Hey! Here's the first Chapter! Do tell me how it was. Oh! And italics are supposed to be flashbacks. 

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She hated the piano, hated the very existence of it.

With every fiber of her being, it was centered on hating the organ instrument.

Everything about it, there is to it, she hated it.

For it brought with it memories, bad ones – terrible ones she wished she could forget. Still, as much as she hated it, she would admit that she loved the melody, stirring light and life. Yes, there were good times – she has to admit – but the bad ones always dominated, corrupting the good memories.

She grew up playing it, mastered it before she was a teenager. Everyone called her a prodigy, praised her left and right. Growing up, the piano was there for every significant event in her life.

Every note she hit felt like rain on a summer day, a blessing, joy, life despite its adversity.

Once upon a time, playing the piano was her life; it became a core to her being. Once upon a time, the piano was the sources of happiness.

But that was then, and this is now.

Now, she hated the piano.

Now, every note she hit was like thunder on beautiful day.

Now, it was nothing but a bane to her being.

And there was one now, right in front of her.

It stood in the middle of the stage, a full sized grand piano. It was white, made possibly of the finest wood, or marble. Pearl, maybe?

Still, the sight of it taunted her, tugging at her being.

Her hands balled into a fist, steeling her shaking hands. Hands that were just itching to touch it.

It didn't help that she worked in a cafe that played live music. Every weekend musicians filled the stage and sing their hearts out. Sometimes they used the piano, sometimes they didn't. And with their presence, it was a symphony. Every time they played, they brought life to café. She almost envied them for it.

When they did chose to play the piano – as an accompaniment or plain use it, she'd lose herself to the melody and the memories come rushing in, as if on rewind.

She always chose the closing shift, because she spent most of her mornings reading, writing, painting, baking– anything to keep herself busy. It was almost torture, sweet torture.

At the end of the day, she had to ask herself why she chose the job in the first place.

At the end of the day, she always finds herself looking at it, staring at it from across the room.

There were times when she'd stare for hours, like it was calling her, just begging for her to play it. During work hours, it was the same; her eyes would automatically turn to it. And then, her co-worker would call her, and she'd turn the lights off, basking the room in darkness.

While the job paid well, and her co-workers were good people, she was closed off about herself – always so timid, tightlipped, meek and reserved. She wasn't always like this, but it was better this way.

It only meant less attachment. She didn't have many friends here, and that was okay.

That's the problem with opening yourself to people; you get attached, and it'll hurt when you have to part ways.

She hated being alone. But right now, she had no one but herself. She was all she had.

She learned that the hard way.

After all, it's been two years.

One night, while she was clearing out the last of the tables (her co-workers had to go ahead and she didn't mind), her eyes instinctively turned to the piano onstage. Amidst the silence, she swore she could still hear trickling of notes, of laughter and hushed voices.

It felt like hours, just standing there.

While both her mind and heart said no, her body moved on its own.

Her fingers trailed along its smooth white surface, feeling its coolness against her touch. It was definitely wood, she thought.

The corners of turned slightly, melancholy in her eyes.

How many talented people have touched it? How many melodies were played? Too many, yet she wished she could be a part of them. Her heart was yearning.

Releasing a shaky breath, she looked around – even though she was the only one around, before sitting on the bench, opening the lid with another shaky breathe.

Her eyes then found the keys, fingers itching as always. Too many memories, too many songs. It all came like a blur.

Absentmindedly, her fingers moved on its own, producing a melody. Familiarization washed over her when the tune became clear.

This song, she knew it too well.

It was her first heartbreak song.

Each note rippled, commanding.

When she was done, tears had leaked from her eyes. Her body felt numb, she was shaking all over. Horrified, she retrieved her fingers from the piano, as if it burned her.

She knew it was a bad idea.

Then, someone applauded her. She had an audience.

"That was beautiful." She glanced up; breathe hitching in , wishing she didn't. "Jar of Hearts, wasn't it?"

Because standing there, was the bane of her existence – when it was actually the other way around, watching her on stage with a grin. There she was, the woman she was running away from. There she was, the woman she ruined.

She forgot how to breathe, tears streaming faster than before, alarming the woman.

Before the woman could say a word, she was already running out of the cafe.

Later that night, she lay in her tub, hugging her knees.

Warm bubbles surrounded her, the sweet aroma soothing. A long bath always did calm her nerves. But it never could fix the void inside her.

Moving her arms against the water, she watched the bubbles colliding with the other – seeing the colors, listened to the soft slosh, momentarily amused. Releasing a deep breathe, she leaned against the tiled wall behind her, closing her eyes for a moment.

Water was a cleansing element. If only it could wash away her sins.

Out her window, she could see the full moon. A cloud passed, covering the moon for a while.

She recalled a Japanese saying: when the cloud covers the moon, somewhere, a girl is crying.

She let her tears fall, her teeth sinking into her lower lip.

She was always crying, she was tired of being the one who always cried.

It hurt to see her again, to see those familiar eyes that haunted her for many nights.

The last time she saw her, she was lying in a hospital bed, comatose, because of her. She left before she woke up.
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"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry..." a girl cried, as the first summer rain fell that night.

" Don't say you're sorry, this is your fault! All your fault!"
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She woke up with a start, drenched in sweat and her heart pounding. She could still feel the patter of rain, the mixed scent of smoke and blood. Swallowing deep breathes of air; she brought her knees to her chest, closing her eyes as she tried to calm herself.

It was always like this, it's always been like this.

And yet, she's still not used to it.

Sleep had become extremely difficult for her.

It was impossible to get a good night's rest without the nightmare waking her in the middle of the night. And they were always the same, the crash, her body, the smell of smoke and blood, her blood on her hands, and her voice, her angry eyes, blaming her – reminding her that it was all her fault.

After she'd wake up, she'd have a terrible time going back to sleep. She was afraid to go back to sleep, to see it all again. The longest rest she's had is five hours; it was a miracle she was able to get by with lack of sleep.

Such was the reason for her closing shifts.

She invested her waking hours reading, she has a quite a collection of books. Sometimes, she'd paint – abstract paintings, because they hid emotion and meaning best. Or sometimes, she'd be writing – confessing to scraps of paper.

I'm sorry for everything I've done, she wrote. There are so many things I wanted to do to make up for it, but I'll settle for telling you first how sorry I am. Next time, I promise