“Hit the keys with love as if they are the most precious thing you own. Remove all your negative thoughts and play with dedication, play with confidence. With your peaceful mind, soft touches, and love combined, you will be able to produce a mellifluous music.” I remember him saying those words to me while patting my shoulder and looking straight into my eyes as if he was communicating with my soul. My father was my first instructor, the very first man to ever introduce me to music when I was five years old. Piano was the first toy I’ve ever enjoyed, and is now part of my life. “Spacing out again?” Nathan says, my childhood best friend who broke the harmonica that I got from my grandmother last Christmas 2002 because he said the sound was too irritating.

Nathan witnessed my wins and failures in life. Back into 2005, I lost in the Steinway Youth Piano Competition held in Singapore; I was too devastated and too insecure to socialize. It was one of my dreams to be the champion and was the promise I made with my father before he left us. It was hard for me to go on with my life that time. It felt like every time I hit the keys with my fingers, flowers withered and the birds died. It was like I was in a boundless agony, a dark labyrinth with no escape. But all thanks to this man for referring me to Mr. Jay Santiago, my current instructor, who is extremely great and who gives me lessons which are supposed to be my dad’s work but unfortunately he gave up on my mother, he gave up on our dreams, and left us. Mr. Jay helped me recover from my great depression, taught me how to appreciate music once again, and helped me win the Hamamatsu International Piano Competition held at Shizuoka, Japan last 2007.

“From earth to Kai! We need to go home now if you don’t mind.” I glance at him as he stands at the door waiting for me to move and pack my things. “Just a minute” I say while putting my portable piano to the black case and throwing a piece of crumpled paper to the bin near me. When I get home, I immediately ran to my room and skipped dinner which is becoming a habit. I sit in front of my piano and think about how my life would be if I continued to self-pity and blame my father for leaving us. Nothing would ever be right if I hadn’t stood up that time. I wouldn’t be getting on the top of the rollercoaster if I chose to stay at the bottom.

The next day, I go to my old room near the school’s library. It’s just an extra room but it has never been used since the rumor that a student committed suicide here spread all over the campus, which I am still refusing to believe. I always go to the old room every dismissal time just to play Chopin’s Nocturne Opus 9 No. 2. It has become my daily routine to play that piano piece everyday at my school.  People say the music brings colors to the dull afternoon each time I play it. Perhaps that’s the way they hear it because as for me, it’s just another route to escape the pain my father gave me. Just another way to remind me that the first person whom I admired and introduced me to the most wonderful thing on earth, left me.

After I finished performing the piano piece, I pack my things and leave the room. A girl holding a purple waterbrush is standing in front of the door as she whispers “Magnificent”. I glance at her, not knowing how to react. I would have asked her if she is referring to the music or to the replica of Vicente Collado Jr.’s Nipa Hut painting hung on my wall but she turns around immediately and walks away. I watch her silhouette fading, leaving me astounded by her beauty.

It has been more than a week now since the first time I saw her or perhaps it was also the last time. I skip my last two classes today and made an excuse to my teacher that I am feeling nauseous. Instead of going to the clinic, I decided to just stay in the old room.  When I open the door someone is sitting beside my portable piano. A slim girl with a round brush in her right hand and a wooden palette on the left; her hand, moving softly as she paints my portable piano, adding a striped carnation flower on top. Her hair is cascading into her shoulder like a waterfall; her pale skin being illuminated by the sun rays. “Excuse me-” I finally manage to say. “Blaire Diaz” I glance at her as she turns around to me, her face so stunning, so familiar. “from class 4-2. I just happened to know that the grand champion of Hamamatsu International Piano Competition is ditching his class and is trying to hide in this worn-out room. “She says as the water from her paintbrush drips onto the floor. The same girl who left me dumbfounded the other day is sitting beside my piano. “I have an excuse.” I chuckle. I walk beside her, admiring her work, digesting every detail of the portable piano and the vibrant color of the flower. “So, why is a painter here?” I ask.  “I’ve watched your performance on the last Hamamatsu Competition and became quite intrigued when I saw you here.” I look at her small pale lips and her dark brown eyes. She’s like an art, a fragile one that when touched she will explode any minute. “Quite intrigued, I see. When did you start painting? You seem to be a professional.” I ask. “Eight years ago, I think. I spent my last five years practicing new techniques. And for your information, I am not even on the level of Picasso and Van Gogh.”She says with her eyes lock on mine.

