Chapter Text
When Sam was a child, her mother would sing scales to her, silently hoping it would instill a sense of musical intuition in the girl by the time she became old enough to play the piano. Suffice it to say that it worked— Sam would blossom into a person with perfect pitch and an unrelenting love for music.
There isn’t a day that passes where she doesn’t think about her, or attempt to reminisce over something as simple as the sound of her voice. Though, truth be told, she doesn’t remember much of it. In her grief, the sound of her voice was one of the first things to escape Sam’s memory. But as she plays the notes on the piano, she sometimes likes to imagine her mother singing them instead.
For most of her life, Sam has been riddled with the desire to feel closer to her late mother. Accompanying that desire is a sort of curiosity that has dictated a lot of the decisions she’s made throughout her career.
She believes her talents to be a true gift. Playing piano has undoubtedly brought her closer to understanding what her mother was truly like, even in ways she didn’t come to realize until much later in life. Like how the learning of it requires patience, and the perfecting of it requires discipline. But teaching it was something entirely apart, because it required something of Sam that she hardly considered herself in large enough supply of—
Compassion.
She remembers her mother as being both patient and compassionate. It’s the most resonant memory she has of her that she is most certain of, because it is something about her that she herself witnessed. And now, that’s all she ever strives to be.
Despite the challenges, Sam has come to love the side of her that inspires the youth of today’s musicians. Teaching a pupil like Han came with its natural benefits, considering she certainly had the patience to learn the trade, and the discipline to perfect it. All Sam had to do was sprinkle in the knowledge she learned through experience, and Han achieved the rest by absorbing it. And not every student glided through with so much ease; but that just meant Sam had another reason to work even harder to push through those challenges with her students.
She thinks of her mother constantly. She knows now, just how much of herself she must’ve given to the profession in order to have been so well-respected and loved by her peers and students, even decades beyond her passing. Sam has longed to understand who her mother was beyond the stories and vague memories she has of her.
She thinks she must truly understand her now that she’s spent some time in her shoes— better than ever before.
It’s after school hours that her recently graduated student visits her in her office. Sam stands from behind her desk to greet Han and her parents, who bow their heads in return. Although she has grown accustomed to the sign of respect by now, it still feels odd receiving it from a family she has grown to consider her own by now.
“I wasn’t expecting this visit, but I’m happy to see all of you.” Sam smiles at the three of them, gesturing towards the empty chairs on the opposite end of her desk, silently requesting that they have a seat if they planned on having a chat.
Han sits in the seat directly across from her, still with her head bowed down. Sam hasn’t seen her this nervous in ages— not since she learned how to manage her stage fright all those years ago, at least. Back when it was only Sam’s first year of teaching and mentoring her.
“So, what brings you back to campus?” Sam asks, though she has a good idea what all of this is for.
There’s a short beat of silence, at first; but it’s replaced by the sound of Han’s father clearing his throat, as if he were building up the courage to speak.
“We’re leaving for New York first thing in the morning, Khun Sam. We just wanted to stop by and thank you for all you’ve done for our daughter,” Han’s father says, on behalf of his family. His voice is deep and strong, but there’s a palpable nervousness in his tone. It’s almost like he’s trying not to cry. “It is because of you that she’s been accepted to a prestigious music school in America. I don’t know how we could ever repay you for your graciousness.”
It’s at this moment that Sam promptly remembers a conversation she had with Pohn— about how teaching tends to be a thankless career. She really didn’t get into it for the recognition or the applause; so in the face of a family that can’t help but share their gratitude, Sam feels almost stunted. “That really won’t be necessary. It’s been an honor getting to mentor your daughter. She’s a rare talent in our industry, and I think she will do incredible things with the music that she will create.”
Sam glances over at Han, who is unseemingly frigid in the presence of someone she so highly respects. They’d grown rather close during their mentorship. As Sam became somewhat of a guardian figure in her life, she became witness to Han growing as a musician and becoming more confident in her abilities. And now, with her former student still avoiding eye contact, Sam can’t help but see a glimpse of the previously unpolished pianist who struggled with stage fright and pre-show nerves she came to know all those years ago.
Han stares down at the hands that have been gripping at the fabric of her own pants. If Sam could read her mind based on the sullen expression she has on her face, she would think that Han had been contemplating the right words to say before they part.
Sam notices the tears that fall from Han’s face and directly onto the surface of the desk.
“Han? What’s the matter?”
