Chapter 1: Prologue
Chapter Text
Prologue
It was just past midnight after another routine day at the new Seventh Heaven. Ordinarily, closing the bar was Tifa's least favorite time of day. The liveliness of the place in the early evening was a welcome distraction against the daily struggle. When Denzel was asleep as she cleaned the tables and polished the glassware, without him, the hush that fell over the lobby was a lonely one.
Tonight, the silence was peaceful and comforting. For at the far end of the room, stacking chairs and mopping the floor, was Cloud. Her wayward beloved, home at last and without worry. He knew he was where he belonged. She could see it in the content little smile on his face, a smile only she could see and read so clearly.
As she walked past him to turn off the neon sign and lock the doors for the night, she could hear the slightest whisper breaking the silence. She turned and listened with a singular curiosity, enchanted by a sound she never thought she'd hear in his voice.
Fascinated, she crept closer to him ever so slowly so as not to disturb him. She didn't want him to notice her presence and stop. It was a calming, deliberately private, and distracted little hum. Its sonorous melody betrayed a familiar note here and there. First remote and isolated, then a chain of two or three, until it evoked a tender memory.
"Cloud…" she whispered with a slight quaver in her voice. "That's my song. The one I used to play on my piano as a kid. You remember that?"
Cloud smirked with an airy chuckle, never looking up from his mop.
"Of course, I remember. You used to leave your window cracked in the summer, and I had an early bedtime. I heard it every night. It usually helped me sleep. I came to depend on it.
"I didn't sleep well in the barracks during that first year of service. I used to hum it to myself at night; my own, personal lullaby, I guess. I was told to shut up by a handful of bunkmates that year," he laughed.
A tear came to Tifa's eye. She wrapped her arms around his waist and pressed her ear to his back, listening to his heart as she hummed the rest of the song.
"It was the little piece of home I held onto. It helped me through a lot. I guess it became a habit." He said with a much more obvious smile, placing his hand over hers.
At that moment, for all the hours and nights she had spent alone in that bar, wondering when or if he'd come home, she knew she'd never lose him again.
"You really never forgot me..."
"You are the music of my heart, Tifa. You always have been."
Chapter 2: Her Vernal Prelude
Chapter Text
I
Her Vernal Prelude
Love, like most things in life, is a mystery when you’re seven years old. The world is a haze, all impulse and emotion. That’s how it’s been for me most of my life, for whatever reason. But back then, it was simpler. Happiness, sadness, and not much in between. Not much capacity for memory, either, so I can’t really say that I remember much from those days. I don’t think most do, save for a few important details here and there. The most important to me, the one that stands out the most, was the first time I met her.
I’ve always been… different. And it started early. I wouldn’t really say anything was wrong with me, necessarily. Nothing that stopped me from growing up reasonably healthy and with all of my faculties, anyway. But I didn’t see the world the way most did, not even like most kids my age. I wasn't very vocal or agreeable. I often didn’t know what I really wanted or felt. And when I did, I didn’t know why.
So it was that, one spring afternoon in the town square, I took notice of her in particular among a number of other children at play. I was playing by myself at a distance, as I usually did, despite my mother constantly encouraging me to be social. I just liked to watch, I’d told her. Though, in hindsight, I’m not sure ‘liked’ would be the word I’d have chosen.
Something was going on that day. More people than usual. Some occasion that brought in family from out of town, and for which my mother felt the need to drag me around and mingle. I never paid much mind to those things, even when I was older. But, with the arrival of distant relatives came other kids, of whom there were many. Yet, for the chaotic pitter-patter of little shoes, the blur of bobs and pigtails, the piping screams and laughter, I could see none of them. None except for her, shining brighter than the sun on that cloudless day.
She was playing with a couple of other girls our age, both completely forgettable next to her, passing around and smelling daisies and daffodils from a nearby house’s small garden. The house right next to my own, in fact. A cute, walnut-haired little beauty in a canary yellow dress. Wide and deep eyes of rich, autumn carmine. The sweetest little smile, and a laugh like a pixie’s playful song.
Even as a boy of seven, she brought color to my cheeks. I was fascinated. It wasn’t attraction, of course. Not like that. Not yet. But… there was something about her. Something I had to see up close.
Slowly, I made my way toward her, ducking and hiding wherever I could. I didn’t want to talk or play, and I had little patience for the cooing and adoration of adults who refused to respect my personal space. I wondered what I’d say to her, or if I would be able to say anything at all. Whatever it would be, I hoped I wouldn’t have to say it in front of those other girls. I just wanted her to see me, to know that I existed.
As I approached, I realized that I knew this girl. She wasn’t just another stranger here to visit. She was my neighbor, and had been as long as I could remember. How had I not noticed her like this before? Was something different about her today? Or was I really that oblivious? I didn’t spend much time outside, but even still, it would have been hard to ignore her if she had always been as I saw her on that day. And here, shamefully, I couldn't even recall her name.
