She was beautiful at the age of 10, sitting in front of the piano, her shoulders stiff, her lips chapped, her hair in braids, while playing Chopin’s “Fantasie Impromtu”.

    She was beautiful at the age of 15, sitting in front of the piano, her shoulders loose, her lips painted like a dripping sunset, her hair messily falling on her shoulders, while playing Chopin’s “Winter Wind”. 

    She was beautiful at the age of 17, sitting in front of the piano, tears falling on the black and white tiles, her hair tied in a ponytail, too tight, pulling back the emotions that were burning in , while playing Chopin’s “Tristesse”, as a farewell to her little sister. 

     I could only see her in black and white, but she radiated the brightest colors. I was sure I was going to forget, because I don’t have the ability to remember everything, only the ones that mattered. The braided hair, the bright smile, the clenched eyes, and the tender hands that picked me up, when i was just  a forgotten kitten, in a shoe box, near the river, so I am her cat.

    Jisoo was beautiful like a lover. The same hand that played heavenly the tiles of the piano cuddled my black fur, reminding me I was home.

    I learned about her habits. She would wake up at 7, she would prepare breakfast for both us and then leave. I would do nothing but wait, for time didn’t go on if she wasn’t next to me. She would sometimes talk, for I was the only one who was there to listen to her. I didn’t understand, the barrier between two worlds, mine and hers, being too big for us to have a connection beyond unspoken love. 

     But that was before her sister passed away. She came home, but she didn’t sit in front of the piano to play for me. She came home, but she felt far away, lost into space. She was crying and all I could do was her tears away before they hit the pillowcase. Loaded with us, this world keeps turning around aimlessly, in a pitch-dark.

    I remember her being colder that night, and I remember not knowing. I remember not understanding and I realized that her brightest colors were radiated when her soul was drained like the moonlight on the river. 

    The day after that she woke up at 7, she prepared breakfast for both of us and then left. Her habits were the same, but the look on her eyes was empty and drowned in sorrow. I loved the way she looked in the morning, her hair loose, covering her shoulders, her dress not fully zipped because she couldn’t reach the end. 

          Some other habits had changed. She came home late, dizzy, probably drunk and she rarely played the piano. When she did, the notes came out loud and angry. Playing Chopin’s Revolutionary Etude. Today i was stuck missing her. Today i was stuck looking at the city by the window, wishing she was home. 

          Three months later, I saw her in front of the piano, no Chopin being played. There were thousands of piano sheets all over the apartment, her hair in a messy bun, her shirt too big for her small frame. She was playing her her own composition and I realized that after all this time, I could feel. I was in love. I had always been.

           Not long after, she took me in her arms and put me above the piano. Slimily eyes, warm look, and tender voice speaking to me: 

“Jennie,” she petted my head, and caressed my ears, making me tickle, “can someone die of sadness?” 

           I meowed not knowing the answer and made myself comfortable on the piano listening to the first piece that she had ever made. After that I was all gone. If someone couldn’t die of sadness, maybe they could die out of happiness.

“Why aren’t you waking up, Jennie?” Jisoo murmured as she played the last note.