22.04.2025 : .- / -.. --- .-. / -.. .- / ... .- ..- -.. .- -.. . .-.-.-

I thought I could try it again, maybe even reclaim some part of what I had lost. It had been so long, but I still remember the way it felt to lose myself in the keys. I found it, buried in the corner of the antique shop, a forgotten keyboard coated in dust, a relic of a time when I was whole. My fingers trembled as I approached, almost as if the instrument were a bridge to something that once made sense.

The moment I touched it, the fear came crashing down. It started as a tightness in my chest, small at first, almost imperceptible. But then it bloomed, suffocating, spreading like an unbearable weight across my ribs. My hands froze above the keys, the air thick and suffocating, and I couldn’t breathe. The panic was so sudden, so sharp it felt like something inside me was unraveling, as though my own body had turned against me. My heart raced, a deafening drumbeat in my ears, louder than anything else in the room. My vision blurred, and the once-familiar black and white keys twisted. I couldn't remember how to play. I couldn't even remember how to think.

My chest clenched tighter, and I backed away, the sound of my rapid breathing drowning everything else. My body felt heavy, like I couldn’t move, stuck in a place I didn’t recognize. And as I stood there, staring at the dusty keyboard, something inside me softened. A quiet ache rose, not from fear, but from a longing I couldn’t quite place. I cried then, softly, my tears falling over the dust on the keys. It wasn’t just for what I had lost, but also for the person I could no longer be, for the music that had slipped away just out of reach.