Xenja's fingers were slowly climbing across the keys, missing the correct note ever so often. Her eyes were empty, staring into nothingness, her hands and the keys beneath them wet from tears.

She was home alone in the disturbingly quiet apartment, not going to school because of the events on the painful day before. Her mother had not yet returned from her nightly trip, and Xenja didn't dislike that. Currently, being alone was better than having to be around the woman who just pretended to be her mother. Xenja was already dreading her arrival, would she need to explain why she skipped school and what had happened on the day before. 

The noises of a busy street outside her window had her nervous, as she was anxiously waiting for her mother's arrival. With every passing vehicle, her heart started pounding, making her look outside her window, expecting to see the matte black car in the spot allotted for the apartment. After looking outside over and over again, she closed the curtains to keep herself away from the window.

Besides that fear, Xenja's mind only had destructive thoughts on it, thoughts of hate and dislike for none other than herself. This had been her chance, a chance like no other before. She could have made a friend, someone who liked playing the piano, someone who had the same passion as her. Stevie even tried to accept her as her tutor in the beginning, tried looking past Xenja's inability to talk. 

Then she messed up, possibly making Stevie dislike not only her but also the innocent musical instrument she was sitting at, distancing her even more from their shared interest.

If only she could have properly instructed Stevie. 

If only she could have conveyed the magical feeling of making music. 

If only she could have been a normal, functioning human for once. 

No, she was unable to even do a task as simple as talking to anyone besides her mother.

These thoughts, together with all the hateful and destructive ones she had since Amy broke up with her - Stevie's uncomprehending behavior, her lack of empathy was painfully similar - kept drowning any rational thoughts, thoughts that might have made her realize that she was in no way at fault here. That not she, but Stevie was the one who acted wrong. That Stevie snapped because of her own inability to play the piano, not because Xenja didn't explain enough.

She kept on wiping the keys of the piano with the sleeve of her hoodie, but the tears wouldn't stop coming, eventually wetting the keys again. The more she tried to stop her tears, the more they kept running from her eyes. She was wiping and wiping, and still she couldn't dry her piano, hands, or face. 

Eventually, Xenja broke down sobbing on the heated wooden floor, immediately hit by the lack of energy she had felt all day from not having slept at night. Her eyes closed, throwing her mind into a deep sleep right then and there.

Dreams of a time long ago, of a loving family soothed her, until those too turned into a wait for an arriving car. In contrast to Xenja's dreadful situation now, the young girl in those dreams wanted her father to arrive, waiting for him even weeks after knowing he wouldn't. From then on, no father came home from work to play with her, no mother was constantly there talking with her when no one else could. 

Instead, her mother's arrival came with the smell of alcohol, cold sweat, and a harsh, "Why aren't you at school?" as a greeting.

While Xenja wanted to cry again, no tears would form anymore. She had cried her eyes dry, and although they were still obviously visible on her face, her mother wasn't worried in the slightest.

"I made Stevie mad because I couldn't explain properly... she yelled at me and left..." spoke Xenja in a low, cracking voice, Stevie's words once again cutting deep on her mind.

"I go out of my way to find you a friend. Even called the school. And then you mess it up on the first day? I'm done trying," her mother replied before walking into the bath to shower, obviously annoyed. 

As if those words shot right through the poor girl's heart, she was pressing a plush toy against her chest, still lying on the floor of her room. Getting her self blame confirmed by her own mother was as if she had the hate against herself validated.

Trying to let go of her feelings, let them roam free, she sat down at her piano to play. But just as her tears had run dry, her talent as a pianist had too. As if she had forgotten how to play, even the simplest melodies seemed difficult, her fingers tripping over themselves. 

Her chance to connect to someone, the promising try she got. Vanished. And with it, the one thing she loved in this world, the joy for music.