Hands on a piano. Her hands on the piano because music was how she forgot the world. Delicate, long pale fingers spanning the keys.
Breathe.
The music absorbed her as she played, drawn into the melody. Until she finished the song, she didn't even notice the tears that dropped onto the keys.
Why do you still care? she asked herself.
First love, it was a wonderful and terrible thing. And yes, she still loved him. Wished she didn't, that was for sure.
She wondered, rather poetically, if love wasn't rather like a rose. It started out as a bud, tender and promising, then blossomed into something beautiful. Then slowly, one by one, the petals fell off til all that  was left was the bare rose hip on a thorny stem, brittle and painful.
Roses were difficult to kill; so, too, was love.
She sighed at herself for indulging in such melancholy.

She drew in a breath and held it. One. Two. Three.
Let it out. One. Two. Three.
Breathe.