I stood there, closer, but still at a secluding distance, watching her quietly and finding myself strangely at peace where I had felt anxious and withdrawn only moments before. Then, an enchanting melody rose from her open, upstairs window and broke my trance. This was a sound I knew. A sound I’d always loved. Though, to whom I had never assigned a face. It called to her, and with a joyous gasp, she ran into the house and clopped up the stairs, forgetting to close the door behind her.
Having the same tact and restraint of any other seven-year-old, I let myself in and followed the music. I’d spent many hours listening to our neighbors’ piano from my room, happily losing myself in the song without ever needing to know more. But it had changed recently, punctuated or interrupted by a hail of discordant noise every evening. And here before me, I saw the source of the disruption.
Seated on the bench, positively effulgent in the ambient sunlight, was a stunning woman with long, raven black hair in a high ponytail. Her eyes were of the same dark, ruby luster. She wore a fashionable, denim dress with floral patches, donning homemade jewelry of glass beads and leather paracord.
In her lap sat the cherubic angel from the garden outside, lost in a hopeless fit of giggles as she slapped an unmusical racket on the ivory keys.
“Okay, Tifa… Okay… That’s enough, sweetie. Okay, okay…!” the woman laughed, unheeded.
I smiled, shyly holding my hand to my face. A tiny chuckle escaped my lips, apparently just loud enough to alert them. They stared at me in silent surprise, shocked and amused at my intrusion. Still looking at me, and with a smug little grin, Tifa hammered out a few more sour notes on the exhausted piano. Certainly, a more interesting greeting than any ordinary hello.
I laughed compulsively through a mouthful of my own curled fingers, pink with embarrassment and moving to hide beyond the doorway. The woman joined in our laughter, giving that same look so many other adults did when they finally noticed me.
“Well, hello, sweetheart! Are you lost? My, look how big you’ve grown!” she chimed. The usual lines.
As with every other adult, I ignored her, spellbound by Tifa and the adorable curl of her cupid’s bow smile. We heard the sound of my mother calling my name outside, frantically looking for me in the crowd. Only Tifa's mother bothered to respond. Placing her child on the floor before me, much closer than would have otherwise been comfortable, she hurried to the open window and shouted to my mother below.
“He’s up here, Claudia! I guess the little guy liked my song!” She laughed. I could hear the muffled sound of her sigh and a string of exasperated, unintelligible complaints.
“Hi…” Tifa greeted softly, giving a little wave and that same sweet smile that compelled me to follow. It felt so much warmer and more inviting when it was at me. For me.
“H-hi…” I replied in my own stifled whisper, lowering my eyes for a moment. I didn’t know what this feeling was. It was new. Not entirely unpleasant, but overwhelming. I wanted to know her. And I wanted her to know me.
Within a few moments, I could feel my mother’s feet impatiently stamping up the creaking stairs.
“Cloud Strife!” she chided, hands on hips. I didn’t respond, even as she pulled me to her by the wrist. “Since when do you run off and walk into other people’s homes uninvited? I’m sorry, Thea! I don’t know what’s gotten into him today!”
“Oh, it’s no trouble.” Thea waved the apology away with a friendly smile. “He’s no bother at all, and so precious! You know, Claudia, we haven’t spoken in a while. Maybe you should come by one of these mornings? We can catch up over tea, and the kiddos can have some time together.”
She knelt before me. “Would you like that?”
She was as lively and charming as her daughter. I liked her. But still, my gaze never left Tifa’s face, and the smile never left my own. She was getting embarrassed, but I couldn’t help myself.
“Well, I think we have our answer!” Thea laughed. She smelled of fresh apples and wild, summer winds. Her smile was every bit as dazzling as her little girl’s. She was the flower in full bloom to which Tifa would one day blossom.
I don’t remember much else from that day. Just a better look at her well-kept and stately home, filled with simple vases and various, colorful bouquets. I liked this place. It felt like home, though home was fewer than fifty feet away.
Our mothers chatted and exchanged pleasantries by the front door for a few more minutes while we stood in silence. Me, awe-struck at my mother’s side, my back warmed by the daylight and my face warmed by this welcoming presence and my own bashfulness. Tifa, at the foot of the staircase, waving at me and increasingly nervous at the longest unbroken eye contact she’d ever shared with another child.
Mom and I put the rest of that day to use, catching up with her old acquaintances, speaking of things either older than me or over my head entirely. A few more kids with too much energy. Some food I liked, some I didn’t. Some colors, some shapes, some smells -- a mishmash of things that I had no chance at remembering.
Yet, I remember her. Every moment, every little detail to defy the mind-weathering and graying march of time. And I remember her as she was to this very day, every time I look at her beautiful face. I spent that night in my bed thinking of her. Wondering what she did when we left, what they’d said of me. Wondering if she was asleep yet, and of what she dreamed.
My answer came trumpeting from her upstairs window once again. At an unacceptable hour, no less. Another smattering of discordant noise, the faint sound of her giggles, and her mother’s rising and irritable shout.
“Tifa! It’s time for bed, young lady! You’re gonna wake the Strife boy!”
I laughed more genuinely than I ever had in my life. When the sound met abrupt silence and succumbed to the night's usual chorus of crickets, I curled up and closed my eyes for the night. I wondered what she’d have for breakfast in the morning, if she liked the same foods I did. I wondered if their door would be open again in the afternoon, and I wondered if they’d mind another visit. I’d be polite and knock this time.
