I didn't actually want to name it this, but all of my Hamilton stories can and should be know as Yamilton stories. (Notice a pattern?)
And yes, I do know that Hamilton didn't actually go to Princeton, but it works for the story so that's just how it's gonna be.

I work a lot. Even I would call myself a workaholic. I admit, I have a problem. I spend most of my time alone in cafés on my computer, working. It is nice, however, that I don't need to worry about someone waiting on or worrying about me; I live alone in a run down apartment kind of close to the college I go to, Princeton. I've wanted to go to Princeton ever since I knew what it was. I grew up in a country where only a select few got to go to college at all, and many people who might've been able to go died before they were old enough to. I was certainly on track to become one of those people in my old town, but I wanted more. Me: never satisfied with the opportunities given.

So I made myself more opportunities. I took hold of the talent I had at writing, used it to get me out of a place that I'm sure would've made achieving the life I wanted impossible.

And now I'm here. In New Jersey. An amazing place. Also a place that with not too much travel, I can go to New York City (which is, incidentally, where I spend most of my weekends and my favorite city.)

And I feel alive. That never used to happen before. In my birth-town life was so dull.

Nowadays, with all of my classes (I take as many as they'll let me) and my very, very part-time job, I don't often have any time that I can dedicate solely to relaxation. This might seem like a bad thing, but I like it. I'm sure I could make time if I wanted, sleep less than I already do or something. But I don't really want to. If I'm not busy, I think to hard and too long about too sad of things, and then I feel depressed and dull and useless. So I keep busy, and I don't sleep very much, as I mentioned earlier. Sometimes I'll start to be sad and dull no matter how hard I try to keep busy, and then it's always terrible, but that's a story for another time.

So I'm working, as usual, in New York for the weekend, as usual, when I see a piano, and I feel something that is very unusual. I started playing piano when I came into the United States, and even with my limited experience, I still managed to learn a lot and get much better.

Some people have told me that my playing is really beautiful, and it was probably true at that point, but I think that it was partially what song it was and partially how much feeling I put into my playing, rather than how much practice I had.

I continued to play piano until I came to New Jersey, where there weren't very many public pianos (there had been in other places) and people were more bothered by my playing than anything else. So I stopped playing piano as regularly as I used to and the urge to play every piano that I came across dimmed. Up until now, I haven't played the piano in about half a year.

But today I see a delightfully deserted piano around which there aren't any people, and I really, really want to play it. I'm afraid that people will come and ruin the piano's privacy, and the great feeling I've gotten along with it, so I quickly save things on my computer and shut it down. After I hurry outside, and into a courtyard of sorts, blocked by a fairly dense wall of trees (it's a wonder I saw the piano at all, I must have had the perfect angle) I set down my things and sit down. I don't have any music with me, so I pick one of the songs I once had perfectly memorized and hope that I'll still be able to play it at least fairly well from memory. I play the first chord, and after an initial strange feeling I get from not playing so long, the song comes back to me. It's not nearly as good as I'm sure it once was, but as I continue to play the song comes back to me.

I play it slower than usual, and I have a few mishaps, but it goes fairly well and I, at least, feel like I played it beautifully. I play it once more, with fewer mistakes, before I decide to try another song. I go on like this, playing each song once or twice before picking the next.

Eventually I run out of music I have memorized and slump down on the bench. I feel tired, but exhilarated, like I just went on a roller coaster or something. I kind of did, I guess. Playing the piano had always been such a great experience for me, but very emotional. Not playing it for so long must have been making me slowly sadder and more depressed without me even noticing.

I stand up from the piano, sad that I can't play anything else without music, but glad I got to play as much as I did. I pick up my things, slowly start to walk back to the coffee shop and resume my routine.

"Hey!" I hear from behind me.

I spin, startled, and almost drop my bag. I search the trees for the source of the greeting, but can see no one.

"Hello?" I call back, rather timidly. At least the coffee shop is near if I need to run, I assure myself.

"Over here," the same voice calls. I turn again, to the right this time, and see a man emerge from the wall of trees, the ones on the side I didn't come from.

"That was beautiful," he says.

"Ok…" And awkward pause. "Who are you?"

"Lafayette," he answers readily. "Would you, uh, like to play that on a better piano?"
This could be considered really creepy, but I find myself longing to play the piano more, and a nicer one would be great.

"Where?" I ask. If he tries to take me into a building I swear I will run.

"There's a dormitory near here that has a piano in the lobby. It works really well, I've played it myself a couple of times."
I shouldn't. I really shouldn't. But…

If I don't see anyone inside or he takes me through an empty area on the way, I swear I'll run. I will, really.

But I want to play the piano so badly.

"Ok," I finally give in. "Take me there."

Please leave reviews if you have any opinion at all on this story.