“Show me how to play,” I say.
Her body leans back as her brows pinch with a dubious stare.
“You want me to teach you how to play piano?”
I nod. “The song you played. I like it.”
She blinks, brushing her fingers through her hair. “It’s
about learning to love people’s faults and pain for what they are. Beautiful.”
My head cocks. “Why is that?”
She wets her bottom lip. “I guess when you love someone, you
don’t get to choose which parts. You’re getting every single piece of their
being, scarred or not.”
Her eyes trail to her hand, scarred with white and pink
marks. My fingers graze over each one, causing her to suck in a breath and
freeze as I caress the marred flesh. They’re rougher than the rest of her hand,
but part of her nonetheless.
Meeting her eyes, we stay like that for a few long moments.
Neither of us says a thing or moves an inch. We just remain touching, staring,
being there in one another’s company.
Then I pull away. “What are the keys I need to learn for the
song?”
She exhales then shows me the basics.
It’s a silent admission between us.
Your scars are beautiful, Charlie.
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