Chapter 10: When Fingers Touch the Same Key
471 Words
Their laughter filled the space before they sat down to rehearse a new arrangement—Ravel’s Ma mère l’Oye. The piece was whimsical, fairy-tale like, with moments that demanded childlike wonder. It was harder than it looked. Timing was everything.
Halfway through the third movement, Leo misread a chord and accidentally grazed the back of Elara’s hand with his pinky. Neither of them stopped playing, but she felt it—his hesitation, her heartbeat skipping a little, the silence behind each note suddenly louder.
They didn’t speak of it.
But something changed in the way they looked at each other after that.
One afternoon, their instructor stopped by to observe. Professor Hensley was a brisk woman in her sixties with sharp eyes and a heart that only revealed itself in rare, thoughtful comments.
She listened to them play through a segment of Brahms, arms crossed, expression unreadable. When they finished, she simply nodded.
“You two have something rare,” she said. “You don’t compete. You respond.”
Leo blinked. “Isn’t that what duets are supposed to be?”
“Many try,” Hensley replied. “Few succeed.”
Elara’s chest swelled with quiet pride.
Their piece was chosen for the upcoming campus recital.
It wasn’t a competition, just a showcase—but to Elara, it meant everything. For the first time, she wouldn’t be playing solo. It wouldn’t be about proving herself. It would be about sharing something with someone else.
They practiced harder. Longer.
Leo started waiting for her after class. Sometimes they ate together in the quad, sometimes they exchanged playlists or book recommendations. The lines between practice and personal blurred, but neither rushed to define it.
Then came the night before the recital.
They stayed late in the music building, running through the piece one last time. Elara’s nerves were evident—she missed notes, stumbled on transitions.
Leo paused mid-piece and gently covered her hand with his.
“You’ve got this,” he said softly. “You’re not alone this time.”
Her eyes stung. She didn’t realize how much she had needed to hear that.
They played again.
And this time, it was perfect.
Not because of flawless technique, but because of connection. The music breathed with them, shaped itself around their shared rhythm.
When they reached the final chord, they let it ring for longer than necessary.
Neither wanted it to end.
That night, as they walked side by side in the quiet courtyard, Leo suddenly stopped.
“Elara,” he said, voice uncertain but steady, “can I ask something a little bold?”
She turned to face him.
“Have you ever played a duet... not just on piano, but in life?”
She didn’t answer right away.
But then she smiled.
“Maybe I’m finally ready to try.”
- Writer