Han finally looks up at her, and her eyes twinkle with tears and an unspoken gratitude. Sam thinks she recognizes the look on her face, because she believes it resembles the way anyone would look their hero in the eye.
It’s exactly how Sam used to look at her mom.
“Thank you,” Han says. She’s curt and polite, like an exact copy of Sam when she was her age. “For everything.”
It’s been almost five years since Mon moved back to Thailand to be with her, and still there are waves of astonishing anxiety that manages to frazzle Sam, even within the most perfect of relationships— or whatever extent of perfect Sam will allow herself to believe exists. For as deep as the promise that Mon will spend the rest of her days with Sam actually is , there is still that residual fear that lingers in the back of Sam’s mind that someday this will all be ripped away from her. It isn’t necessarily something that haunts her every second of every day; but it nauseates her when she thinks about it for long enough.
Since the day they met all those years ago, Mon has always been something to lose. Sam is mindful enough to keep her unsettling thoughts to herself for the most part; but some days, the simple act of looking at her hurts, because the thought of losing her swells just as much. And she’s hardly known for being strong enough to hide when something hurts. By this point of their relationship, Mon knows better than anyone else just how easily Sam’s somber cracks at the surface.
She takes a deep breath before she wanders into the kitchen, where she finds Mon listening to music on low volume. The vision of Mon waiting for her when she comes home is forever cemented in her brain after so many years of consistency— perfectly chiseled and always glowing despite whatever light she finds herself beneath. Some nights, she even finds her dancing breathlessly along to some 80s pop song she’d recently discovered that evening— and some nights, Sam joins her. She thinks those nights have been some of the best nights of her life.
Tonight would hardly be any different. Mon is swaying to the gentle beat of a song that Sam doesn’t know the name of, and the contrast of her simple nonchalance to Sam’s intense stare is jarring enough to signal her quiet entrance to the scene.
“Do you ever think about leaving me?” Sam wonders. She knows it’s a strange thing to ask so out of the blue, and it would be the first words Sam would speak to her after nearly ten grueling hours at work; but she’s been with Mon for long enough to feel rest assured that such a question can be asked free of judgment.
Mon smiles from across the kitchen island. She hardly acknowledges her with a glance, too preoccupied with slicing fruit and plating it neatly on a charcuterie board to show any real concern. Sam has always loved her attention to detail— how everything seems to have a rhyme and reason for being placed exactly where they are. Even something as simple as fruits on a board. She must know that— like the placement of every berry— there is a rhyme and a reason for Sam’s sudden curiosity.
“No,” Mon takes a bite of a strawberry and offers the other half to Sam, who pops it into her own mouth without question. “I don’t ever think about that, actually.”
Sam nods, bashful in the wake of her peculiar case of the blues. She must know that Mon is wanting to understand how such a somber question came to be, so she answers the question before Mon even has the chance to ask it.
“Han and her parents stopped by the school today to visit before they leave for New York.”
“Oh?” Mon pauses out of respect for the news to settle between them. She pops another strawberry in her mouth, leaving it in the pocket between her teeth and cheek, stalling herself before she goes to ask the very necessary, very pressing , question. “How are you feeling?”
Sam shrugs, like she’s trying her best not to make a thing about it. “My star pupil is off to kick ass at one of the most prestigious music schools in the world. I feel proud.”
Mon smiles at her. “It’s so good for Han.”
“It is.”
With a tilt of her head: “But what’s next for you?”
Sam sighs. It’s a question she’s asked herself tenfold over the entire course of her life; but this time, there’s something calming about the uncertainty. For a rolling stone, she isn’t in any rush to move on to the next thing. She has everything she could possibly want standing right here, in the kitchen with her.
She shrugs again. “Maybe I just want to grow old now.”
“ Sure .” Mon scoffs, clearly amused.
“What?” Sam smiles at her. “Is that not enough? Even after everything we’ve gone through?”
Mon nearly rolls her eyes. “It’s not that. It’s just— you speak of old age like it’s dry cuticles and cracked skin.”
Sam crosses her arms. “Mon. If I have cracked hands in my 40s, then I may as well be dead.”
Mon laughs now, like she knows a Sam joke when she hears one. Still, the thought of it provokes her curiosity. It isn’t often they speak so callously of the scary parts of their future like this. Mon stares at her with wonder, like there are a million questions circulating her mind at once and all she wants to know is what Sam thinks of their future.
“What does growing old mean to you, anyway?” Mon asks, just as her amusement dies down.
Her shoulders fall, but she remains positive. “Marriage. Kids. Perfecting our castle.”