I couldn’t have explained to you what I felt that day, or what I was thinking. I wouldn’t be especially adept at conveying my feelings until early adulthood, long after I’d wished I could have made them clear to her. Long after my honesty and sincerity would have made all the difference in the world. Because, on some level, I think I learned what love was that day.
I would see her again tomorrow. And every day thereafter, so long as she could tolerate me.
︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵
The next morning, I wasted no time hurrying next door. If not for my mother insisting that I eat and wash my face, I’d have been there at first light. Fortunately, they were early to rise. Even more fortunately, their door was closed. Though I’d told myself I’d be polite, my impulsiveness tended to win out more often than not.
At 7:30 AM, I stood at their front door in the crisp air and morning dew. Silent. Motionless. Nervous, and painfully hesitant. Maybe they weren’t awake yet, I thought. Maybe I shouldn’t bother her. At 7:45, when I heard the familiar clopping of her little shoes against their wooden floors, I knocked. Shyly and softly. Too softly to hear, surely.
I was losing what little confidence I had. I told myself that I might come back later. But by the time later came around, I’d have probably talked myself out of it. How Mrs. Lockhart noticed me there, I wasn’t sure, but she certainly saved me from myself in the moment. Slowly, with a groaning creak against the morning quiet, the door swung open.
Mrs. Lockhart fought through a yawn. She rubbed her eyes and gave a tired smile. Of course, she hadn’t been expecting any visitors at this hour. Even with a few stray hairs, and without the full measure of that sunny charm of hers, she was radiant.
“Oh… Good morning, sweetie. How are you? Where’s your mommy?” She exhaustedly welcomed.
“Hi… um… Tifa…?” I squeaked, ignoring her questions.
It was rude, I know, but I didn’t think about things like that back then. I didn’t like talking, least of all to adults. She didn’t mind, and her expression never soured. She was nice to me, nicer than most. I returned her smile, as warm as I could make it.
“A smile looks good on you, Cloud.” She praised. “Between that and your pretty, blue eyes, you’re gonna break a lot of hearts one day.” She said with vicarious pride. I didn’t know what she meant.
Before I was expected to speak another word, Tifa came galloping down the stairs, shoving her way past her mother and standing less than two feet from me. I took a single step back in reflex.
Another cute dress today, much like the one from yesterday. Capri blue this time, with shiny pink ribbons and a sailboat motif. She wore a tiny seashell clip in her hair, a wish for tropical shores she’d probably never seen. Her mother’s fantasy or pleasant memory, no doubt.
“Cloud!” She beamed. “Let’s play!”
Most other kids thought I was weird, or otherwise found me off-putting. Those who met me were rarely keen on meeting me a second time. But she, like her mother, was very different. Sweet, accommodating, and assuming the best of people despite seeing their worst. She may have only been six years old, and therefore, was certainly naive. But that good streak in her has never changed, regardless of how many have come along since then to betray her trust.
That may have been one of the happiest days of my life. The first other kid I liked, whose attention I ever cared to have, actually liked me back. And by a stroke of good luck, whatever had been going on the day before had come to an end. Most of the other families had left town last night, taking their children with them.
For that afternoon, it was just her and me. There would be no competition. I wouldn’t have to be anxious. For once, and for the only time it ever mattered to me, I could try to open up a little.
Our town was tiny. Much smaller than most, and far from what most would call civilization. Living way out in the sticks in a community without much money, there also wasn’t much in the way of toys or play structures. But we had our amusements, games, and distractions. And plenty of ways to get in trouble.
We spent most of that morning just running around the town square, finding stuff to climb on, or slide down, or jump over, or crawl under. Things we probably weren’t supposed to, in ways that probably could’ve gotten us hurt. We’d accumulated more than a few splinters, only to be discovered and removed that evening.
We were laughing and enjoying every moment, until her dress snagged a thorn in a blackberry bush, half tearing a handmade patch from her hip. A smiling, yellow starfish. Consistent with the nautical theme, and probably covering the aftermath of a previous incident just like this one.
She went silent, looked at me in genuine tears, whimpering and whining. I usually wasn’t very perceptive of other people’s feelings, but again, something was different about her. Somehow, I knew she was more upset than she ought to have been. The way we’d been running around, the things we’d been doing and her devil-may-care way of doing them, this was far from the first time she’d torn a dress. And she wasn’t hurt, as far as I could see. Yet, she was devastated.
“Hey… it’s okay…” I consoled, haltingly moving to place my hand on her shoulder. She ducked it, sitting on the ground and holding her knees to her chest.
She was red in the face, actually crying as though she’d made herself bleed. I was upset that she didn’t want to play anymore, but more so, I couldn’t stand to see her hurt like that. It broke my heart. Thinking fast, I took her by the hand.
“I got an idea. Follow me, okay?” I reassured her, forcing my best fake smile.
