Olivia has probably run home. I can hear her pants. She throws her bag on the floor, and throws everything in her reach on the wall.

"What's wrong?" I ask, calm. I know she feels too old to cry. She'll just rage. This is how it's always like when Olivia comes home. Anarchy. She throws stuff at walls and doors. I think she's trying to stop herself from throwing stuff at me. After all, I have a feeling she blames me for things in her heart.

"It's just-"

Olivia is panting, and it is hard for her to talk.

Olivia is calmer than usual. She is not locking herself in the bedroom, or throwing her bag on the far wall.

She sits down, kneeling on the floor. Her shirt is messy and tucked out.

"I want to take music," she finally says.

Music. 

It is hard to hide my disappointment.

"Why?" I know I'm being interfering and am blocking her from doing what she wants, but-

-Music takes people away.

"It's just, I saw a guitar, and I really, really liked it, and-"

Guitar? Why these choices? 

"Why not something like the piano? Or, maybe the cello or the harp, even. Don't you like it? I really-"

I stop. I am not Olivia's choice-maker. This is the path she has chosen. She does not know my unpleasant bond with music.

"Can't I choose?" Her panting has stopped. I wait. I cannot choose for her; she is only right.

Then her bag hits the wall beside me and the door to her bedroom is locked shut.