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home

You were never home.

No, we didn't live together, but somehow we always ended up at one another's place. Two small apartments, at two humble neighbourhoods, kept and maintained from, yet again, humble salaries. I lived alone, and I remember how you told me you did too as I was sitting on your living room's couch for the first time.

A bedroom, a living room, a bathroom and a kitchen. The concept was already familiar with me, somehow it just visualised loneliness in a very picturesque way. Yet, there was something there that made that solitude comfortable, even if I pathetically longed for someone to take up the empty space, someone who'd sit by the other chair in the morning, someone who'd take the other end of the couch at nights and someone who'd sleep on the left side of the king sized bed.

There wasn't anyone.

However, in a nutshell, I met you, which is an old story already.

The frigidity of the apartment disappeared. I felt like yours became more dear to me than mine.

We were for two, with two places, but it mattered less and less where either of us slept.

Thus, after countless nights spent awake, maybe around the two-hundred and eighty-second, it wasn't surprising that I was staring at the ceiling in your bedroom, waiting, that after all the door might open after some time and you'll step inside.

The ticks of the clock in the living room easily made their way through the thin walls. Thanks to the vast windows of glass it wasn't dark at all, since the sky was clear, and the moonlight served as the sun in the night. Lights of nearby buildings seemed like stars in the continuous bustle of the city. You were there, somewhere, as well, because you couldn't find another way out of your own hell.

You were my way out of mine.

The bed became ridiculously uncomfortable after tossing and turning for hours, so I rather got up. A mirror found itself a place in your room too, but I never liked it, and I turned my head in the door's way this time again rather than catching a glimpse of myself in it.

Everything was silent. The living room was flooded with light the same way, maybe the noise of the street caught my attention from time to time. My way lead me to the kitchen, where your mug that I filled up with hot, steaming coffee before going to bed for when you'd arrive home was still there just the same way. The porcelain was warm, but maybe the coffee wasn't cold either.

I only wanted a glass of water, so I was standing in front of the couch again.

You had a piano.

It was standing in the corner, it was black and beautiful, graceful, humble and mysterious, just like you.

It was the piano of your childhood, and you had never told me anything else.

The time was around half past two at dawn. I was all alone.

I couldn't deal with your abscence in that moment, it was woeful and stinging, and I ran to the piano stool without thinking twice. I couldn't play, I didn't want to touch it, it was yours after all. Maybe I just wanted to feel you a bit more though it.

Not more than a few minutes had passed as I read the name of the manufacturer above the keys again and again. The door creaked a bit, your key turned in the lock and you stepped in with light, quiet footsteps, thinking that I must've been sleeping.

I heard as you had suddenly stopped. I didn't want to, but I turned around, and your eyes were sparkling just the same way in the dark.

We looked at each other like that for a while. Although I don't know for how long, but I didn't really care. I could've looked at you for hours and yet I could've never been certain about what ran through your mind when you saw me then and there, sitting by the piano.

"I'm so sorry."

The three, almost inaudible words left my mouth without thinking. As if you hadn't heard them, you came closer and sat next to me on the piano stool, but you were never as quite careful.

It seemed like both the piano and both me had an effect on you, since you never took my hand into yours as gently as you did then.

"Stupid."

I just looked at you questioningly, but your eyes gazed at the keys as one of your fingers draw small circles on my skin.

"It's stupid from you to say sorry."

A smile appeared on my lips as I shook my head that I rested on your shoulder. You were stubborn.

Your hand was quick to let go of mine to embrace my side, only for it to reach the piano with ease. You were full of talent, your hands danced on the black and white tiles with grace. Somehow the quiet hums of your heartbeats matched your melody so well. That's what was special about you. This was your way out from your own hell.

It wasn't loud or powerful, rather weak and quiet. The change was almost unnoticeable as your fingers slipped off the instrument and found my hands yet again.

It was all silent, simply no words were needed. I knew that music was the most important to you. You knew that you were the most important to me. Truly, sometimes I felt like I, too, had a place in your heart, which you always declared to be rigid even if it was so full of love.

Sometimes, people say that a person can feel like one's home as well.

You were never home.