“Between me, you, and the wall, I don’t know what to do!”

Since I was young, I have interested in piano. When touching the keys for the first time, I realized there was a close connection between us. I started playing it even when my feet couldn’t reach the pedals yet, even though my small, weak fingers always thrilled every time I found those familiar black-and-white spots. Every afternoon at that exact hour, the living room echoed with sounds that were not yet rounded, sometimes off beat, but never lacking patience. My piano was placed against the wall, by the old window, bathed daily in the warm sunlight streaming in, making the scene warmer than ever.

As I grew up, my talent became more evident. I also often take on tutoring jobs in a few piano classes to improve my own skills. I also won a few piano competitions. They made my family proud of me, and I am also very grateful for having tried hard. Perhaps that was why I had a hope of pursuing piano.

Actually, I hoped a lot.

But an incident suddenly befell my family, making our family’s income difficult. And my parents really had high expectations that I could get a good job after finishing university. And my habit of playing piano was less and less. I usually spent my free time printing out old sheet music myself, practicing slowly, repeating a difficult passage until my wrists went numb so as not to let that passion fade. Sometimes, seeing other people perform on many big stages in such a spectacular way, I just wish that one day I could be them.

To make money and partly pursue music, I usually performed at some coffee shops, hotel lobbies, and gatherings where no one really listened to maintain my income. The piano sounds blended into the chatter, the clinking of glasses. Sometimes, after playing a long piece, I only got a hasty nod. But I still tried, still showed up, still adjusted my seat, still bowed my head before placing my hands on the keys, as if it were a real stage. In my mind, I believed that as long as I kept going, as long as I didn’t abandon the piano, my passion would lead me somewhere. The piano didn’t give me many things, but it gave me a reason to wake up, to endure the long days. And on the way following it, quietly, until life began to demand more than what music could give back.

Maybe I once believed that passion was enough, but life kept reminding me that rent couldn’t be paid with melodies, and groceries didn’t care about dreams.

I understood that I didn’t abandon music right away; I just started choosing other things first. Every day, the distance between me and the piano grew a little more. But slowly, I realized I was no longer in the same place, and the piano, still leaning against the wall, still felt farther away than ever.