People say that, in love, we are all masochists. And I wonder why the phrase is so popular. Of course we are, in some way. And I'm still young, so my experiences with love are limited, but I can still know certain kinds.

I'll look down at my thin, small hands gliding across ivory keys for hours. They hurt, but I don't stop because I love it, and it's all I want to do-just sit there and play for hours on end. It's a sort of fulfillment, so to say. It gives me a sense of purpose, even uniqueness that can distinguish myself from my peers, even a sense of pride.

I run my smooth thumb across the calloused tips of my fingers. It's a feeling of accomplishment. I stare at musical cases of different shapes and sizes and joy wells up where there is also fear. I wonder how long I will be able to, when my hands and fingers are rendered incapable of one of the few releases I've ever known.

And aren't all types of love similar? Love is love, regardless of the object it's placed on. Whether or not it's reciprocated makes no difference because with hope, there's fear, and with love,



there's pain.