She looked at me quizzically, but nodded and followed. I took her straight to my house, to my mother, who had been knee-deep in dusting and spring-cleaning before we stepped through the door. She liked to hum merry little tunes of her own invention when she cleaned, but that gave way to maternal instinct as soon as she heard poor Tifa’s tiny sobs.
“Oh, sweet baby…” she moaned in wounded commiseration. She hurried toward us, taking a knee and holding Tifa’s face in her hands, wiping away her tears with her thumbs.
“What’s the matter, honey? Are you hurt?”
Tifa shook her head wordlessly, pinching the threatened patch on her dress and exposing the threads left fraying from the cloth.
“My mommy made it for me…” Tifa whined and sniffled. “It’s special…”
“Aww…” Mom pursed her lips in a strange cross between a frown and a smirk, playful, yet genuinely concerned. “It’s okay, sweet girl. I think I can help.”
We spent the next few minutes eating a couple small pieces of blackberry pie leftover from one of the gatherings last night. A ‘snack break’, mom called it, sitting in high dining room chairs while she focused on fixing Tifa's dress from a little stool at her side. She'd said it was a way to ‘get back at the mean, old blackberry bush who hurt her little starfish friend’. That made Tifa laugh.
Mom could be funny when she needed to be. Or, maybe she was always funnier than I gave her credit for. She finished the job well before we finished the last crumbs on our plates. She even matched the color of Mrs. Lockhart's original thread. No one would have ever known the difference. She'd always been an amazing seamstress.
“There!” She chimed, grinning with satisfaction. Tifa looked and gasped. She was amazed. Delighted.
“No more tears, now, okay? It'll be our little secret.” She whispered with a wink.
With a gleeful, little squeal, Tifa hugged my mother's legs in gratitude, staining her nice, clean skirt with her blackberry-covered cheeks in thanks. Mom sighed with blithe exasperation, exhaustedly laughing and patting Tifa’s head. Yet another chore for her labor of love. But she'd saved two smiles today, and that was reward enough for her.
By the time mom had saved the day, most of the townsfolk had joined the waking world in the usual rush of daily chores and boring prattle. Tifa went about greeting them all, with me in tow. I didn't much like this game, but I did enjoy watching her. She was the village darling, and it thrilled her to brighten everyone's day.
We decided to be a bit more careful in our play that afternoon, opting to avoid any further dress-endangering activities. But our caution didn't last long. She tossed it to the wind the moment she saw our neighbor's friendly dog, whom she apparently enjoyed chasing, and who apparently enjoyed being chased.
Evidently, she loved animals. This, we later traded for mimicking the hopping of an especially colorful grasshopper. Then, for hours of trying to catch frogs at the riverbank just beyond the gates leading up the mountain path, a little farther than we were supposed to wander.
That day, I wasn't myself. I was someone I liked more, free of my usual reservedness and cynicism. I participated in every silly game, shared in her every giggle and her every smile. In fact, I talked more than I ever did. About everything and nothing at all, just because loving the sound of her voice helped me tolerate the sound of my own.
We splashed around in that water until the sunset glazed it in tangerine dream, when the crickets chirped their arrival, and the lovely notes of her mother's piano sounded in the distance. That was our cue to head home before they came looking for us.
When we neared the midpoint between our front doors, she hugged me at length, entirely unprovoked. It took me by surprise. Yet, I did not recoil. It made me happy in a very new way.
“Thank you for playing! And thanks… for your mommy fixing my star. Um…okay, bye!” She waved and scampered off, running inside and up the stairs with careless abandon. She forgot to close the door again. I shook my head with a smile.
She was distractible, but alive in a way I never was, even while I was still so young. She gave me a spark that I had lacked, and made me better for it. And she made it hard to stop smiling when I had so recently struggled to start. Suddenly, I liked playing outside. I liked the noise. I liked the bugs, the bumps, the scrapes, the bruises.
And I liked her. A lot.
The smile only left my face when I heard her father shout at her for ruining their freshly mopped floor with her muddy feet. I winced when I heard her cry. Looking at the remaining puddle of water in my mother's laundry bucket, I considered washing my own, but…
I ran inside just as she did, filthy toes and all, with complete disregard for all the hard work my mother had put into cleaning that morning. I hoped she'd hear my mother shout at me, too. I would happily take the scolding if it would let her know she wasn't alone.
Chapter 3: Her Melody in Disaffection
Chapter by PleasantNightmares
Chapter Text
II
Her Melody in Disaffection
Life in Nibelheim was peaceful. Slow. We children received our education at home, each in the way the adults in our lives found best. It was our parents’ job to prepare us for whatever they thought adult life might bring in the most general sense. Morals and ethics. Mathematics, the written word. History, to whatever degree the grownups could research and convey in our isolated and limited existence. For some, the arts. Tifa’s mother had her music, and before long, she began to pass it on to her daughter.
Beyond those lessons and various chores, the unfilled hours were ours to do with as we pleased. The adults let children be children. Even as small as our community was, the way they saw it, the problems and politics facing the town were not yet ours to bear. They lay on the other side of an important milestone in our lives. Until that milestone came calling, these earliest years were to remain as simple, pleasant, and innocent as we could make them. Because it would be to these years that we would look when we thought of home and found it a place worth preserving.
