.

.

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The loneliness is suffocating. But he can withstand it, barely.

The silence that fills their (his, now, no longer theirs) home follows him as he takes slow steps towards the piano and sits down. He plays a note – D. His left hand automatically shapes itself into a curve, and he dimly hears a chord echo out of the instrument.

It seems that he can only play in minor keys now.

There had been a time where he would have desperately held onto every note and arpeggio that spilled out of his fingers in disarray – it had been his only comfort besides the blankets she used to sleep in – but now it meant nothing, the musical inspiration and dissonance meant nothing to him – nothing. He felt nothing at all.

But to have her back…

He already knows the answer, having thought the admission a thousand times and the question why a million times more – why did she have to leave, why did it happen, why couldn't he save her, why Maka, Maka who was pure and loyal and brave and –

His hands are feverishly moving on the piano before he realizes it. They pound notes and wail trills and in the midst of it all, he is left gasping, water making its way down his cheek and chin, tasting faintly of salt. They leave splotches on the black and white keys and he begins to falter– his fingers are on the verge of slipping, but they somehow manage to hold on. Barely.

His raw lip begins to bleed again as his teeth cut through the flesh, and his head falls down as he disintegrates into wet sobs.

Maka.

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He has never felt so alone.

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