful than ever to me, and she spoke with a different lilt, “Ed, you know, you are the most amazing guy I have ever known. I know you still love me, but honey are you ready to take responsibility for our relationship? You know, even I still love you, but beloved, I am ready to give time for us. Are you? Are you ready to make us your priority?”

I was baffled when I heard this. I started stammering, “I..., yeah, I mean no, piano my priority…”

“I see,” Annabeth said with a quavering voice, “you are right in yourself.”

I grabbed her hand and tried to speak, but all that came out was a squeak. She smiled sadly as if she understood what that squeak meant, and let her hand slip out.

“I must tell you this Ed,” Annabeth spoke sadly after a long silence, “You are one of the most caring and loving persons I have met in my entire life, but what you wish to fix, is something that cannot be undone. Please don’t make it any worse for any of us.”

I broke down to tears. I tried to control the tears and sound, so it sounded more like a sob. “Isn’t there any way I can atone for this grave mistake?”

“Ed, I love you because you have such great talent and passion for piano, and I love you for your firm mind, but what you ask me, is too big now. If you would have asked me this a year ago, I would have surrendered everything, just so I could come into the sanctuary of your arm and love. Now, my beloved, it is too late. I cannot risk it again with you. Falling in love with you was easy, but retreating and hiding the pain is lethal. Please, don’t risk anything of yours for me. I have risked enough for both of us, for this life at least.” Annabeth mumbled to the floor.

“Okay then, but, for one last time, let me play for you, in remembrance of our foregone 

Love.” I said with a heavy throat.

“Sure you can, Ed.” 

I knew this was my last time playing for her. The deal was sealed, no more love or grief in our name. I let all my emotions and my spirit come on my fingertips and I sat on the piano. I had two pieces in my mind, first to express the merry love, and second to enunciate the grief that it brought to us. I played Arabesque No.1, by Claude Debussy, and the second I played  Mariage d’Amour by Paul de Senneville. The end of it brought me to tears and I let the last note hang for long, just like my helpless soul.

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It had been six years, and I had moved on with life. I had become a pronounced pianist and was playing with a renowned Orchestra. I had done several tours, domestic and international alike, and I was rarely in my hometown. 

It was July 18, when Uncle Smith knocked in front of my door. It was drizzling outside, and he had his long overcoat on, with collars upturned. I sat him inside and he handed me a letter. 

“Son, this was the last letter she wrote on your name before she died.”

“ANNABETH IS DEAD?” I screamed, baffled.

“ Yes, she is, son. She was suffering from blood cancer. Here’s her last letter in your name.”

“What do you mean, the last letter?”

“Last of the many, she wrote to you. I compiled, I am sure all of the letters will make like a few bulky volumes.”

“She wrote to me, how come she never posted it then?”

“ Kid, just read the letter, and come home later to read the rest of her’s.”

I unfolded the paper and started reading. As the lines went down, so was my heart. I read on and on, and the final words still bring me to tears. It read, “Ed, you were the angel I was never supposed to see, but always believe in. I was in love with you, and I still do, and never stop until my lungs give up. Your name on my lips still brings joy but also embeds profound agony in my heart. I came to your last concert and recorded you playing a tune, that sounded so delicate and unearthly, I could barely hold my tears back.”

I was so shaken after reading this, that my legs couldn’t support me anymore. I walked toward my piano and sat and rested my hands on the keys, and played what she loved, and heard the last from me. It was Ravel’s  Pavane pour une infante défunte, which translates to, Pavane for a Dead Princess. The irony was she heard the very piece that elucidates the pain of death.  

[P.S: If you love piano music, all the pieces I have written above are great to listen to. I highly recommend you to listen to them]