It was an unwritten tradition that, at the age of thirteen or fourteen, the village boys would leave town in mass exodus in the fall. Some to find jobs and earn money, some to pursue education, some simply to figure out who they were and wanted to be. Depending on the state of the world, some went to war. Some would never return, but the town did this in faith that most would remember their roots and loyalty.
By that same tradition, in the fashion of most rural communities, the girls usually stayed behind and learned to be homemakers. Learning to sew, to cook, to clean, to garden. To maintain a house and make it a proper home. It was a very old-fashioned way to live, rife with unreasonable expectations, limitations, and without much room for personal exploration. Certain to meet with resistance by a new generation someday, even though it sustained us.
There were exceptions on both sides, of course. Some with no patience for tradition, and some who simply couldn’t comply for one reason or another. But for the most part, that was the way of things. And it was why our play, as children, was an important job. These cherished memories, memories of those loved ones who would remain in the village, would call us home to keep and protect what was ours. To live and settle down for those who mattered most to us. For neighbors, for family, for friendship.
For love.
︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵
Tifa and I grew close that spring, and closer still that summer. Many more hours chasing various animals, many footprints left in the riverbed, fireflies and frogs caught and released. Quite a few play dates arranged by our mothers, too, which were just an excuse for them to gab and gossip while we would spend the day doing what we were going to do anyway. It became routine, but I cherished every moment of it.
She was the only one who had ever been able to draw me out of my shell. She was my best friend, and every second I could spend alone with her was a second well spent. But our time alone wouldn’t last. Every autumn, the social landscape would change. And, universally adored as she was, she made friends fast.
When the leaves began to change and fall, the kids who remained in the village always lost someone to the tradition that drove us apart. Friends, brothers, cousins. Every year, there were always shoes to fill and loneliness to ease. Always strangers who suddenly became acquainted, and familiar faces that became a little closer. One of those familiar faces made his way into our fold well before the last of the wayfarers left. I wished he’d gone running to someone else.
One morning, Tifa was waiting at my front door, as she often did. It always made me happy to see her waiting for me, just as I did for her on that first morning of our friendship. Today, though, it was different. He was with her, standing at a fair distance behind her, only to close the distance the moment he saw me, standing between us and aggressively thrusting his open hand toward me.
“Hiya!” he greeted, flashing his most annoying grin. I stared at his hand and hesitantly shook it.
“Hey…” I muttered.
Emilio. The general store owner’s kid. I never liked him. He wasn’t a bad kid, or anything. He just bugged me. Any time mom had to do a little shopping and insisted on taking me along, he was always there with this same explosive greeting of his. The adults couldn’t get enough of it, of course. They found him “cute as a button”. And he certainly was friendly, but in that overly persistent, enthusiastic way that just can’t take no for an answer.
“Emilio’s gonna play today!” Tifa chirped. “We’re gonna go climb trees! Emilio’s really good! He says he can get all the way to the top of the tall one at the riverbank! Wanna come?”
She was thrilled to have another friend. But… ‘wanna come’? She was… my friend. I… I had her first. That wasn’t fair of me, I know that now. I never ‘had’ her, nor could I ‘have’ what she wasn’t inclined for me to keep. I just… I dunno. It was another feeling I didn’t understand. And I didn’t like this one.
It wasn’t even the idea of spending time with Emilio that bothered me. I just felt inside the way that I used to feel. The way that only stopped when I started playing with her, when it was just the two of us. With him around, or any other kid who wasn’t her, I felt like I couldn’t be me anymore. At least, not the version of me that I liked.
“O…okay…” I stammered. I must have looked sad, because her expression changed to one somewhere between concern and disappointment. I liked that even less. I was being selfish, and I hated myself for it.
“I mean… yeah, okay! Sounds fun!” I forced myself to smile, and she smiled in turn. Though reluctantly, I would try my best for her. Her happiness mattered to me more than my own.
However, try as I might, it became too much to bear. It turned out that he wasn’t just bragging. He really was that good. We’d only made it up a few branches high. But he, with speed that just didn’t seem possible, wound up looking down on us from a dizzying height near the apex of its canopy. Wearing a smug grin of self-satisfaction that I found repugnant and unnecessary. I couldn’t help but feel jealous.
She was amazed, cheering and clapping her hands. I desperately wanted to share her happiness and take my place in the fun they were having, but I couldn’t. As open-minded and sociable as I tried to be, I still didn’t like him. Just the same as I didn’t like most other kids. I didn’t want to be just another friend. I wanted to be… I don’t know. Special. Like she was to me.
In the end, I only cared about her. It turned into a competition, and it shouldn't have been. That’s definitely not how she saw it. It probably wasn’t even how he saw it, but that’s what it was to me. And I just couldn’t compete.
The farther the sun lowered, the further my heart sank. In the twilight, they were still frolicking and having all the fun she and I used to have. All the same games, the same elation that had finally liberated me from the shackles of my own mind. Yet, I began to fall behind them, quieter and colder. A spectator. Had they forgotten about me?
Had she forgotten?
