Heartbreak Sonata

This is the story of a boy who had given up on his dreams, and a girl who could never have any.

She’d accepted her fate; he would deny hers, and his, until the day she was finally gone.


         She had always loved to listen to him play, even as a little girl, when he’d just been learning which key played what note, and when she’d just been learning what was making her body break down so much.
         She knew that he made mistakes…a lot. She knew that his parents wanted him to do better, be better.
         She knew the emotions he dealt with every time he put his fingers to the keys: anger, frustration, disappointment, and a bitter sadness.
         And she knew why he would never be as good as she knew he was capable of: she was dying.
         Every day he told her that he didn’t deserve to be his best, if she wasn’t her best too. It had been like this since they were children. So on he struggled with his feelings, holding himself back on purpose.
         She came to listen to him practice every day, but always sat down behind the piano bench on a chair, leaning against his back. She didn’t want to see the pain on his face.
         For an hour every day she would sit, close her eyes and smile as he went through one choppy, misplayed song after another.
         It made her sad that he wasn’t allowing himself to fully reach his potential, but she still was happy that he continued to try, or even play.
         “Just once,” she whispered one day as she crossed her arms slowly, unintentionally brushing the IV drips stuck in both insides of her elbows, “I want you to do your best, for me.”
         He could feel her long blonde hair, and the heat of her thin body against his back, and he sighed, his fingers hovering over the keys.
         “But it isn’t fair,” he argued, as he always did, “If you have to suffer, I will too.”
         “But I’m happy when I’m with you,” she protested, opening her eyes and turning to rest her chin on his shoulder. She saw that he was crying, and hesitated, but soon continued, “And maybe if you let yourself reach your potential, I’ll get better too.”
         “Or maybe I can’t get better, just like you – the doctors told me you wouldn’t.” The look of pain on his face was too much for her so close up, and she buried her head in his neck, closing her eyes tightly.
         Her smile began to fade as she did so, but she quickly brought it back as she turned her head back to where it had been resting, and said, “The doctors don’t try to play beautiful music for me everyday.” Reaching her arms around his neck, she winced as the IVs pulled a bit, but she put that out of her head.
         “You really want me to do well, don’t you?” He smiled through the pain, and she nodded against his shoulder, encouraging him. Hesitantly, he dropped his fingers to the keys, trying to wash away his despair and pain before he played.
         “Make me the happiest, please,” she whispered in his ear, and he smiled again.
         Without thinking, he let his fingers dance back and forth, creating a beautiful melody that had her closing her eyes and sighing in perfect bliss.
         They both were the happiest they’d been in months, years even, and by the end, he was crying tears of joy. Turning to face her, he brushed his shaggy sable hair from his eyes and asked, “Did I make you happy?”
         She grinned and hugged him tight, trying to ignore the aching pain under her left rib.
         He felt the cords from the drip as he hugged her back, and for a second his thoughts darkened, but he smiled once again as she said, “You’ve been my best friend my whole life; I love you, I always will.”
         He watched a tear fall down onto his creamy white suit jacket, darkening the material as she pulled away from his hold to kiss him on the cheek. “Thank you for doing your best,” she whispered, and he smiled and caught a strand of her long, undulating golden hair.
         He kissed it before letting it go, and watched her stand, take her IV drip and walk slowly out of the room, favouring her left side. She stopped at the door, her hospital gown billowing about her tiny frame as she turned around and blew him a kiss, and he blew one back and winked.
         Then the door was closed, and he was left with a tear stain over his heart and the thought in his head that maybe she was right, and she would get better now too.
         As he thought of her, and all the possibilities, he played the song again. It was only when he was finished that he realized there was no sheet music before him.
         Mystified, he stood up and walked out of the room, smiling instead of being swathed in pain and sadness. She would be back down at the hospital, he knew, and he would have to wait until tomorrow to see her.

         The next morning, he woke up and went straight to his Steinway, playing the song, her song, over and over without any mistakes.
         When it came time for her to come and listen, a hesitant knock rapped on the door, and he furrowed his brow, wondering who it was; she never knocked.
         It was his mother. “Son…” she began, but the look on her face was enough.
         “No…it didn’t work – NO!” He yelled, and was about to take the bench and hurl it at the piano, or the window, but his mother caught his wrist and held him back, handing him sheets of tear-stained paper before releasing his wrist and retreating out of the room, but not before whispering, “I’m sorry.”

         ‘My friend,’ he read as he sat down on her chair, ‘I know I’m going to die now; I’ve known it for days. I knew you would never play again if I told you. But I thank you, for letting me see just how good you are… You have to be strong now, and be the best, for me, because I couldn’t get better. I’ll miss you, and I know you’ll do great things now – live your dream for me, because the only dreams I’ve ever had to look forward to watching unfold were yours.
         ‘I love you.’

         Behind the note sheet were blank sheet music papers. Knowing what she wanted, he went to sit on the bench, grabbed a pen from beside his songbook and stared at what she’d written at the top of the first page: ‘Since you gave me the song as a final gift, the least I can give you is something to write it down on.’
         Tears ran freely down his cheeks as he fiercely worked to jot down the notes to the beautiful, haunting melody. Pain had come in full force now, but he was happy he had given her something before she left.
         Regardless of how happy they had been when he had first played it, when he was done he scrawled at the top, under her note, the title: “Heartbreak Sonata.” He’d been living through one his whole life, but now, the song was over.