Mon tries to hide her blush, but to no avail. “I mean things we haven’t talked in circles about yet.”
Sam settles past the point of being worried about wrinkled hands and cracked skin; and she smiles, simply, at the thought of seeing Mon into old age. “Well… Growing old… It’s just this , but with gray hair. Right?”
This. Sliced strawberries and laughter. Earnest chats and endless banter. Staring into the eyes of the person who matters most.
She thinks she’ll never get sick of it.
“Right.” Mon affirms, just moments before growing slightly insecure beneath Sam’s longing gaze. She thinks she must have something stuck between her teeth for Sam to be staring at her this way. Even after all this time.
Sam huffs, and laughs a little when she realizes she’d been caught staring. Her cheeks turn a brazen red, but she doesn’t bother hiding it from the woman she loves. It’s been years of this same old song and dance— Sam may as well own up to it. “I’m so excited, you know.”
“To grow old?” Mon nods, attempting to fill in the blanks.
“To see you with gray hair,” Sam corrects with a smug smile. She reaches for a strawberry and pops it into her own mouth before shrugging. “But I suppose that’s the same thing.”
Mon hides her blush— attempts to, at least. “That doesn’t scare you?”
Sam questions Mon’s earnestness for half a second before she slowly cups her face, admiring the stillness of it. She stares into her eyes, and it takes everything for her to try to find something concrete enough to fear— something non-existential or simply out of her control.
But there’s nothing scary about the idea of spending the rest of their lives together. Not the wrinkled hands, nor the gray hair. Not even the loss that will eventually come rushing towards them at the very end of it.
Because Mon isn’t scary at all.
“Not even a little bit,” Sam says, just above a fond whisper.
It’s rare for Mon to slip out of bed before Sam does; but when Mon’s phone rings and she checks to see the caller ID, she just about jumps from out of the sheets, and rushes out to answer the call in the next room over. Sam certainly recognizes that this is an atypical instance of secrecy going on; but she knows better than to distrust Mon, and sinks into her pillow for a few extra minutes of rest that morning.
They spend that same evening having coffee out in the garden. It feels a lot like the mornings they’d spent having room service together in the penthouse suite the summer that they met, only with a much better view and a lot less dread.
Sam’s eyes crinkle above her mug. She doesn’t think about it as much anymore, but whenever the memories of their first summer together come flooding back to her, she thinks of it fondly, and with a smile on her face.
“I wished I danced with you at Tee and Yuki’s wedding.”
Sam faces her, riddled with confusion, though there is the familiar glint that appears anytime Mon speaks to her with such fondness. Enough time has passed since the wedding that the thought of it seemed so distant and random. It’s been nearly a decade — so why bring it up now?
“ That’s what you’re thinking of?” Sam asks.
Mon pours into her with the kind of beautiful yet longing look in her eyes that could blind a person if they stared at her for long enough. It isn’t until she realizes the hint of tears in her eyes that Sam recognizes the subtle seriousness in her tone.
Mon nods. “It is.”
Sam raises Mon’s hand that she had been holding — squeezing, really — and plants a soft kiss along the top of her knuckles, stifling a chuckle as she does so. She has to try not to laugh at the random earnestness of Mon’s emotions, but it’s a difficult feat considering how much she adores this side of her— the sweet and the sensitive. “Why are you crying, Mon?”
Mon seems to be at a loss for words, because all she can muster is a shrug of her shoulders and a pathetic sniffle.
Sam keeps hold of her hand, but allows it to fall on her lap as she tunes her focus on comforting her while she’s like this. “You know you can dance with me whenever you’d like. I’d dance with you in a dusty bar if you asked me to.”
It reminds her of New York. Plenty of things remind her of New York, since they’re no strangers to the excess of sweet moments shared between the two of them — and God knows they certainly weren’t in short supply of such tenderness during the earliest parts of their love story unfolding — but the dancing-in-bars of it all is something so entirely unique to their New York City experience that it’s nearly impossible for Sam not to regard the memory with the warm feeling that now bellows in her stomach.
“I’m feeling reminiscent this morning,” Mon states with a quiet huff.
“I’ve noticed,” Sam nods in agreement.
Mon tilts her head to rest it against the palm of her hand. She’s gentle against the surface of the table, and the sun shines just as gently against the surface of her skin. It’s been ages since Sam first stopped counting how many years it’s been since Mon came back to her, but with the first appearance of a wrinkle that appears along the corners of her mouth, it dawns on her how long they’ve been together now. It isn’t necessarily a sign of old age , per se – not that that wouldn’t warm Sam’s heart just as well — but rather, it’s an indent that follows the path of her smile.
