RENAISSANCE

31. Forbidden confessions

I was torn from my light sleep by a barely audible rustling, that of the front door hesitantly opening a little. My heart began to beat faster, because I realized that Isaac had come home. He who had vanished in the night, after dropping me off here, without saying a word about his destination.

Awkwardly, I climbed out of the sheets, letting the coolness of the night caress my skin. My bare feet brushed the cold ground, sending a shiver down my spine.

I moved forward, guided by the corridor to the large living room. The person.

But the cool breeze told me that the bay window was open, and as I moved forward, I discovered his back on the terrace, where he seemed to be contemplating the view.

There, under the starry sky, he stood, a cigarette in his hand, as if absorbed in his thoughts. The glowing glow of the incandescent tip betrayed his deep inspirations. Even in the dim light, I could make out the frustration that tightened his profile features.

I stood back against the bay window door for a moment, torn between the desire to break this heavy silence and the fear of disturbing him in his thoughts.

Finally, driven by an impulse that I cannot explain, I approached him, my cold feet brushing the floor of the terrace.

Arriving at his height, I placed myself gently against the railing, at his side, respecting this silence which seemed to be his only refuge.

Our shoulders barely brushed, but he didn't move, as if he already knew I'd been there for a while.

I noticed that our interactions and discussions took place most of the time at night.

Probably because at night we are more vulnerable, our hearts open, our deepest secrets find the courage to reveal themselves. Yeah, the night had a way of stripping us of our armor.

I watched his face, looking for clues, signs that would give me permission to speak, but nothing came. His expression remained impenetrable.

Yet I had this question on the tip of my tongue that had been itching since this chase. But it's nighttime, so maybe he'll answer me?

"Is Caleb-"

"Stop it," he cut me off coldly.

It was not the moment. He was still in his positions.

"You can confide in me, you know," I whispered after a moment, watching the city unfold in all its splendor before my eyes.

But he didn't answer me, and instead continued to smoke.

After a while, my feet no longer felt sore from the cold ground, and my face seemed to be frozen too, my cheeks probably already pink.

"My parents told me that if I didn't want to express myself with words I just had to express myself through music," I said.

I didn't know why I was talking about this now, maybe because he had confided in me a little too.

"I wasn't very talkative and I had trouble opening up to people, even to them. So they enrolled me in piano from a very young age. My father was already a professor, he naturally became mine. And then it became a passion."

He didn't answer me, but seemed to be paying attention to what I was saying, so I continued:

"I loved my parents, they always supported me. My father did everything to ensure that I became the most talented in the entire class, I think that deep down he even wanted me to become a renowned pianist. I didn't really know why, I guess it was an obsession of his own."

My heart sank a little.

"He was very perfectionist, and very picky," I added.

The memories slowly began to overwhelm me.