to my already injured hand actually helped stop the trail of thoughts.

Beethoven's Piano Sonata No. 14—the Moonlight Sonata. I remembered hearing and immediately wanting to learn it when I was sixteen. I was a shit-show at playing back then, trembling hands and forgetful thoughts. An absolute disaster. I wasn't trying to prove to be legendary now, but I had seriously developed my skill over time. Some of his works felt like I was living in a slightly terrifying fever dream, and some of them felt like heaven itself. This one was a mix of both.

But what I liked the most about it was how raw it felt.

I was glad my mind was blank. This was the first time in months I had nothing going through my brain, but it wasn't an easy feat. My right hand had developed a moderate sprain. It led me to think: if it had to break, why did it hold back?

What was the point of a fucking sprain?

I couldn't understand why I was so vexed. Why I continued to slam my fingers onto the keys even when I did less work and cursed a lot more. I could be going insane and have no idea. This wasn't helping, though. I closed my eyes and tried to think of something else—anything which would make me feel less shitty and help me register that making my already bruised hand going through another ounce of pain was a fucking disastrous idea, but nothing. Nothing came.

Apart from the loud voice that boomed through the halls. Too shrill, too annoying, and definitely Evelyn. Her footsteps echoed to this floor, but she didn't barge right in. She just shouted my name, and told me to calm the fuck down.

I rolled my eyes.

I could even hear Rosalie shouting at her language from the ground floor. I bit back a menacing laugh. She deserved that, times hundred. If Laura were here, she'd ask me why I was being an absolute douchebag to my sister.

I wondered what she was doing. What her days consisted of, apart from school. I was sure they weren't anything like mine. I spent my time at school being bored and occasionally ruining her mood, and at home doing everything in my power to ignore my thoughts. And my father.

Does she have a part-time job? I actually wanted to talk to her brother when I saw him fleetingly before our trip. He looked like he would put me six feet under if I made one wrong move, and I respected him a little too much for that. I guess I could just understand where he was coming from, because I'd just be as concerned for Evelyn when the time came.

So much for trying not to think—especially about her. I reluctantly got up from where I was sitting and kicked the chair right in front of me. "Fuck's sake."

Rosalie had proposed an idea to me yesterday, something along the lines of: if you limit your cursing to, at the maximum, ten times a day, I'd make you your favourite lunch twice a week. You're turning Evelyn into a thirteen-year-old, girl version of yourself.

Guess I was not challenging myself to that today. Or anytime soon, for that matter. Again, Laura would've said I was a bad influence.

And even after anything I tried to do, my mind stopped at any instance of her.

Today had been a disaster—I made her cry, and it did my mood no justice. The fact that I didn't know why she did break down in my arms drove me insane, but I wasn't going to push her to tell me anything unless and until she wanted to. Usually, I wouldn't have minded her pretty face in my thoughts. I just wanted her off my mind for a second, but the more I thought about today, the more I thought about her.

Messing my hair with my good hand, I exited the music room. Though it was very late in the evening, I had no clue how I was supposed to pass time until midnight, where the peak of my struggles began. That was posing to be a bigger problem than I let on. As I came striding down the stairs, I noticed Rosalie in the kitchen, giving me a bright smile.

"How are you feeling?"

"Shitty," I couldn't even think before I spoke, and my eyes widened. "Uh—like crap? Is that allowed?"

She rose an eyebrow. "I'm going to start fining you at this rate."

I rolled my eyes as I walked over to the kitchen and grabbed some fruits, slamming my right foot on the slab in process. Today had to be the worst day of my life. "You're too restless today," Rosalie winced. "Stop it already, Evan. You're not a baby."

When I didn't answer, she continued. "What were you up to?"

"I was practicing the piano," I said quietly, because I already knew what her response was going to be. "I think I hurt my hand."

She passed me a small smile, smoothening her blonde waves over her shoulders. "You can rest one day, Evan," she saw the purple and red coloured bruise blooming on my wrist the second she removed the bandage and sighed. "See what you did to your hand. Is this helping you heal at all?"

I couldn't care less. Even if it meant breaking my hand into two but still playing the guitar, I'd do it without a second thought.

I think I hit my head too hard yesterday, because—what the hell?

"Rest?"

"Maybe it'll be easier for you to sleep in the afternoon," she suggested, but I wasn't the one for naps. I didn't like sleeping in general, but the one time I did take a nap was probably the best sleep I had ever gotten. I didn't know if it could work now, though. My mind was impossible to silence. "Read a book?"

"Completed three since yesterday. My eyes are fried, and so is my brain."

She didn't deserve to be treated the way I was treating her. I tried to pass her a smile, which made her laugh—almost as if she were proud of me trying to be nice. "Go talk to Xavier, I'm pretty sure he's worried, too."

I guess I will, if he doesn't kill me first. If making people worried is all I did, I'd respect all of Xavier's tantrums. I also needed someone to put some sense into me before my brain took over and I started killing the punching bag kept on the first floor. "Sorry. . .I have no idea why I'm acting the way that I am."

"It's okay." She paused, and then smiled. "Tell Xavier I said hi."