When he finally left, he turned to wave. He was shouting something. Probably ‘goodbye’, or ‘see you tomorrow’. Probably to me just as much as to her. Just because I didn’t like him didn’t mean he didn’t like me. Whatever the case, I didn’t hear it. All sound was muffled. The world was turning gray. I had ice in my stomach, my throat was tightening. I felt terrible, and I was floating tears.
None the wiser, she was smiling at me wider than I’d ever seen her smile before. Speaking to me with celebration and excitement that she intended for me to share. But I couldn’t hear her, either.
It wasn’t until she frowned, obviously saddened by my lack of response and now unambiguous dejection, that my hearing returned.
“Cloud… are you okay? What’s the matter?” She asked with a slight whine, brow furrowed with concern.
I tried to find the right words. But, as usual, they eluded me. I knew I wasn’t okay, but I didn’t know why. I never knew why. Moreover, I knew that it wasn’t okay that I wasn’t okay. And I didn’t know what to tell her. I could only manage the smallest collection of syllables possible.
“I gotta…go… I’m sorry…” I said, obviously wounded and hardly above a whisper. Before she could respond, I turned and ran home.
I thought I heard her call after me, but I was too afraid to look back. I knew I was ruining her good day, but I couldn’t stop myself. The tears had paused by the time I got home, but I was crushed. I had shut down, and I wouldn’t be opening up again for the rest of the night. Despite my mother’s best efforts, I didn’t eat dinner that night. And I didn’t speak a word.
Thankfully, she eventually decided to leave it be. Or, put a pin in it for later, at least. More often than not, she didn’t understand the source of my moodiness any more than I did. But she had at least learned that it did neither of us any good to pry. She certainly wasn’t laissez-faire about my mental state. But there was only so much she could do, and she knew when to back off.
I lay in bed that night letting loose the tears that hadn’t yet found their way to my eyes, listening hard for the sound of the Lockhart family piano. From her cracked window, I could hear the slowest, faintest keystrokes. Discordant as always, but calm, isolated, and depressed. Like musical teardrops on a still lake of silence.
Suddenly, the sound came to a stop. I could hear voices. Muffled and wordless, but enough to understand. Her mother sounded terribly concerned. Tifa's voice whined and cracked, stuttered. And then… sobs… sobs veiled in the calming hiss of her mother’s consulate shushing. She was crying.
I… I made her cry.
I hurt her.
I felt like a monster.
…Why was I like this?
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I spent the next few days indoors, returning to my old habits. She did the same for the entire next day. I really had hurt her, more than I had anticipated or bothered to consider when I ran. I’d never felt more guilty in my life.
Every day thereafter, I looked outside and saw her with him. Having an absolute blast, as though I never mattered. That was enough to keep me hermited away and out of the sunlight, and it made for a sharp decline in what had been a great improvement in my mood over the past couple of months. Naturally, my mother was concerned, and she wasn’t going to remain quiet about it forever.
I was lying in my bed, facing away from the window, and trying to focus on coloring. Trying my absolute best to block out their laughter and shouting nearby. Then, mom spoke up.
“Cloud, honey…” she said with a touch of exhausted annoyance in her voice. “Why don’t you go play?”
“...I don’t wanna.” I defiantly spat, pouting and turning away from her.
She huffed with irritation. “I’m sure Tifa misses you!”
“...I don’t think she does. She has a new friend now.”
“That Emilio boy? He’s so nice, though! And I’m sure he likes you, too. He always says hi to you at the store, doesn’t he? I bet you two would have a lot of fun with him!” She smiled, trying her best to be encouraging.
I had no response that I wished to speak aloud. I groaned at length, punctuated with a pantomime sob. With a somewhat jovial revelation, her tone suddenly made a patronizing shift that I didn’t much appreciate.
“Oh, honey… Are you jealous?” she asked in a pitying croon, a perplexing smile creeping across her lips. “That’s so sweet…”
She’d assumed my answer before I even had the chance to give it. I turned fire red, frowning with facial muscles I didn’t know I had.
“Stop teasing me! I just… I don’t like him, okay?”
“Cloud, it’s okay…” Another shift of tone. She shouldn’t have made light of it like that. It may have been trivial and cute to her, but it wasn’t to me. She realized that.
“Just leave me alone, alright?” I whined, clutching my pillow and curling into it, burying my face with humiliation.
“Okay…” she sighed. “But Cloud, can I just… can I give you a little advice? You can’t choose her friends for her. But what you can do is be the best friend you can be. You can be your best self and shine bright. So bright, she can’t help but notice. If you want her to have eyes only for you, to be as special to her as she obviously is to you--”
It was clear she’d been champing at the bit for years to have this conversation, paying no mind to the fact that it was much too early for me to comprehend.
“What are you even talking about?!” I interrupted. My anger only encouraged her, told her something that I most certainly wasn’t trying to say. She laughed.
“You’re still little, Cloud. One day, you’ll understand.” she chimed with a wink. I hated it, and I knew that she was right. Which I hated even more.
