The Art of Love
Saturday morning. Composition class.
I think that was when I first admitted it to myself: I was in love with him. It was almost unfair. I didn’t have a say in the matter at all. I had fallen for him, whether I liked it or not.
The room was filled with the beautiful noise of thirteen young composers fighting with their pianos to make music. I wanted to write something incredible for him, but I was having trouble. Nothing I composed was good enough.
I thought back to when we first met. I saw him drawing in the hallway at school — a half-finished black and white portrait that was vivid even without color. I couldn’t look away. I also wasn’t watching where I was going and collided with a tall senior. The collision made me release the composition notebook in my hand.
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