No Such Thing As A Hollywood Ending

chapter two

The cafeteria was its usual bustling mess—students crowded around tables, laughter echoing off the walls, trays clattering as friends swapped stories over lunch. But none of that concerned Lucy. She always avoided the chaos, choosing instead to retreat to the quiet corner where the old piano sat, untouched by the rest of the student body. It had become her sanctuary, a place where she could eat in peace without having to navigate the social complexities that came with being the girl with fancy lunches no one understood.

Today, she settled down as usual, her gourmet salad and sparkling water carefully placed beside her. The piano loomed nearby, its worn keys and faded wood reminding her of home, of the lessons with her private instructor who insisted on the classics—Mozart, Beethoven, Bach. Lucy would occasionally reach out and play a few notes, but she never lingered long. The sound always reminded her of the pressure to be perfect, to emulate the "greats" instead of finding her own style.

But as she sat down today, something was different. A melody filled the air, soft yet compelling. Lucy froze, her fork hovering above her salad. Someone was playing the piano.

She turned toward the instrument, her heart skipping a beat when she saw him. Henry. He sat at the bench, his fingers gliding effortlessly over the keys, producing a cascade of notes that seemed impossibly complex. His eyes were closed, his face calm, as if he wasn't even trying, just letting the music flow through him.

Lucy watched, mesmerized. The way he played—there was no sheet music, no hesitance. It wasn't the structured, formal pieces her instructor would approve of. It was something else. Something free, untamed, and utterly captivating.

When the final notes faded into the air, Lucy realized she hadn't moved the entire time. She hadn't even taken a bite of her lunch. Before she could stop herself, she walked over to him, her voice small but curious.

"What was that?" she asked, her heart pounding louder than she expected. "What song were you playing?"

Henry opened his eyes and turned to her, an easy smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He shrugged, as if the answer was obvious. "I wasn't playing a song. I was just doing this freestyle."

Freestyle. The word sent a jolt through her. Her piano instructor had told her to avoid freestyling, saying it was nothing more than mindless wandering without the discipline of structure or the weight of the great composers behind it. Music, according to her instructor, had to come from the masters. It had to be guided by the works of Mozart, Beethoven, Chopin—anything else was frivolous, not worth considering.

Yet here was Henry, who apparently didn't even know the names of the notes, playing something that sounded more beautiful than any of the rigid sonatas she had spent hours practicing. His fingers had moved with a grace that seemed effortless, as if music was a natural extension of him.

Lucy could barely wrap her mind around it. Freestyle? He wasn't following any rules, any pattern from the past, and yet it sounded... perfect.

"That was... incredible," she whispered, though the words felt strange in her mouth. She didn't know how to compliment someone like Henry. Not someone who played with such ease, who didn't seem to care about the things she had been taught to hold in such high regard.

But Henry just shrugged again, his casual indifference catching her off guard. "I just like to play around. It's not a big deal."

Not a big deal? Lucy's thoughts raced. How could he be so casual about something so beautiful? She had been drilled in technique and form for years, and here he was, playing as if it were second nature, without even knowing what he was doing.

Suddenly, a wave of embarrassment washed over her. She didn't know what to say, how to express what she felt. Complimenting him felt wrong, awkward, as if acknowledging his talent would somehow make her own years of structured practice seem pointless. And yet, she couldn't deny the truth.

She took a step back, her heart beating faster as she struggled to find words. But nothing came out. Instead, she turned and hurried away, her fancy lunch forgotten on the table, her pulse still racing with confusion and embarrassment.

As she fled the cafeteria, she wondered why she couldn't just tell Henry how good he was. Why did it feel so difficult to say the simplest thing?