My meeting with Chisa felt like fate. One afternoon, as I was walking down the school corridor, I heard the piano playing. I could have ignored it, but instead, I decided to check out the music room. That’s when I first saw Chisa Mizuno. 

    “You’re very good,” I said. “Can I sit here and listen? I promise I won’t bother you.”

     Chisa let me stay, or rather, simply shrugged, as if I were just a fly buzzing around the corner. She resumed playing, and I sat down by the door to listen.

    From then on, a routine set in. After school, if Chisa was playing the piano, I would stop by to listen. She could play Peer Gynt’s Morning Mood with such elegance that even the gloomiest evening felt bright. She had a way with Bolero, which made my heart beat gently in time with the music. Gustav Holst’s Jupiter became my new favorite. 

    I could tell Chisa I liked her and ask her out. I was confident I could show her a good time. But if she rejected me, that would be the end of everything.

    Then came July. One day, it rained so hard that water started seeping into the school building. I helped the teachers ward off the flood, and as I walked toward the music room, I could hear Chopin’s Raindrop wafting through the air. The melody was so powerful—it evoked feelings of melancholy but also hope. The music finished just as I arrived. Chisa looked up, and I could see a look of relief in her eyes.

    At long last, after so many months, our eyes met.