Sam likes to think of it as a reminder of the constant laughter shared between them.
Mon leans closer, like she’s flirting. “Clearly, you’ve rubbed off on me.”
She scoffs at this, though it’s in humor. “Have I?”
“You don’t think I’ve noticed the longing stares you send my way anytime something reminds you of New York? Or the way you just saturate everything you do and create with your mother’s memory?” Mon asks, as if to pull Sam’s exact thoughts from her brain and lay it out on the table in front of them.
As if to prove just how well she knows her.
“I can’t help it that I’m nostalgic,” Sam says, in an innocent defense of her very sentimental nature.
Mon looks over at the sky, leans against the back of her chair, and then averts her attention back to Sam. “Well, that’s good, because I want you to remember this moment — and how you’re about to feel — for the rest of your life.”
It’s Sam’s turn to tilt her head and let the light graze against the surface of her skin now. She stares at Mon with longing and patience, and waits in silent agony as Mon finds the courage to speak.
“You know how we’ve talked endlessly about expanding this little family of ours?” Mon says, with a growing beam. “At first it was talks about cats and dogs, which — more so after our wedding — naturally developed into talks of kids and childbearing.”
Sam’s eyes glance down to Mon’s stomach. She knows they’ve discussed every option they have available to them at great length; but as much as she’s fantasized about how beautiful Mon would look with a baby in her belly, she believes they’ve come to an agreement that best suits the both of them and their circumstances.
“The adoption agency called this morning,” Mon finally says.
Sam sits straight up, allowing Mon’s words to process before she allows herself to react. Instantly, there are tears that form in her eyes. Instinctually, she reaches over to hold her hand.
“We’re going to be parents?” Sam asks below an elated whisper.
Mon doesn’t say much through her heavy emotions. She just nods, and watches as Sam buries her face into her hands and bursts into a fit of tears — happy tears, she’s sure of it, because Sam’s longing to start a family with Mon goes as far back as their time spent in New York City, just over a decade ago.
They see their daughter for the first time through a glass at the NICU department of the hospital. Her birth mother, a strong and beautiful woman, felt as though putting her up for adoption would be the right thing to do for her specific circumstances.
Sam and Mon are well aware of the gravity of this moment. It’s entirely cheesy to admit, but Sam could feel it in her bones that the three of them were meant to be family— that this connection is fated, and something almost indescribable to anyone outside of their familial context.
It is when she finally holds her in her arms that Sam becomes most certain that perfection is possible. It’s the human condition to believe that our very existence is imperfect, and that perfection is an unattainable achievement; but with the inception of Mon in her life, and now their beautiful baby girl, Sam believes with every fiber of her being that perfection is possible, and that it’s beholden within the mold of the two people she loves most.
Mon catches her late one evening, softly singing in scales to their daughter while she slowly lulls to sleep. Sam often does this in secret, not for any particular reason, and certainly not to intentionally keep it from Mon— it just so happens that she would find the courage to sing conveniently whenever it was just the two of them alone in the nursery.
“I love this so much,” Mon whispers from a few feet behind, hardly a current presence in the nursery, careful not to alarm Sam while she holds their child.
This— referring to the softness of Sam’s nature, and the newness of their family structure.
Sam turns around slowly, and the vision of their child snoozing away in her arms will never not be the most precious sight anyone could see. There’s a redness in Sam’s cheeks that almost burns with embarrassment; but she has heard Sam sing plenty of times by now, and if anyone were to judge, it certainly wouldn't be Mon.
“You’re singing scales to our daughter?” Mon wonders, though it’s obvious what Sam has been doing.
Sam nods, still red in the face.
“In what key?”
“C major, to start.”
Mon smiles, because it implies Sam will work her way towards singing the other various scales at various points in the future— that it will be an ongoing process. It won’t be the last Mon will get to hear her sing their daughter to sleep.
Sam stares down at their child, bouncing just gently enough to maintain a steady rhythm calm enough to keep her at rest. “My mother sang to me like this when I was a child. I don’t actually remember any of it, obviously; but I definitely absorbed all of it. I think it’s a large reason why I feel so connected to her somehow. Like the music that runs through my veins must’ve run through hers, first.”
Mon joins her above their daughter’s cot once Sam lays her down. In silence and in awe, they stare at her for a long moment, like she’s some rare diamond to behold. And in so many ways, she is , because she is so rare and so beautiful beyond the typical barricades of such a compliment.
