Opera House

Curtain Call

And I can still hear the sound of you crying through the night. There in the opera house with no one else for miles.

The tumultuous and melancholia of Beethoven's Midnight Sonata resonated through Win's head phones as he tried relaxing his back by the leather-cushioned material of the seating. His mind slowly travelling back to the early mornings with his cold hands embracing a cup of strong black coffee and Bright's half naked figure crouched by the grand piano,--his back muscles protruding and relaxing at every passionate blow as he rammed his fingers aggressively on its keys.

Win used to fondly make fun of Bright for devoting his mornings exclusively and only with Beethoven's compositions. Bright refused to play other pieces. He claims Beethoven's compositions as intricate pieces solely written for 'sacrilegious mornings' and Win would shove at him playfully, but it was true enough, their early mornings became their sacred time of day, lavished in the strong smell of brewing coffee and Bright's musicality. Its the time of day where no one excepts anything of them yet, where the world is asleep and they're cooped up in their nest, wide awake and immersed in their respective rituals.

But just like any other piece, no matter how long the rendition and lengthy the variation is, it comes to an end. Dead air waiting to be supplied by the notes of the next composition on queue.

Midnight Sonata stops playing, and Win had every courage to hear the song on repeat until he grows tired of it, but he made no move to do so. His eyes now grazing the whiteness of the cottony clouds moving beneath.

The opening notes to Rachmaninov's Piano Concerto No. 2 can now be heard blaring by his ears. The pulsating beats and hums from the piano sends Win's senses to topple over the edge.

Bright's nightly, and specifically before-bed music. If Bright devoted their sacred mornings playing Beethoven, at night before bed, he spends his time mustering Sergei Rachmaninov's most-prized pieces. Win would marvel at Bright's musings,--says its his 'hypnotherapeutic music for slumber'. At times, when Bright feels too weary to sit by the grand piano before bed, he would bring the electronic one to bed and play Win his own spin to the song.

With the composition's soprano to alto shifts, Win reached inside his backpack--unveiling a worn out envelope, with his full name written on it--all in Bright's handwriting.

As soon as the solitude he'd long dreaded consumed him, he finds himself tearing the envelope to reveal a hand-written letter written at the back of a music chord sheet. It was Bright's first copy of the first Opus he'd ever written for Win, way back 2015, when they were just as young as nineteen. It was the first year with Bright, their time juvenile and delicate. They were both in university then. Still coming to terms with making their dreams and wishes come true.

He's now twenty-four but with their early memories he so vividly remembers, Win still feels as if he was a young boy embarking on a lovelorn prologue of what could be a relationship's honeymoon stage.

Win opens the letter. It was dated back last year, 2019. The year where everything took a turn for the worst, the bitter start of the curtain drop.

He never got to read the letter on time. Bright gave it a little too late.

His vision instantly blurs out, tears pooling in his eyes as soon as he saw the introductory scribbles of Bright's messy handwriting on the letter.

Blinking vigorously at once, Win mustered all his will to peruse Bright's writings.

My Dearest Win,