The Piano and the Worries

The sound of the piano echoed throughout the house, like a musical storm that never let up. Olivia had bought a Steinway & Sons piano, one of the most expensive on the market, and placed it in the center of the living room, right in front of the windows overlooking the backyard. According to her, it was a necessary investment for her future as a winner of America's Got Talent . According to Sack and me, it was an endless source of dramatic noise.

Since the piano arrived, Olivia spent every free moment playing epic melodies, performed with so much emotion that it felt like she was starring in a romantic movie. Every note was amplified by the perfect acoustics of the duplex, turning even the quietest pieces into something worthy of an opera.

"I'm improving every second!" Olivia shouted from the piano while playing an exaggeratedly emotional version of Clair de Lune . Her fingers flew over the keys, but her sudden changes in volume made it impossible to concentrate on anything else.

Sack, sitting at the dining table with an open physics book in front of him, looked up at me with an expression of desperation.

"Lindsay, can we do something? This is unbearable. I can't even read a single line without jumping every time Olivia decides to add a dramatic twist to a minor scale."

I laughed, though I was also frustrated. I had tried studying biology in my room, but the thunderous sound of the piano seeped through the walls.

"At least we have one advantage," I said, trying to find something positive amidst the chaos. I glanced toward our bedroom, whose door was closed. "With Olivia playing so loudly, no one can hear us when… well, you know."

Sack couldn't help but smile.

"That's true. Although I'd prefer that not to be the only way to have privacy."

I decided to intervene before the situation got worse. I stood up and walked over to the piano, where Olivia was completely absorbed in her performance of an original piece that, according to her, described "the birth of a supernova." I waited patiently for her to finish, which meant enduring another five minutes of thunderous crescendos.

When she finally lowered her hands from the piano, she looked at me triumphantly.

"What did you think? Wasn't it impressive?"

"It was… intense," I replied diplomatically. "But Olivia, you need to dedicate some time to your studies. Classes started days ago, and you've barely opened a book."

Olivia waved her hand dismissively.

"Books can wait. My natural talent cannot be wasted. Besides, I'm sure that when I win America's Got Talent , my musical skills will make up for any unfinished subjects."

Sack intervened, clearly exasperated.

"Olivia, you can't ignore your studies just because you bought a piano. At least spend a couple of hours a day reviewing your notes."

Olivia glared at him.

"And who are you to tell me what to do? You don't even have an artistic soul."

"I have a practical soul," Sack retorted. "And I know that if you don't study now, you'll regret it later."

Finally, I managed to convince her to dedicate at least two hours a day to studying. Reluctantly, she agreed, though she insisted that she had to do it "to the rhythm of an inspiring symphony."

A couple of days later, someone knocked on the door. When I opened it, I found an older couple, our neighbors from across the street. The woman looked exhausted, and the man held a folder with documents.

"Sorry to bother you," the woman said, forcing a smile. "We were wondering if you could lower the volume of the piano. It's too early for this kind of… racket."

Olivia, who was nearby, overheard the conversation and quickly approached.

"Racket?" she repeated, offended. "These aren't just random notes! They're melodies full of emotion and genius. If you can't appreciate them, it's because you're jealous of my talent."

The neighbor raised an eyebrow, incredulous.

"Miss, this isn't Carnegie Hall. We just want peace and quiet."

Sack intervened before the situation escalated.

"I'm very sorry. We'll talk to our friend about adjusting her practice schedule. Thanks for letting us know."

After the neighbors left, Olivia crossed her arms, indignant.

"They don't understand anything. My music is a gift to the world. They should feel grateful."

Sack and I exchanged a resigned look. We knew it wasn't worth arguing with her.

That night, we decided to go out for dinner alone, leaving Olivia at home practicing her "galactic symphony." We went to a nearby Italian restaurant, the same one we had visited a few days earlier. The atmosphere was warm and relaxed, very different from the constant chaos of our apartment.

As we shared a margherita pizza, the conversation flowed effortlessly. We talked about classes, pending projects, and how we were adjusting to university life again.

"Sack," I said after a moment of silence, "does your father know we're dating?"

Sack put down his fork and looked at me thoughtfully.

"I haven't spoken to him about it. You know how he is: our conversations are usually brief and focused on business. But knowing how controlling he is, he probably already knows."

I frowned, worried.

"Do you think he'll mind? I mean, I'm Lindsay Grove. Together, our last names might look more like a business alliance than a real relationship."

Sack shook his head.

"I don't think he'll mind, but he's probably already thinking about how to take advantage of it. For him, everything is a strategic opportunity."

I stayed silent for a moment, reflecting on what he had just said. It was true that the Grove surname carried weight in both the business and medical worlds, and combined with the Steele name, it could spark speculation about mergers or collaborations.

"I don't want our relationship to be seen as a business deal," I said finally, feeling a pang of insecurity.

Sack took my hand on the table, offering me a reassuring smile.

"It won't be. What matters is what we feel, not what others think. My father can plan whatever he wants, but our lives are our own decision."

I nodded, feeling a little more relieved. I knew Sack was right, but I couldn't help worrying about how external expectations might affect us in the future.

When we returned to the apartment, the sound of the piano greeted us again. Olivia was in the middle of performing a piece that, according to her, represented "the eternal struggle between order and chaos." She looked at us with a radiant smile.

"How was your romantic date? Would you like me to compose a song for you?"

Sack and I exchanged an amused glance.

"I think we've had enough music for today," Sack replied, laughing.

Olivia pretended to be offended but soon joined in our laughter.