Chapter 7: The Version of Me You Loved
1000 Words
The first thing I noticed about State University was how loud everything was.
Dorm move-in weekend sounded like a city block party. Music blared from open windows, voices echoed across the quad, and someone had already spilled a full energy drink down the stairwell of our building. My roommate was nice—quiet, a biology major from Vermont who liked color-coded note tabs and slept with her earbuds in. I didn’t mind the quiet.
I needed it.
Because nothing outside felt quiet anymore.
Not Rowan’s schedule, which was now filled with team practice, travel games, and late-night gym sessions.
Not my classes, which were bigger, faster, more demanding than anything I’d imagined.
And definitely not my heart, which still hadn’t figured out whether it was proud or ashamed of the decision I’d made.
We were supposed to come here together.
But I came here for him.
And now… I barely saw him.
We have lunch together once a week. Fridays, usually. He’d walk me from the library, swing our hands between us, ask me how I was doing without really waiting for an answer.
“I’m thinking of switching to psychology,” I said one day.
He blinked. “You’re not doing music?”
I shook my head. “There’s no formal program here. The classes are all basic theory, history of jazz… nothing performance-based.”
He nodded. “Yeah, it makes sense. But hey—you’ll still play for me, right?”
I smiled.
And I hated that I did.
In the evenings, I’d sit at the campus piano room—one of the few perks of being on scholarship, even if it wasn’t music-related. I’d play until my fingers ached, until the ache distracted me from the ache in my chest.
But I didn’t let Rowan hear me play anymore.
Because he wasn’t listening.
By mid-October, he’d started forgetting small things.
Like our one-week “anniversary.”
Or that I’d told him about my solo presentation.
Or that I was allergic to kiwi.
Once, we went out for bubble tea and he handed me a drink—green, cold, smiling like he’d done something sweet.
“Kiwi matcha—your favorite, right?”
I stared at the cup. I could feel my throat closing at just the thought of it.
He didn’t notice my silence. Not even when I gave the drink away to a stranger on the way back to the dorms.
Rowan wasn’t cruel. He didn’t yell. He didn’t insult me.
But love, I was starting to understand, wasn’t always loud when it hurt.
Sometimes it was quiet neglect. A missed glance. An undone promise.
Sometimes it was fading.
One rainy night in November, I sat in the laundry room with my laptop open and my fingers frozen over the keys. I wasn’t working on an essay. I was drafting a letter.
To the Conservatory.
I hadn’t let myself think about it since turning it down. But now, when the piano no longer felt like a friend, when the boy I followed here barely looked at me between games, I found myself wondering what would’ve happened if I’d chosen differently.
I didn’t finish the letter.
I closed the laptop.
I folded the guilt and slid it under my tongue like sour candy.
Emily posted a photo that week.
It was her, standing on a London street corner, coat cinched at the waist, holding a slim piano portfolio case. The caption read: “Found my rhythm again.”
The comments were full of praise. Beautiful. Brilliant. Living the dream.
I didn’t leave a like.
But I stared at the photo for a long time.
That Friday, Rowan canceled lunch.
“Coach added an extra drill block. Sorry babe. I’ll make it up to you.”
He didn’t.
Instead, he fell asleep before texting me goodnight.
I stayed awake until three, listening to rain hitting the windows and wondering if this was what love looked like when it got tired.
In December, my advisor asked if I’d thought about changing majors again.
“You have the grades,” she said. “You could transfer into Honors Lit, or even cross-apply to the joint music program at the city college.”
I smiled politely. “I’ll think about it.”
But I didn’t think. I just survived.
Final week was a blur of cold pizza, library naps, and caffeine-induced headaches. Rowan missed our study date. He texted:
“You got this. I believe in you. Don’t forget to eat!”
I stared at the message, then closed my phone.
Believe in me?
He hadn’t looked me in the eyes for three weeks.
On the last night before winter break, I found myself walking across campus alone. The snow had just started falling, dusting the sidewalks in powder. I passed the music building. Lights were still on in one of the practice rooms.
Without thinking, I walked in.
A boy—tall, glasses, maybe a senior—was playing something soft and haunting. He looked up and smiled.
“Wanna take over?” he asked, scooting aside on the bench.
I hesitated. Then nodded.
I sat down. My fingers hovered over the keys.
The first note was hesitant. The second is stronger. By the third bar, I remembered who I used to be.
Not someone’s girlfriend. Not someone who settled.
Just… someone who played.
When I finished, the boy clapped softly.
“You should perform.”
I shook my head. “Not anymore.”
“Pity,” he said. “You play like someone who’s trying to breathe.”
I smiled, small and sad.
Because he wasn’t wrong.
When I got back to my room that night, I found a voicemail waiting.
Rowan.
“Hey. Just wanted to say I miss you. Things have been crazy. But you’re still… you know. My favorite person.”
I listened twice.
Then deleted it.
The next morning, I opened my laptop.
This time, I finished the letter.
To the Conservatory. For next fall.
- Writer
