The day he told her he didn’t love her anymore, she finished her song.

It always went like that, to tell the truth. She had written exactly as many songs as she had had boyfriends. Which was five. She knew that was more than most girls her age could claim, but other girls didn’t write songs.

Every time she heard the words, “Devon? I…I just don’t think this is working out…” she would sit down at the piano bench. As if they didn’t even belong to her, her long fingers would do a graceful ballet across the black and white keys. There was a chip on middle C, one that she always caught her finger on, and this had given her a little scar, but she didn’t mind.

The music was all that held her together. But this time was different.

Every other time, she hadn’t minded when it had ended. She hadn’t really loved any of the other boys. But this one had been special.

She had given him all she had to give, and he had left her empty.

She knew it would take many, many more songs to fill her up again.