Piano Girl

She comes around every day playing the piano. I can see her. She walks past my desk, different clothing, different hair every day. She drops her backpack and sits. Her fingers run over the keys. She looks at the big glass window that separates him from her. The boy she’s coming down for every day, her best friend. She looks and plays. I listen. I can see, see who is in the room by listening to her tunes. Sometimes they’re happy, it’s his friends. Sometimes they’re loving, it’s his girl. Sometimes they’re serious, it’s his parents. Sometimes her tunes take a different tone, sad and agonising. She plays and her pain flows through the corridor. You can almost hear the other patients gasp as the notes hit their ears. They feel it too. I don’t need to look who’s in. It’s him. The boy with the raven hair. The darkish skin. The deep brown eyes. The little scar running from his neck to a point underneath his shirt where I cannot see. I know they have a history, the boy and the girl. She plays and he leaves. He walks past her, hesitating, wanting to stop. But he never does. She misses some notes, makes little failures when he passes. Like the beats of her heart skipping when she looks at him. He leaves, she plays, every day.