There’s an old guitar standing in the corner of my room, staring at me with resentment since it’s been a while since I last played it’s worn out strings.

I have owned it for as long as I can remember, but I learned to play it not so long ago. When I was younger I used to pick it up and fearlessly strum its strings without knowing what I was doing. I always thought it sounded good, but it wasn’t long until my mother stormed into my room asking me to stop making so much noise.

Noise.

I never thought of it as noise.

After some time, I managed to turn the noise into music. The senseless strumming disappeared, replaced by scales, notes and chords. I learned to play every song I knew the lyrics to, and loved singing along, feeling the notes land softly on my skin.

I remember when I learned to play his favorite song.

I was older, much older than the first time I picked up a guitar. And, I knew more about it. I knew I had to be careful when I held it since it was fragile and could easily break. I knew a C chord and a B chord would never sound good played after each other, and I also knew playing it made me feel alive.

The boy with the guitar first looked at me when he was holding his guitar, and I was holding mine. He held it with care, and looked at me playfully. I quickly learned he never looked at his fingers when he played; he liked looking at people, and wonder what was going on inside their mind.

The boy with the guitar played since he was a child. He played his first concert when he was five, and loved bragging about it. Twinkle Twinkle Little Star was the song and according to him, it was a huge success.

“After that concert I received calls from over fifty managers” He joked, “Well, I only got a call from my grandmother, but it was after that concert that I decided I would play for the rest of my life.”

I learned to play all his favorite songs; I learned the lyrics and the harmonies. I learned the meaning of every word. I never told him, and he never heard me. I would sing these songs at night, so no one would listen.

There’s an old guitar standing in the corner of my room, staring at me with resentment since it’s been a while since I last played it’s worn out strings.

The thing is, I’ve got nothing against the guitar. I miss holding it, I miss the sound it makes and the way it makes me feel. But I can’t hold the guitar without playing his favorite songs, and I can’t play its strings without my mouth turning completely dry.

The guitar looks at me with resentment, and I turn away with guilt.

I can’t look at the guitar without looking at him.