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"music is not to hear, it is to feel"

Leaning against the door, she surrenders herself to the symphony that pours through the wood. Each note almost feels like a secret whispered against her ear.

The music dances with her heartbeat a bit, wrapping her in its enchanting embrace. There's a certain magic in the way the melodies unfold, as if they hold the power to reveal the depths of his soul.

A happy sigh leaves her lips, albeit one she didn't mean to let out in the first place.

Yet, as much as she's entranced by the music, a flutter of anxiety dances in her chest. The impending moment looms when she'll have to step beyond this threshold and into the room where the boy plays. She's actually been tossing and turning about this very moment for so long, and now it's finally arrived.

She captures her bottom lip between her teeth, wondering what her mother would say of she saw her right now. She's willing to bed that she'd be more furious than anything.

The melodies continue their delicate dance, a conversation between the boy and his beloved piano. Standing outside the door of the room, she's both an outsider and an eager participant.

She shifts her weight from foot to foot, her fingers tapping an unconscious rhythm against her thigh. Does it fit into the melody that the boy is playing? Regardless, there's a longing in her gaze, a yearning to be a part of this world where music is more than just sound - it's an unspoken language.

Her hand rests on the door handle, her hand itching to open the door, but the rest of her body telling her not to. It might sound a bit dramatic, but the moment she opens this door, there isn't really any going back. Not that she wants to go back - to her mother controlling every bit of her interests as if she's not allowed to have her own.

It's finally her turn to decide for herself what she wants to express herself with. And what she wants to express herself with is the symphony of music.

As the final crescendo builds and then fades, she takes a moment to steady her breath. With a mixture of anticipation and trepidation, she pushes the door open. His music stops, and a part of her wishes he didn't.

She looks over at the piano, to where he's seated and now looking over at him. Her dark brown hair falls in waves down her shoulders, complementing her dress quite nicely. She probably asked her best friend, Minjun, a million times over whether or not her outfit was appropriate or not.

He laughed at her silliness, saying that there was no need to stress so much about a piano lesson. But she was stressing - she is stressing.

Although, as their eyes meet, her heart flutters slightly. and in that shared gaze, she finds a connection that transcends the notes themselves. Or maybe it's just her nerves playing tricks on her.

"You're late," he says, his words like gentle chimes that carry a hint of disapproval. He cracks his knuckles, standing from the grand piano in the middle of the room. She feels the weight of his gaze as he stands before her, his presence commanding the room. "Lesson started ten minutes ago."

"Sorry, my bad," she mutters, a flush of embarrassment creeping onto her cheeks. She didn't realise just how long she's been standing outside the door.

She closes the distance between them in small hurried steps, her hand extended as a silent offering of reconciliation. "I promise I won't be late again."

He eyes her outstretched hand, his silence a bridge of uncertainty. She wonders if he's mad at her, watches as he bites the inside of his cheek. His hum, a noncommittal sound, hangs in the air as he finally does shake her hand.

His palm against hers feels surprisingly warm, and his skin is smooth - softer than she anticipated. Maybe she was expecting callouses or rough patches, but considering how delicaye his instrument is, she starts to wonder why she even thought that. His grip is firm, the touch strong and somehow reassuring.

He's handsome.

She hadn't expected that. In truth, when she was told that someone could offer her piano lessons in secret, she honestly thought that it would be an old lady who has nothing better to do with her day at first.

She was so wrong.

He gestures for her to sit suddenly, his brow slightly furrowed. There's an air of seriousness about him that contrasts with her own sense of eagerness.

"Let us begin," he says, nodding before sitting down next to her on the stool. His long fingers hover over the keys, making her stare in awe. Absentmindedly, she ties her hair up in a messy bun.

His gaze lingers on me, and she wonders again what he's thinking. "I'm Melody Kang, by the way," she says, trying to hide the blush crawling over her cheeks.

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