I didn't deserve her.

When I walked back to my room, the sight which greeted my eyes overwhelmed me. Books were sprawled over my desk, spread on my bed, pouring out of my bag. I did like reading, but I didn't remember when I had made such a mess of my room. I had no time for this, so picking up the book I had started reading yesterday—1984 by George Orwell—and plopping onto my bed in the middle of chaos became the easiest thing. Before I could open the book, though, I quickly searched my contacts and called Xavier.

And gave him time to shout at me, since he was the only one that hadn't done that already.

"Oh," I could hear his scoff. "Look who's calling."

I rolled my eyes. "Hello to you, too."

When he didn't speak for a while, I had assumed that he was seething. "Look—"

"I don't want to know you were in a fucking rush. If you would've died, Parker, I swear to God I would've bought you back and killed you with my own hands."

I grinned. "That's actually kind of messed up, dude."

It was amusing seeing Xavier angry, even after knowing him since the second grade. He never cursed this much normally, and I couldn't help but laugh. "You're laughing. Fine. You have actually turned sadistic, haven't you?"

"I'm okay, Mom," I narrowed my eyes in humour. "All fine and dandy. Stop treating me like a baby. Why don't we celebrate me being alive, now that I am back and kicking?"

"Sometimes I wonder why I even associate myself with you."

"That's not very nice of you to say, best friend."

There was another huff of breath. I knew he was pissed, and it just made me want to anger him more. Knowing him for so long probably didn't give him any benefit, and the fact that he even continued to speak to me was a miracle. "Shut up. Also, is Laura okay? She looked distraught yesterday."

I could only hope she was. I didn't know what had happened or what went through her head, but refused to believe that whatever she did was solely because she was worried about me. The thought was slow poison, and I let it burn. I almost wanted me to be the sole reason that made her cry in my arms—but I knew it wasn't.

"I. . . honestly, I don't know," I realized I was opening up a possibility that something might've happened, which she didn't want in her current headspace. "I think it was pretty impulsive, though. Maybe she's emotional like that. You scared her with your call."

He hummed. Then, I pictured him narrow his eyes at me. "That day at the party, where the hell did you disappear off to? You didn't tell anyone."

I sighed. "Right," then, I tucked the phone between my ear and my shoulder, and started putting the books back to the shelf. "I was with Laura."

"Where?"

"We went to this Chinese takeout place," I laughed. "And it rained soon after."

A second. Two. He took his sweet time responding, and I could picture his lips curling into a grin. "You're going out of your way, Parker. It's uncharacteristic."

My eyes widened a little. "What? You know I promised her. I was trying to make up for not keeping the promise."

"Of course."

I wanted to say fuck off, but the scene of the party floated in my memory like an ineffable dream and all I could do was shun myself, because I remembered her standing in the middle of the dance floor with rosy cheeks and wavy hair and that damned dress which hugged her body perfectly a little too clearly. Her hand fit in mine like it was made to be there, and how the sweet smell of lavender hit my senses every time I spun her around. I remembered the way her fingers had traced mere lines on my shoulders and the warmth her eyes had given me every time they met mine. How her lips had parted when I started playing with her hair, her body so close to me.

"Are you done?"

Asshole. "What?"

"Now's not the time to fantasize about her," he said. "I need to go. I'll see you on Sunday, if you're free?"

"Yeah, okay." I rummaged through my drawer in hopes of finding the diary I was writing the last song in. When he didn't end the call, I rose my eyebrows. "What now, Henderson?"

"I just think," he paused. "That you should admit it if you fancy someone."

I rolled my eyes. Of course, nothing went unnoticed. That was one of the biggest fucking downfalls knowing this genius. "Hm? I'll keep that in mind in the future."

There was a laugh, and I could figure that taunt from miles away. When he hung up, I seated myself on the chair and flipped to the latest page. My penmanship was messy and bold, running in a slant. The words read: If I don't know what's running in that head of yours, you'll never catch me saying what's in mine.

▂

Nights were terrible, but tonight was even worse.

I had finished two more books by the time it hit midnight, and I couldn't focus on words anymore. My basic comprehension skills were gone, and so were my senses. I thought of calling Laura, for no apparent reason. The fact that I'd get to hear her voice made me sit up straight.

Don't do it, Evan, something warned me. But damnit—the need overpowered. Of course, I could only come off as a creep if I called her right now. She was most likely sleeping. But then again, the reckless part of me wanted to jump on her balcony and break through her window, just like that time when I had almost done that and she had hit me with a fucking badminton racket. Technically, I had totally done that. I just didn't want to accept that now it became a part of me and things I'd done in the past.

A smile still formed on my lips at the thought of her.

It was a good time to reckon that I was actually going insane.

I walked over to my window, through which moonlight fought a battle with my translucent blinds. My mind wandered off again, and my hand itched to pick up the guitar. I didn't do it. It was three o'clock on the morning. Evelyn didn't need another reason to dispose me off for good.

Then, my eyes fell onto the photo frame on my desk for a second, and I immediately turned away, chest trapping all the air I just breathed in and refusing to let go.

Now wasn't the time.

