The music room felt different that day.
Not because anything had changed—but because I kept expecting it to.
I arrived first, setting my bag down beside the piano and glancing at the door more times than I wanted to admit. The hallway outside was louder than usual, footsteps passing by too close for comfort.
When the door finally opened, I jumped.
Eli stepped inside, closing it gently behind him.
"Sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to scare you."
"It's fine," I replied, though my heart was still racing.
We both laughed a little, but it didn't last long. Something unspoken hung in the air, like we were both thinking the same thing.
What if someone sees us?
I sat at the piano and began to play, softer than usual. The notes didn't echo as freely; they stayed close, careful. Eli leaned against the wall, arms crossed, listening like always—but his eyes kept flicking toward the door.
Halfway through the song, voices passed by outside.
I stopped playing instantly.
The footsteps slowed.
Eli straightened, his gaze locked on the door. For a second, I thought the handle might turn.
It didn't.
The voices faded, laughter drifting away down the hall.
We both let out a breath at the same time.
"That was close," he said quietly.
I nodded. "This place isn't as empty as it used to be."
He looked at me, something serious in his expression. "If you ever want to stop coming here… I'll understand."
I shook my head before he even finished speaking. "I don't want to."
His shoulders relaxed, just a little.
"Then we'll just have to be careful," he said.
I smiled, turning back to the piano.
As I played again, the music felt more fragile—but also more important than before.
Like something worth protecting.