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I didn’t entirely understand what mom was getting at, but I understood enough to know that I was being foolish. I knew I’d regret it if I didn’t turn things around. Tifa was different, yes, but not like me. Not in a self-destructive or isolating way. Quite the opposite, in fact, which is what made her so good for me. She was outgoing, personable, and pleasant. And she made me want to be the same.
She was just a happy little kid. She didn’t understand my reaction, that was clear. If I didn’t understand it myself, she had no chance. Given the distance she allowed me, it was more likely that she simply thought I was mad at her. That I didn’t want to be her friend anymore, and she definitely had no idea what she did to upset me. No clue that she had done nothing wrong at all, and that it wasn't her fault.
I couldn’t have that. I had to fix it. Mom was overjoyed to hear that I wanted to try. She, like everyone else, loved Tifa. It wouldn’t do for her own son to be at odds with that sweet little girl, let alone the whole Lockhart family. In hindsight, I’m sure she was much more concerned for my sake than for Tifa’s, but I had a hard time interpreting it that way.
She had the idea of baking her an “apology cake”, fully intending to do so herself, just to give me an excuse to walk it next door. But I insisted on helping. I wanted to be able to say that I helped, that she meant that much to me. Of course, they’d encounter the occasional eggshell for my contribution, thereby tarnishing mom’s immaculate culinary record. But it’s the thought that counts, isn’t it?
She’d written the words “I’m sorry” on it in piped frosting, along with a little cartoon of my face. Humiliating, but effective. As soon as it was done and had sufficiently cooled, I waddled it next door in one of mom’s decorative cake takers. I was just as nervous as I was on that first day in the spring, just as hesitant. Mom offered to come with, but I insisted that I had to do it on my own. I wouldn’t want Tifa to think I was apologizing because she made me. She had to know that I meant it.
Were it not for mom goading me from our own doorway, I’d have probably stood there until the August heat melted the sweet apology treat in my hands. Wearing cold sweat, menaced by pins and needles at the soles of my feet, I could see her miming for me to knock on the door. I swallowed hard, then complied. Almost immediately, the door swung open.
“Hi, sweetheart!” Mrs. Lockhart greeted more warmly than ever, genuinely happy to see me. “Long time no see! Goodness, is that a cake in your hands? Is that for us?”
“H...hi…” I nervously exhaled more than spoke. “Um…Tifa…” I’d ignored her words once again.
Just like the first time, I could hear Tifa galloping down the stairs. As could her mother. With wide eyes, she snatched the cake taker from my hands, avoiding near disaster as Tifa came shooting through the doorway and into my arms.
“Cloud!” she exclaimed with relief, wrapping her arms around me and hugging me tight.
I didn’t expect this. I expected her to be angry, or withdrawn. I expected things to be awkward. I thought I’d have to do a lot of apologizing. But she launched straight into a hug, and she sounded… well, she cared. I could hear it. I could feel it.
“Hi, Tifa…” I finally managed to say.
“Hi… Cloud, are you okay? I was worried!” she shouted with a mildly chastising whine.
Our mothers had waved at each other as soon as Tifa stepped through the door. Her mother had immediately wandered over, and they began chatting while Tifa was still silently hugging me. I could overhear them now. Mrs. Lockhart was saying how glad they were to see me. Saying Tifa had been worried sick, watching our house from her window every night. Asking when she’d get to see me again. How she’d cried.
I could feel a mist of tears at my eyes again. I hugged her tight, tighter than she had been hugging me.
“I…I’m sorry. I’m sorry I made you cry, Tifa. I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean it…” I penitently pleaded for forgiveness. My voice was cracking and shaking.
She pushed out of my grip and looked me in the eye. “Are you okay, though? Are you? What happened? Why…?”
I couldn't believe it. She wasn't angry at all, not the least bit concerned with her own feelings. She'd only been thinking of me. She was so kind. I didn't deserve this.
“I dunno, Tifa… I don’t know how to explain it. I feel stupid. Just… I promise I won’t do that again. I’m sorry.”
“Did I do something? I don’t want you to be mad at me.”
“No, it’s not your fault. It’s not. Can we just… can you forgive me? Please?”
She paused. Our mothers were watching now in silent anticipation. She smiled and hugged me again, and I could feel the tension in my every muscle release. The ice in my stomach melted. I felt warm. I felt right again.
Mom and Mrs. Lockhart were still staring, now visibly charmed and elated. They were watching us grow up, or something, I’m sure. Sharing a moment and making a memory, but I didn’t like the attention. My face was growing hot.
“H-hey, um…” My mind raced, looking for an excuse for us to leave. “Do you wanna… go climb trees? We can do the tall one again. I bet I can climb higher than Emilio!” I boldly claimed.
“Yeah! Let’s go!” Tifa laughed, leading me by the hand and dragging me toward the mountain path. She sprinted, and I stumbled as I tried to match her pace.
I couldn’t outclimb Emilio, unfortunately. I tried my best while Tifa watched me from the ground, all smiles and enjoying the shade. I got close, almost grabbed the branch he was standing on before I lost my footing and stumbled. She gasped while I ungracefully grappled with every branch I hit on the way down, breaking my fall enough to leave me with little more than a scraped elbow. She ran over to me in a panic, and once she was sure that I was okay, she pointed and laughed.
