Cracking bones and dying hearts, that's how every great love story starts. This one's no different. He was a pianist, grappling for greatness. She was a violinist who played in secret. He stumbled upon her as if by chance, a quick intervening of fate. Her notes were sorrowful and full of pain, sharp and loud and ringing. He'd never heard anything like it, never thought that anyone could portray feelings so perfectly through music. She played with her eyes closed, keeping the world away. He'd never seen a face so contorted, so... He didn't know. She didn't notice him until she pulled the bow across the strings, eyes slowly sliding open. She dropped instrument and bow to her sides, mouth open with silent curses. He threw up his hands, bracing for the ranting, the anger, but all he heard was silence. All he got was a death stare. And American Sign Language.
"I don't know what that means," he said quietly and with great despair. The girl huffed and turned, her raven black hair flying over her shoulders. She reached into a bag sitting on a chair, pulling out a notebook and flipping to an empty page, pulling the pencil from behind her ear and quickly scratching down words. She walked over to him and thrust the book into his hands. He read the words. 'I said what the hell are you doing here.' He searched for his pen, but regretfully realized he had left it by the piano. The girl huffed again and took back the book, hurriedly writing again, before handing it back. 'I can hear you. I'm not deaf. I'm mute. Just speak.'