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I started to run. Eyes full of tear. I couldn’t breathe. I don’t know how many times I shouted his name while running under the rain, I don’t know how many times I hit the ground but when I reached the train station my knees were bleeding, my throat was aching and there was no tear left in my eyes to cry them out.

I didn’t call his name anymore. I didn’t because I was standing in the middle of an empty station at 5 am under the storm, soaking wet, bleeding and it was like I had lost it all. I had lost this game, called life.


9 months ago

I stood next to the now-always-open window, closed my eyes and breathed the woods smell into my lungs. Sonata No2 was playing on my little speaker. “Coffee is so ready.” I shouted. “how much ready is so ready?” grandpa asked from behind my back, he was closer than what I thought. “You were here! Good morning. ‘So ready’ means it’s gonna be much better than what I forced you to drink yesterday.”. he gave me one of those I-don’t-think-so looks and said “let’s hope so” and winked. “I’m gonna find someone to get the window fixed today. It looks it gonna be raining soon.” He said while looking out at the sky.


That was when I first saw him. Coming towards grandpa’s house after practicing the whole day in the woods to saw some tall, tanned boy with long blond hair and beard fixing the kitchen window. I was too hungry and tried to say hello so I kept my head down and pretended I didn’t see him. Before I open the door though, I looked at him for a second out of curiosity. His long hair fell in front of his eyes and he looked up at me. I opened the door and jumped inside. God he was cute. 


He was new in town like I was three months ago. He was this kind of quiet, serious guy and unbelievably you wouldn’t see him much even in a town as small as that. Anyways I totally forgot about this handsome repair man as soon as I closed the door behind me the day he came to fix the broken window frame. But this was until the second time I saw him. It was a warm morning and I was walking around to find a quiet spot for practicing and although the river is not my most favorite spot, seeing how quiet and peaceful it was made me stay there.I was working on sonata no2 that week and as much as I prefer to play in the woods, I should say that having the river sound t the background while playing violin is a pretty good match. I stopped to put my fingers into water and rest for a while. Then looking at the other side of the river, I was shocked. First because it created me out finding someone staring at me when I thought I was alone, the m He was staring at me. Seeing my weird face expression which was mixture of fear and kind of happiness, he raised his free hand –that wasn’t holding the fish hook- and smiled. Before I could smile back he shouted “I couldn’t catch a single fish… but I enjoyed a free concert!”. I laughed “thank you, I am flattered!”. “You know you’ve been playing for more than one hour none stop, right?” he said. “and you were here the whole time?!” I thought to myself. “In that case, I gotta say you should pay after first half an hour!” I teased.


He once said he was there to live a different life, to get away from the life he was ‘meant’ to live. He said he was not escaping though. He said I couldn’t ask him anything about his past, where he used to live, what he has been doing, his family and most importantly, why he wants it to be a secret. “Do you think you can do it?”. I didn’t say yes; I didn’t say no either.

What was he to me? What was I to him? I went back home, took out my violin from its case and started playing like mad. The louder my thought got, the louder I played to stop hearing them.

Why should I even ask these questions? Why shouldn’t I? why does it matter to me? Why does he say these to ME? Why do I care?

Not accepting his terms means stopping to see him. Accepting them means seeing someone without ever truly knowing who he is.

He simply said: “Why do you think knowing what I have experienced in my past helps you know who I am? What I have experienced have made me who I am and that is what matters cause I can’t hide who I am. I am who I am isn’t that enough?”

And so it started.


How does one get mature?

I was 18 when I met him. Had oved to a small town where my grandpa who was a retire professor of the music collage lives. The plan was to be far from stress of urban cities and all the distractions to dedicate a whole year before the music college entrance exam to my violin. 

He was perhaps about 24. From a completely different world. A world that I knew nothing about and yet knew enough to be sure I wouldn’t belong to. I used to think moving out and living away from my parents or going to college or turning 18 will make me a mature girl. I was entirely mistaken. It is love and love alone that helps you grow up.

October 26, 2019 03:56

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1 comment

Unknown User
21:12 Oct 31, 2019

A nice tale. It was presented in an appealing stream-of-conscience style which made it enjoyable. A closer look at editing for minor errors will give this story the attention it deserves. Cheers!


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