The flute and life

He sat next to her and played his flute. Those sad tunes still make her shiver after all this time. For a fleeting moment when he looked at her she seemed like the person he’s known all those years ago. He felt close to her, connected, and it made him feel safe. 

It quickly passed though, and the sorrow he’s known for a while now took her over again. He played the tunes he knew hoping to reach into her again.

He missed her. He missed how she would be all bubbly in the morning. He missed when they would chase each other around the house, laughing like two overgrown kids not noticing all the bewildered looks they would get. He missed the times when they would talk about their feelings without fearing all the bottled up anger. 

He only felt weak when he was alone, and that’s why he was always terrified. He did not want to disappear into the colors of the background like all the others did. But in his loneliness he already has. 

Had he the power to give her life again from what little he had he gladly would. It would all be worth it, to make what little he had really matter. He just wanted to make her wild again, make her feel alive again, and maybe – along the way – she’s be happy again. 

And it would all be worth it. 

He played his flute and she lay her head on his shoulder. It was heavy with all the weight of the world she carries on her mind. She sighed, tired and weak, and he cried, tired and weak. 

He pulled her close and kissed her cheek. “I love you,” he whispered into her ear. 

And he played his flute, as she went to sleep. 


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