I laughed, too. It was the greatest feeling in the world.
︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵
I’d like to say things only got better from there, that we were inseparable for the rest of our days. But life isn’t a fairy tale, and that wasn’t me. Emilio remained a regular presence in our lives, which remained a constant test of my patience and ability to cope. I think I got a little better at making myself known when he was around, not living in his shadow quite as much. But I could never match his energy, never keep her attention quite the way he did. And it was always a detriment to my self-esteem.
The thing is, Emilio was typical. I was the one who was different. Before long, two others just like him joined in. Tyler and Lester. Each more energetic and goofy than the last. Each exacerbating and amplifying the constant jokes, showboating, and general annoyance.
Worst of all, I felt they were changing Tifa. Not really for the worse, necessarily, just… things that made me think of them more than her. Inside jokes, modes of speech, habits. Things that were out of character for me. Things that made me feel excluded, isolated, and alone.
The truth was, even before I began to fade into the background, I had already been an outsider. These four had grown up together much more closely with her than I had. Their parents were more familiar with hers, and they’d spent time together since before they could walk. Even if I could, I had no right to close them out, and I had no means to claim that I had come first.
I felt… I just didn’t belong.
Fall gave way to winter, and outdoor play slowly gave way to indoor, which only made matters worse. Play became more about quieter activities and talk than running around and getting sweaty, which only served to make my awkwardness all the more evident.
They joked and laughed about the stupidest things. The immature, often gross behavior for which boys our age were usually known. Things that I could not stand, let alone bring myself to emulate. And yet, these were the things about them that so frequently made her laugh and smile.
I had nothing to contribute. I didn’t know what to say, or what to do. I became quiet, and I never found my place. My presence became a joke, and my silence made me the target for teasing. Dares not entertained became provocation. Unanswered questions became cause for them to speak for me, often rudely, or to speak of me as though I weren’t in the room. The final straw… was when she started doing it, too.
They were around every day now. And so, feeling unwanted and alone, my attendance became more and more seldom. Once every few days, once a week, maybe once or twice a month. Until the invitations stopped coming, and I stopped asking. I disappeared.
They were so frequently seen together, and just as frequently making noise and trouble, that the adults came to see them as a unit more than as individuals. The “Four Friends”, they called them. A name that I not only found stupid, but insulting. Because I, the fifth, had started to hear it long before my estrangement became deliberate.
Even to the adults, I wasn’t a part of it. I didn’t belong.
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While I isolated myself once more, resumed my status as a ghost among the children of this town, I tried to convince myself that it was my choice. I convinced myself that I hated them, that I wanted nothing to do with them. In the case of the boys, that was easy. But to convince myself to feel the same about her…
I fought myself over it. I tried to see her the way I saw them. She partook in the same jokes, the same stupid behavior. In all ways, she effectively was one of them. And yet… I couldn’t lie to myself.
I… couldn’t understand it. Couldn’t rationalize it. It was just different with her. Something was different. I had no word for it then, no name for this feeling that I would have conceded to, no matter how much my mother would have twisted my arm. But it was true. Mom knew, and I just wouldn’t admit it.
I loved her.
For all of the mental wrestling, pain and anguish I felt inside, all the thoughts of her I tried to expel from my mind, there was one link I couldn’t give up. One artifact that spoke true of my feelings, and I could never do without it.
The piano. The music of the Lockhart household, of Tifa’s room, that serenaded my sleep every night. And I heard it more often than ever now. At long last, Tifa was beginning to learn, and the melody took on a new form. A new significance.
Now, every evening, it wasn’t the beautiful, flowery songs of endless spring and secret gardens that I’d come to love, but simple melodies. Very simple, rudimentary and childish. Something Tifa could follow, slow down, and understand.
There was a pattern. First, slow but confident in Mrs. Lockhart’s practiced hand. Instructive, without flaw, and with impeccable timing. Then, awkward and disjointed, unsteady, and filled with mistakes. But determined, restarting again and again, each time finding another correct note. Growing, developing. Slowly, but surely.
Tifa didn’t know, but that was how she spoke to me from then on. Her words became notes. Her laughter became a new string, a new chord she’d mastered, however slow and pecking. Her smile became the confidence in her strokes, the tightening of her timing.
Her anger became the notes that rose in volume without anticipation, that hammered and shouted their discontent. Her frustration became the new bursts of discord that followed one-too-many sour notes, the pains of struggle turned visceral and violent upon the keys. And her tears were the softer notes to follow, the melodies that stopped mid-play and succumbed to disappointed silence.
Ordered or chaotic, sweet or sad or angry, she spoke to me in song. Told me how she was feeling, how she was trying, how she was changing and who she was becoming. And my heart sailed on its provident winds, blew about helplessly in its swirling tempest, and coasted on the serenity of its flat calms. Weighed anchor in its gray and salty doldrums.
Her heart was musical.
She was the music of my heart.
thecosmocanyon on Chapter 2 Fri 05 Sep 2025 11:39PM UTC
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PleasantNightmares on Chapter 2 Fri 05 Sep 2025 11:49PM UTC
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