Doctor-Patient Confidentiality: New Adult Enemies-to-Lovers Romance

Chapter Fifty-Eight

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Day 23

My eyes are glued to my hands as I sit in an empty practice room, my fingers intermittently rising and falling against the long white keys of the grand organ piano, pressing down firmly as they move back and forth on the large, familiar instrument.

I haven't sung in three days, ever since Vito put me on blast and ruined what little remaining normalcy I had left in my life for the rest of my semester—and possibly school year. Still, it feels like it's been an eternity instead of just seventy-two hours.

To be honest, at this point, I don't even have the desire to sing, which is a feeling so incredibly foreign to me. Music, and specifically singing, has always been how I've expressed my emotions and told my stories. It's been such an integral part of my life. Heck, music is my life. I never once imagined I'd ever get to a place that I didn't want to sing. Even when the worst of things happened to me—when I lost my parents and my grandfather, when I was going through my druggie phase, when I'd dropped out of college—through everything in my twenty-four year old life, bad and good, the urge to sing was always there. I'd never lost that...until now. And having this stupid hitching thing only discourages me from singing even more, serving as a constant reminder of my vocal shortcomings every time I dare to open my mouth.

I've been constantly rummaging through my brain, trying to sort myself out and really figure out what I'm going to do about this situation—which clearly only keeps getting worse and worse with each day.

Each day Gran stays in the hospital only translates into more money that I'm going to have to come up with, and without insurance to help cover any of the costs, I really don't know what I'll do. And she's still in critical condition, so she won't be discharged from the hospital any time soon as far as what all the doctors keep saying.

She had actually gone into a coma when the stroke first happened. When I saw her on her hospital bed, pale and unconscious with tubes in her mouth and nose, surrounded by beeping monitors and ventilation machines, I literally felt my heart stop. Blurriness had immediately claimed my vision and all the blood had quickly left my head, rendering me lightheaded and dizzy. I hadn't been so scared and afraid since...since six years ago.

And I don't think I've ever felt more alone than now, in this very moment.

Suddenly, salty tears appear from behind my eyes out of nowhere, spilling over my bottom lids without resistance, flowing down my cheeks in unstoppable streams. I don't move to wipe them away. I just keep playing, my fingers locked on the piano, gliding across the black and white keys, pressing and releasing, pressing and releasing.

My grandfather had always said that music was a mirror of our emotions, and that each sound and note was a reflection of whatever it was we were feeling inside at that moment. Usually, when I play, I'm happy—or at least fairly content—and so my music sounds more or less happy. But now, I realize that as my tears soak my face and fall onto the keys below, only one emotion can be heard in the melody I'm playing;

Sadness.

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