Days and months have passed; Blaire and I become close friends. We share the same thing and thanks to music and arts for bringing us closer to each other. She frequently visits me at the old room during dismissal time to practice painting while I play the piano. I start composing a piano piece dedicated for a so seamless so flamboyant girl like her; each press on the key makes the butterflies inside me go crazy. “What is that song? It Sounds new to me.” Blaire asks, leaning towards the unfinished piano sheet I’m holding. “This is nothing. I’m just- just practicing.” I say with a nervous and raspy voice. I don’t want her to see and hear it now not unless I finish it. I should’ve done this at home, I tell myself.

She’s an easy-going girl, she always looks so relaxed and free. Blaire would often tell me jokes but no matter how platitudinous they are, they still catch my attention. There are times that when I play some of her favorite songs on the piano, she would sing along with it. Our days together in this small old room pass just like that.

Three months have passed since I first met her but just when I found myself drowning in her presence, she disappeared. She stops going in the old room; she stops going to school. Gone without telling me any words, without living any marks of her, without telling me where she is. I search for her and find any possible answers to my questions about her but I always get nothing. I feel hopeless and lost. As I walk to Ms. Santos’ faculty room, I hear a woman crying; she holds a magenta handkerchief on her face while she clutches the hem of her knee-length dress with the other hand. She looks forlorn and devastated. I stay outside the faculty room which I hope I just did not do, to wait for them to finish their talk. I wish I never overheard them. I enter the room with a heavy heart, hands on my pocket, head down. “It was her mother, right?” I ask. “Yes. She just told me something. Why are you interested?” Ms. Santos says. I could still see the marks of tears on her face. “She did not tell me about this. Blaire. Blaire- she just left. I mean, how could she enter my life and just leave?” She glances at me with a heavy and sad look on her eyes. “It must be hard for you.” Ms. Santos hands me a small paper with a set of numbers and letters on it. “See her.” She adds.

I start moving after the talk and follow the address written on the now crumpled paper. I find myself standing in this private hospital; I can feel my heart pounding so fast so hard that it will explode any minute. I enter Room 122 with a heavy feeling; it feels like my soul is leaving my body. I glance at her small pale face, remembering what it used to look like. “I missed you.” I say with a shaky voice as I hold her hand. She just nods. “You must be Kai. Blaire probably did not tell you about her condition. She has leukemia and is less likely to survive from it.” Her father says. The room just gets gloomier each minute.

I stay with her for three weeks and two days. I often tell her stories and perform her favorite piano pieces with my portable piano that she painted once. Blaire struggles to survive, she wants to live, and I know she’s still yet to experience the greatest things life has to offer. She wants to go back to painting but her body says otherwise. Her brown eyes that captivated me are now dull; her pink tinted lips are now pale.

“Hand me the purple waterbrush, please.” Blaire says, her weak voice is enough to tell me how much she is suffering. She holds it in her right hand and put it across her chest. Those are her last words. I know life must be playing that it snatches Blaire away from me. She came into my life so sudden and left me eventually. Before I knew it, I am left alone again. I wish I have never met her if the consequence of all of these is too painful. But if I hadn’t met her, I wouldn’t be experiencing such joy; I wouldn’t get to see an art as beautiful as her. On the final day of her wake, I perform my self-composed piano piece for Blaire. Although it pains me to do it because it brings me so much memories of us together, I still want her to hear it.

I know with all the times we had together, it was only I who saw something in our relationship. I assumed too much that we were in a tango, that she also saw me the way I saw her. I realized it before but I just kept telling myself that No, this is not a one-sided relationship. But I was wrong. Nevertheless, the memories we had together will never be uncarved in my bones, will never be ripped off in my soul.