And then Sam glances at Mon, and is overcome with an equivalence of rarity and beauty that strikes her from just one look.
“I don’t just sing to her, you know. I also read her your stories— the age appropriate ones, at least,” Sam says with a soft chuckle.
“You do?” Mon asks with delightful wonder.
Sam nods, and she shifts her body to fully face Mon now that she’s certain their daughter will be sound asleep for the time being. “I think a lot about our… circumstances , and how they might affect her as she grows up in this world.”
Mon’s eyebrows furrow. “Circumstances?”
Sam sighs. “Someday she’s going to come to understand that she’s adopted, and that having two mothers isn’t exactly the most embraced concept in the world. I’m afraid of burdening her with the weight that could come with all of that.”
Mon grazes a thumb along the side of Sam’s face, cupping her jawline with a gentle touch. She so adores this about her— her sincerity of emotion, and concern for whatever may burden the ones she loves. It could be overwhelming at times, but Sam’s heart is the best thing about her.
“But don’t you get it by now, Sam? She will be extraordinary because of our circumstances.”
Sam nods. They’re both speaking in soft whispers, but the context is so heavy that it feels as though she is being pulled down by gravity.
“I mean, just look at the castle that we built together,” Mon says, scanning the room that she and Sam had a heavy hand in cultivating. The walls are painted lavender, and the bookshelves are stocked with a collection of their favorite children’s books. From the window, there’s a captivating view of the countryside landscape. Everything is babyproof, and everything is safe .
Sam reaches to hold her hand, and the familiar warmth of her smile returns in full force.
“We’ll be okay,” Mon reiterates below a whisper. It’s funny how they always have to remind each other of that. “ She’ll be okay.”
It feels impossibly unfair, having an abundance of inspiration now that her life feels so incredibly full.
There’s her child, with her infinite exuberance and possibility— a beautiful bundle of joy.
There’s her mother, who to this day remains a permanent fixture in her memory. She finally feels like she understands a larger part of her character.
And always , there’s Mon— the original muse , as she sometimes jokes.
Mon somehow became even more beautiful with motherhood, with all the captivating stories she could tell, and her natural gift of affection and warmth. With every year that passes, the product of Mon’s love, care, and wisdom shared with their daughter becomes all the more apparent. Sam plays a role in all of that too, but it’s so much easier to appreciate those aspects of raising a child when it comes just as equally from your life partner.
She finds herself composing more songs in the latter half of her life than she’s ever written before. The songs come from a different place in her soul. Before, music to her almost felt like a sort of lifeline. But now, it’s so much lighter than that. There isn’t a heavy weight hovering over her shoulders anymore. And even if there were, she knows she can depend on Mon to help carry her along the way.
And time— it really does fly by. One day their daughter turns five and is learning basic music theory, and just a few blinks later, suddenly she’s ten and is damn near masterful at it. Not only with her perfect pitch and piano playing skills, but with her ingenuity— constantly writing creative stories, and drawing freehand sketches of her own original ideas. There are parts of both Sam and Mon that she’s inherited by nurture, but there are parts of her own uniqueness that shine through just as well.
Sam thinks it’s only a matter of time that she composes her first song. She hears it bubbling over each time she sits in front of the piano on her own accord. Sam never attempted to force the piano onto her. She figured if her daughter really wanted to, then she would naturally gravitate towards it. So when she does, Sam can’t help but soar with excitement.
There are subtle things she tries to do every now and then, with the sole hope that it might inspire her daughter to finally tap into the composer side of her— like how she’d pretend to struggle writing a specific part of her composition, and would ask her daughter for her opinion. This worked in the sense that she would dedicate an hour of her freetime, helping Sam to write a few bars of material. So, in a way she has some writing credits on some of Sam’s songs.
Ultimately, the day would come at the age of fifteen. She would experience her first heartbreak— a mutual breakup from a rather short-lived relationship, but a breakup nonetheless. Sam expected her to come up with a three movement sonata; but what actually came to be was something a lot more true to her nature, and how she was raised.
She would write a ballad that showcases not only her piano playing skills, but her lyricism as well.
It truly is the perfect reflection of both of the worlds that Sam and Mon exposed her to since the day they adopted her. She is a writer and a storyteller down to her core .
The more she grows to love her life, and the world that encompasses it, the more she finds herself dreading the inevitable end of it. It’s something she’s learned to manage to swallow down for some years; but as the years pass her by in decades, she finds it increasingly difficult to come to terms with the fact that the end will someday come— whether it’s her meeting her own demise, or Mon before her, someday their partnership will feel only half as full.