And then I was thinking about Laura again, and it didn't take me more than three seconds to realize that I had already tapped on her contact on my phone. Joder. Shit. Great, now I was switching languages while cursing. If Rosalie did bring the plan of fining me to fruition, I would give it a maximum of three days to go broke.

When I heard the ring blasting through the speakers, I didn't bother ending the call. I braced myself for all the curses she would throw at me at any instant from—

"He—hello?"

Her voice broke. Her voice was a whisper. Her voice sounded nothing like her.

"You're still up?" I couldn't help being relieved, for some reason.

She answered after a beat. "Couldn't sleep."

I let several seconds passed, just trying to deny the feeling that she'd been crying just a while ago. Then, I said: "Me neither."

"Why'd you call?"

I had no reason. I held onto the question, racking my brain for answers. "Right," I couldn't think of a single thing, and ended up saying exactly what was on my mind. "I guess I couldn't get you off my mind."

I didn't blame the lack of response that followed. It was confirmed and set in stone, that I had gone completely insane.

"Uh. . .did you rest?"

I couldn't help but laugh. She went off about how she didn't like me laughing at her genuine question, and it just made me laugh more. "I've been resting all day, and it's one of the shittiest things ever."

"What, resting?"

"Yes," I spoke, and then grabbed the diary from the table and walked to my bed. "It's one of the things which makes me feel like I'm not. . .alive, in a sense."

I'd never tried to put it into words before, so when I did, it sounded pretentious as hell. If I were her, I would've laughed, made a funny remark, ended the call, and blocked myself.

She told me to elaborate.

"It sounds stupid." I didn't want to risk actually getting blocked.

"It's not stupid if it makes sense to you," she'd said. "I'm trying to understand you a little better."

I genuinely didn't remember the last time I had laughed so hard. What was she on about? "You know me too well, Edwards, but you might not be aware."

Then, for safety measures, I added: "Or might be. I feel like I'd never know."

Her voice was soft, and I could picture her eyes shrinking. "Don't think so."

"So," I dragged my syllables. "What do you want to know?"

"What were you doing before you called me?"

I moved. She could probably hear me when I picked up the diary in my hands. "Reading. Was writing, but my hand was not cooperating."

"You're so troublesome. Rest your hand for once, for God's sake."

I know. I'm trying.

"I, uh, tried to play the piano the morning, too," I said, and immediately grimaced. God, what am I doing? "It was more out of frustration than want."

"What are you, four? Tone down the masochism."

Her little comments could keep me going for days. I let out another laugh, and then spoke again. "Are you doing better?"

"I'm okay. You don't need to keep asking me that."

"Your voice seemed anything but okay in the start. Were you. . .crying?"

"No. I woke up in the middle of the night, and now I cannot go back to sleep. Good thing we don't have school tomorrow, or else we'll both be screwed."

She spoke with so much conviction that it took everything in me not to believe every word she uttered, but I knew how she was yesterday—and how her voice sounded before she pulled on this façade.

When I didn't reply, she continued. "Why are you up at 3 A. M., Evan?"

Fucked up sleep schedule. Bad, bad, insomnia. Ten out of ten. Would recommend.

"Trouble sleeping," is all I could tell her, though. And how much I slept last night. I just didn't add the fact that last night's sleep was the same as the night before. And the night before.

She sounded concerned, and it made me grin. "What? Evan, you need at least six—"

"I know, I know," rolling eyes came complementary with anything I said to her, with an awful, awful number of smiles which looked out of place on my mouth. "I just can't."

"When I heard your voice, it actually worried me. It sounded so. . .strained."

I had forgotten I was on call entirely, because all my brain could think was: she noticed, she noticed, she noticed. "You noticed."

"Have you been overworking yourself?"

I couldn't answer that.

"Why, Evan?"

The diary flipped open to a random page, and the lyric that popped up made the stars align. I had written this six hours ago.

There's this deeply rooted fear in me

That I'm never doing enough

And I'm never doing my best

And I think I'm trying to compensate

With doing more than enough

And ruining everything else

I laughed after reciting that like it was poetry. "How's that for a lyric?"

"Did you. . .just write that?"

"Wrote," I breathed. "A couple hours ago. With the same, injured hand. I think I'm starting to hate it right about now."

"I love it. When can I hear it?"

"Someone's eager," I laughed. "I haven't completed it yet. There's a particular sound I have in mind, and executing that might just take forever, but it'll be worth it and—yeah."

I rambled, cut myself short, only for her to hype it up. She proposed the idea of being the first listener. We talked for some more and I'd not smiled this much this entire week that I had under an hour-long phone call, and it drove me crazy and content and beyond grateful until I was grinning like a madman—again.

Then, she thanked me. And I hadn't done anything. I couldn't even accept it.

I laughed. Said goodnight, because I knew I would be sleeping tonight.

▂

I had slept for five hours straight after days.

When Sunday rolled on, I went on a run—one of the few things I was fully capable of doing—and walked right into my house knowing that Laura was supposed to be visiting in a little over an hour. I'd perfected every corner of my room already, and told Rosalie and Evelyn about her.

What I hadn't planned was Dad to be home.