Somehow, every night when I'm alone in my room, and it gets so dark outside that my eyes lose focus when looking straight ahead, I hear music.
And sometimes this music is soft, with a barely-there undertone. 
Other times, the music is violent and ugly and loud and I can hear the blood spilling over his skin and his tears as they hit the keyboard.
Today is strange though, there is no music.
There is just a breath.
And it's light and rhythmical, and I can almost imagine the smile stretching across his face as he sleeps.
Almost, because I never saw his face.
I just listened.
To him, being himself by himself.
I know he's a guy, I could tell by the way his footsteps pat against my ceiling.
And I know he's a guy because he spends his Friday nights taking notes, and his pen always seems to scratch the paper a little too harshly.

He must use his hands a lot.
He must have a beautiful voice since he preserves and protects it from the moment he steps into the building.
I have never heard his voice, just his fingers.
He plays piano.
He starts his concerts at midnight, sharp.

But it's 02:53am, and 'yesterday' was Thursday, but there is still no playing.
I'll have to wait another day.

****

I'm in the comfort of my solitude at the current moment.
And I have my caffeine, and I have my clock, and I have my darkness.
But I don't have my pen.
Well, not my pen, the upstairs pen.
The one which takes notes and punctures notebook sheets.
It's missing.
There is just a voice, a female voice and some shifting on the bed.
She sounds broken, and his breath hitched a little, so he must be excited, but I can't tell what's going on.
What are they doing together and why is it so painful to try to make out her words?
They're blurry, so blurry, my eyes too have gotten blurry.
Why can I only hear the faint ringing in my ears and my pulse against my forhead?
I feel like throwing up, or coughing blood, my neck is clogged.
I'll wait a few more hours.

****

That migrane really put me down, I was out for a good hundred eighty minutes.
It seems like she's calmed down, she's still there.
Her breathing is deep; she's exhausted.
My clock says it's 3am, his breathing is normal.
But he's pacing around, so he must be worried.
He sighs and runs a hand through his hair, let's it drop by his side right after.
He stops walking.
He sits down on /that/ chair and pulls over the keyboard cover.
There will be music tonight.
I usually cringe when he cracks his knuckles, but it feels welcoming, this time it's quite pleasant.
Maybe it's because I missed him yesterday.

Something is wrong though, the volume key is turning.
Never in these four years of playing that instrument has he touched the volume key.
Oh. That was when he was alone.
He must be lowering it now to avoid waking her.
It's no inconvenience though, I'll be able to hear the tunes just as fine.

You see, on my 18th birthday, four years ago, I got my driver's license.
I was a university freshman along with my best friend Sehun.
We went out to celebrate my accomplishment of finally becoming an adult and getting to own a car.
He was still a minor at the time; he was 17.
Nobody warned me not to drink and drive, so I guess I learnt that lesson the hard way.
When I woke up a few days later in a hospital I didn't know of, I couldn't see too well, but I heard like never before.
My sense was heightened to the point where I became aware of the wall getting a tiny fissure two floors below me, and it drove me mad.
I was diagnosed with hyperacusis.
I cried a lot that time, and my newfound lifestyle was the minor reason: I was told that Sehun had been pronounced medically  dead two days prior to my awake.
A stranger took me home that time. 
Said stranger didn't speak the entire ride.

Since then I haven't left my appartment once.
I gave up on my studies and have been living off of the daily deliveries provided to me by an unknown benefactor.
And since day one, at midnight, the piano was my escape from the limited world I'd given myself to live in.
Tonight, I await another concert from my favourite artist.
He starts out with his right hand, ring finger on the second C, holding the note until his left hand follows with a familiar tune.
The only thing that changed was the volume, and it hasn't dimmed, it grew.
Each of the sounds were pronounced with clarity by my neighbour's fingers, and it was loud.
Loud and overwhelming.

And it seems like the recital has woken up the resting woman.
She had neat footsteps, trodding equally towards the piano, which she stopped right in front of.

"And who are you playing for at  this hour?"

Her voice was calm, soothing even, and dreadfully familiar.
It has been a while since I heard a human voice apart from my own, the last I've heard was at that hospital.
The doctor. She was Sehun's doctor.
She was the one who told me he was dead.
And strangely enough, she's the one who is calling his name now.

"Sehun, no-one else lives in this building, who are you playing for?"

The music stopped flowing, and his heart rate had gone up to an alarming speed.
I then heard his voice for the first time, my neighbour's voice.

"Dr. Kim" he started calmly despite his increased pulse.

"When I scheduled a meeting at your office, I thought we had an agreement that my name should not be brought up once we stepped inside this bâtiment, correct?"

It seemed like something akin to anger and annoyance was waiting to surface in his voice.
His voice, Sehun's.
And the ringing started again as I brought a hand up to my mouth to stiffle the scream of realisation that would have escaped my lips.
His vocal chords resounded in the same way as when we were kids.

"Y-yes, patient. But I don't understand how it makes a difference, no-one lives here anymore!"

And a pint louder came his response to his doctor as he stood up from his chair.

"And we had an agreement in which I was not to be forced by you, Dr. Kim, to give vocal responses to any of your questions or statements, correct?"

It was him indeed.

"Patient Sehun, listen to me, everyone who lived in this building has moved out more than four years ago!"

She raised her voice, shouting at my artist, my best friend whom I thought I had killed, and I feel my own anger bubbling up as my fists clench.

"You are wrong in that aspect, Doctor. 
There is a soul who has not seen the outside world and has been living a floor beneath my very feet ever since that accident.
That soul has been living with the guilt of having commited indirect murder.
And you will be quite happy to hear, Doctor, that this soul is listening to our conversation right this very moment."

"Patient- you must take your medication-"

"Isn't that right, Zitao?"

He whispered the last part.
He knew I would hear it.
I did.