Alone. That's how she would feel if she didn't have her piano in these times when he was gone.

Afraid. That's how she would feel if she didn't concentrate on the melody her fingertips created.

It was an easy distraction when he was away. She didn't forget, though. The lack of his presence made even the music seem lonely. His violin accompanying her was gone. It made her music lack depth somehow. It made her heart feel just as hollow. And then she began to wonder if the music was really doing her any good. Perhaps it was only hurting her more, reminding her of what was missing, reminding her she'd have to spend the night alone again. Alone and afraid. Afraid that she wouldn't hear the phone ring, afraid that, in that situation, she'd miss something important.

The phone ringing was a good thing - it meant he was going to come home.

But then she worried of the doorbell ringing instead. That was a bad thing. It meant they were coming to tell her he had died.

She felt herself playing faster at this thought, her fingers trailing across the keys, barely gliding over the ones she needed to skip. Frantic to make these thoughts leave her she needed to play something complicated, something that would set her mind at ease of these terrible possibilities she couldn't help but think of.

Yet, this did her no good either. She knew everything far too well. Of all the times he had to leave she had become so good at the piano nothing she tried to do with it could distract her. She could play a perfect melody while her mind was elsewhere. As much as she loved how beautiful her music sounded, she wished she could rewind what she knew. She wished she could start over, or maybe only know half of what she knew now. She wanted to make a mistake now, to catch herself doing something wrong so she could worry about that instead.

It never happened, though. She didn't even have to concentrate on finding a mistake; if she made one she would hear it regardless of concentration.

She stopped playing and looked over to his violin, resting in its usual place in the corner. Of course when he played it he would stand near her, positioning himself as close as he could, but also keeping himself in the right place for the sounds to mix the best.

Walking over to it, she picked it up, running her fingers over the strings. She had no idea how to play it, it was something she never wanted to know. It was his thing, not hers.