The Second Fret

A borrowed guitar. A buried pain. And the moment everything changed.
by Matéo Habasque

I look at my guitar on its stand with skepticism. This is the time of day I usually pick it up and play. Lately, though, I’ve been struggling to find the motivation. Workdays are long and stressful, and I’m often drained. My mood has been low. On top of that, I’m stuck. I’ve been learning Enter Sandman by Metallica—by far the hardest song I’ve tackled. The chord transitions just won’t click, and I feel like I’m just spinning my wheels. Why waste another night wrestling with the same passage as yesterday?

Just as I’m about to give up and launch a video game, a memory surfaces—one that takes me back to the very first time I ever picked up a guitar.

My wife and I have just separated after five years together. She’s moved out, and I find myself alone in the house, in a remote part of France, far from my family and friends, with only my two cats for company. To top it off, I’m unemployed, with barely any savings. I’ve poured everything into that relationship and, in the process, lost sight of who I am as an individual. Alone, I feel empty. I have no idea who I am, what I can do, or what I even want.

Eventually, the loneliness gets too heavy. I decide to move back near my family in the southwest of France and find a job there. That’s when I start to think seriously about rebuilding myself—about who I want to become. I remember I’ve always wanted to play music. I consider learning the piano.

One night, while having drinks with my mom and her partner Nicolas, I mention the idea. Nicolas laughed and said he didn’t have a piano, but I was welcome to try his guitar. I wasn’t thrilled—guitar had always seemed intimidating. Still, I shrugged. “Yeah, why not.” He showed me a few sounds that didn’t hurt the ears too much. It was kind of fun. He told me I could borrow the guitar anytime.

The next evening, I figure I’ll give it another go. I didn’t have anything better to do. I grabbed Nicolas’s guitar, sat in front of my computer, and typed into YouTube: “how to play guitar.” I found a beginner tutorial that taught the basics. At the end, the instructor showed how to play a simplified version of the melody from “Zombie” by The Cranberries.

It was time to try. I placed my index and middle finger down on the A and D strings at the second fret and let my fingers strum. The moment I began, something shifted. The deep, melancholic tones vibrated through my body. As I grew more confident, I played louder. My fingers were clumsy, the notes uncertain, but even now it remains the most beautiful melody I’ve ever heard.

Each vibration dug into my heart, peeling back layer after layer of emotion I’d buried since the divorce—anger, resentment, regret, fear, loneliness. All of it poured out through my fingers. And once the darkness was unearthed, something else emerged:

Gratitude.

Gratitude for everyone I’d shared the road with, for what they gave me—the good and the bad. Gratitude for the hardships that could’ve broken me but instead shaped me. Gratitude for myself, for every time I’d dared to try, failed, and stood back up. My heart was filled with pure, unconditional love.

I stop only when my fingertips hurt too much to continue. A heavy silence settles over the room, leaving me exhausted but strangely uplifted.

In that moment, I knew I would keep playing. There were things I needed to express, things I wanted to share. I needed to hone my technique—not to be impressive, but to be honest. To turn my feelings into music. That night, I began a journey with no end.

The memory lingered—raw, beautiful, and grounding. It reconnected me to something I’d lost. When I snapped back to the present moment, I let out a quiet laugh. I’d been playing on autopilot for so long, I’d nearly forgotten why I started. I reach for my guitar and rest it on my thigh. But instead of working on Enter Sandman, I place my index and middle finger down on the A and D strings at the second fret… and let my fingers strum.