Her hands slid across the soft porcelain keys, her fingers occasionally pressing them down. Her hair tightly pinned up and her silky red dress draped down from the middle of her back, falling onto the floor. She sat in front of a beautiful wooden piano with a piece of sheet music placed in front of her; but she didn’t glance up once. She didn’t need to – she remembered.

She remembered the feeling of the music, where her fingers had to be, where she had to be. Not physically, but mentally. She pictured herself on stage, a ballerina, dancing to the music she played. A passion she once sought to pursue for the rest of her life. One she had to give up. She pictured herself doing pirouettes at the high keys and plies at the lower ones. She imagined the red dress she wore attached to a tutu, rather than the end of it dragging across the floor. And the crowd. Of course she would have to have a crowd, every good performer does. Hundreds, or maybe even thousands of people would sit and watch and cheer every time she spun or leaped.

He would be in the crowd- the man she used to love. And he would watch and mourn the loss of her. And eventually, he would come back to her. He would talk about how beautiful she looked on stage and how fantastic the performance was. How he would love for her to be with him again. But eventually, as she plays the finale, she realizes that it won’t happen. Her fingers hit the final few keys left in the song as she reminds herself that it is nothing more than a story.

It will never be more than just a story.