When Olivia invited me over, she said it as casually as she said everything else.
"Come to my house after school," she told me, adjusting one of her bracelets. "It's boring, but less boring with you."
I pretended not to smile too hard. "Okay."
Her house sat at the end of a long, quiet street, tall and wide with dark windows that reflected the sky. It felt like the kind of place where secrets lived—soft ones, not scary ones. The yard was neat, the door painted a deep green, and when Olivia opened it, a warm smell of candles and old books drifted into the air.
"Your house is… huge," I breathed.
She didn't look surprised. "Yeah. Too big. Rooms echo."
Echo.
That made sense for Olivia.
Inside, the hallways were lined with artwork—some framed, some just taped up like her parents didn't care about perfection. There were drawings I recognized as hers, inked in dark lines and wild shapes.
"Your parents let you put your art everywhere?" I asked as we walked through.
"They don't fight me on it," she said. "They like when I do something that isn't… weird."
"You're not weird," I told her.
She glanced at me with the tiniest smile. "You're biased."
She led me into a large room with tall windows and cream-colored curtains. In the center stood a black piano, shining softly under the afternoon light.
"You play?" I asked, stepping closer.
"Sometimes," she answered, like playing an instrument beautifully was as normal as breathing.
"Will you?" I asked quietly.
Olivia hesitated for the briefest moment—just a flicker across her face—before she sat down on the bench. She cracked her knuckles dramatically, even though she didn't need to.
"Don't look at me," she said.
"I literally have to," I whispered.
"No. Look at something else."
I laughed but obeyed, turning my eyes toward the window.
And then she started playing.
The sound was soft at first, drifting like the beginning of a dream. Notes spilled out of her fingers in gentle waves, delicate but so sure of themselves. It wasn't loud or showy. It was the kind of music you leaned into without realizing.
Olivia didn't look powerful when she played.
She looked honest.
Open in a way she never let herself be with words.
I closed my eyes.
"You never told me you were this good," I whispered after a moment.
"You never asked," she said, not looking up.
The room felt heavier with meaning. Not sad—just full. Like her music filled spaces in the house that even the silence couldn't reach.
When she finished, she didn't do a big ending or spin dramatically on the bench. She just rested her fingers on the keys, breathing slowly.
I stepped closer. "Olivia… that was beautiful."
Her cheeks warmed slightly—barely noticeable unless you were watching her the way I was. She shrugged, pretending it didn't matter.
"It's just noise."
"No," I said softly. "It's you."
She finally looked at me.
Her dark eyes weren't mysterious or guarded in that moment—they were soft, open, almost shy.
"I like when you're here," she admitted quietly. "The house feels… less empty."
My chest tightened in the best possible way.
"I like being here," I said.
She slid over on the bench, making room for me. "Sit."
I did. Our shoulders touched, warm and close. She played a lighter tune this time—shorter, brighter—and somehow it felt like laughter turned into sound.
For a while we didn't speak.
We didn't need to.
The piano filled the big house, and Olivia filled the quiet parts of me that I didn't even know were empty.
And as the last note faded, I realized something:
This wasn't just friendship anymore.
This was belonging.
Soft and real and steady.
And I wanted more of it.