Selfishly, she hopes death comes for her long before it comes for Mon. There isn’t any version of this world she wishes to see without Mon existing within it. And it almost makes sense for her to have these feelings— she’s older and grayer, and suffering from agonizing arthritis, after all. It’s the easiest outcome she could swallow for the two of them.
Still, despite how difficult it is to consider, there are fleeting moments where she feels sort of at peace with the idea of perishing first between the two; but when she looks at her, so beautiful with her wrinkled skin and gray hair, Sam can’t help but think:
Maybe, just maybe , there’s still time to write her one more song.
It doesn’t really matter how much praise and accolades she’s received throughout the course of her career. It’s the little victories that mean the most to her, like the way their dog curls up in a ball at the foot of the piano so he can listen while she plays, or the curl of Mon’s lips when she recognizes the first strike of one of the many songs Sam has written for her starts to resonate throughout the room.
“Your hands are shaking,” Mon notices, taking a seat beside her on the bench. She reaches to hold them, stopping her from playing. For as beautiful as the sounds always are, in this moment, all she wants to do is hold her. “Doesn’t it hurt to play?”
Sam smiles, despite the pain. “I don’t mind it.”
Mon returns the smile, though it’s sad, wrinkled, and gorgeous. “How can something painful sound so beautiful?”
Instead of answering her question, Sam thinks about the why of it all— why she still plays even though she can’t quite play as well or as freely as she used to during her prime. Mon has occasionally reprimanded her for persisting through the challenge, but Sam views the endeavor in an entirely different light as her.
The thing about music is that it immortalizes the love encompassed in the composition of it. Sam might not be able to play this song with the exact precision or grace that she used to when she first wrote it, but the feelings from their youth are forever frozen in time, right there between the bars.
“ Sam.”
“ Mon.” She smirks.
She huffs, though she is quite amused by Sam’s wit even into old age. “Why play if it hurts you?”
Sam chuckles at that, because the answer is simple:
“I play so you don’t forget.”
Mon looks at her, pointedly and daunting, as if to say she could never forget it — the music, nor the love Sam always poured into it. She stares as if to plead with her not to push it too far, because Sam might not mind acting as though it doesn’t hurt her when she plays, but Mon hates knowing that it does .
“One more song, Mon. And then I’ll stop.”
Mon smiles at her— sad over the implications of it, but hardly showing it. “Okay. Then play me your favorite song.”
With her shoulders up, and a confident smile, Sam huffs out. “That’s easy.”
Mon chuckles. “Is it?”
Sam glances at her, another old smirk present on her face at the challenge. There’s a glint in her eye, and it’s almost as if Mon could see a glimpse of the version of her that wrote this song all those years ago. Like a poet about to recite the single most important piece of her legacy, Sam utters the title of the song that really signaled the beginning of the rest of her life:
“This is how you fall in love. ”
It would be the last song Sam ever plays, and it would be beautiful.
( 60 years ago, in a hotel room somewhere in New York City )
It’s while she’s staring at the half-empty sheet music she has facing her, that she finally notices the excruciating pain she feels in the back of her neck after sitting in front of the piano for too long without a break.
There are two things currently running through her mind in a constant cycle:
Mon, and the agonizing kink in her neck.
The pain— it’s impossibly distracting; but there’s still so much to write, so she’ll continue until she physically can’t anymore. It’s a side of this profession that she thinks tends to go underlooked. The obsession she has to finish a composition— the incessant need for speed she silently pushes herself to achieve bit by painstaking bit— the demand of it all often comes with a lot of physical discomfort.
Neck pain, back pain, potential injuries to her hands— these are all common symptoms that accompany the passion of professional piano playing; but still, they are things that will never deter her.
She’s come to understand pain from an early age. She’s been forced to confront it for most of her life, because the grief of loss is something constant, and so insurmountably painful. So, persisting through difficult challenges is something she’s certainly no stranger to. Rather, it’s part of the process.
But with Mon, even the simplest of things can hurt so much— from the burning of her cheeks whenever she makes Sam blush, to the way her stomach curls when she makes her laugh the sort of laugh that makes her want to cry. Life could hurt in so many ways; but Sam can’t help but love it, because despite the pain, Mon makes it so easy to deal with. This is how she know she’s the one.
So, Sam will play for her.
She will always play for her.
.
.
.
Even when it hurts.