After I quickly changed clothes from those I wore at school to a comfortable casual dress, my most favorite piece of clothing I own, I move myself to my bathroom.

Should I bind my hair together in a knot or should I just let it fall over my shoulders?

I contemplate in my bathroom mirror. Then I realise I want to make myself pretty for Frank, and suddenly, I'm embarrassed.

I'm not expecting this to be a date. Because it's not, it really isn't.

But that doesn't mean I can't look good, right? I stare at myself. I don't need this to be a date. I want to have fun and not having to worry about what Frank feels for me.

I walk back to my room and open my sock drawer. I search for my fluffy and ultra pink socks with childish stars, and I put them on. I can't remember the last time these things have seen daylight, it must've been years. They curse heavily with my serene and dark dress, but I don't care. If I don't take myself serious, Frank probably won't as well.

With this mentality in mind, I carelessly walk downstairs, confident I would have a fun night without worrying.

Almost reaching the final step, I stop abruptly. I hear music, unmistakably coming from my piano in the living room.

Chopin. It can't be something else than Chopin that I'm hearing.

With silence steps, I walk to the white column, marking the entrance of the living room and even though Frank's back is facing the entrance where I'm standing, a couple of feet away, I already feel overwhelmed by seeing him like this.

He has taken off his jacket, wearing a white shirt underneath and the music he plays is soft, but with character. The folds in his shirt constantly have to rearrange to keep up with his moving arms and the changing of hand positions. Together with his black pants and shoes, he looks like a professional pianist playing on a big stage, instead of here, in my living room.

The melody suddenly accelerates to a climax on the high end of the piano. His right hand is pressing the keys to some sort of G minor chord, while his left hand is working on a chromatic scale, ending in a chord as well, meaning the end of the piece.

The echoes of this absolute beautiful piece of music resonate in my head and I don't want to break the tender atmosphere it has created in the room.

I watch the reflection of Frank's face in the piano when he turns his head sideways, not breaking the silence just yet.

I lean against the white column and I do my best to let my voice sound as soft and sweet as the music he just played. "Chopin?" I almost whisper.

Frank gently lays his right hand on the piano, not pressing any keys and simply replies: "Yes.". He changes hand positions, still without pressing the keys. "My mom teached cello and piano. She taught me."

I think this is the first time ever he has taken the initiative to talk about something personal. It feels different, but like the best kind of different.

"Can you also play the cello then?"

A faint smile catches my eye in his reflection. "Not that very well. The competition scared me off." He stands up from the piano chair and turns around. "I was better at playing the piano anyway."

I have a feeling he's fighting against his habit of walking away when things get personal. He just stands there, accepting his faith of me going to poke around in his personal history, maybe tearing open some old wounds without mercy. That is how he looks.

I'm not sure if I want to push it that far anymore.

Seconds go by and I know it is now clear to him that I'm hesitating to ask more out of pity -what other reason could there be?- and that is clearly a line he don't want to cross.

So Frank makes the decision for me. "Nice socks. It didn't occur to me that you were turning twelve tomorrow."

With that, the last traces of sereneness, created by the music, are scared away into the air because of his sarcasm, ending this conversation.

He walks past me to the kitchen with a smirk and I wished I hadn't been so merciful.