I’ve been spending so much time with Ryan, the extraordinary lead guitarist and lyricist for my band (who also happens to be my boyfriend) and yet I can’t seem to translate any learned literacy into my own work. Though never one confident in his own abilities- or just with himself in general- enough to give himself any credit, the words he manages to write down on paper (Never aloud, he’d never make himself vulnerable that way) are frequently whimsical and complex and genius, though. Maybe I’m biased. It’s hard to pretend that I don’t adore everything about the man I love- because of his flaws, his rough edges, the imperfections that make him perfect, his damned honey eyes. I drink up every lyric he dares to show me, fall in love with the way he half-turns away as I’m reading, sheepish, and feel my heart swell indescribably as I turn him back towards me with a gentle hand on his jaw, and pull him into an embrace, my head buried in his shoulder as his long arms wrap comfortably around my waist. It’s the only reaction he ever needs. If I try to launch off on some pretentious tangent commenting critically on his work, he’d take it personally, especially coming from me. So I express my appreciation through silence and touch, just as he expresses his through the words he scrawls down en masse, covering piles of notebooks that are strewn across his room, open at various pages, a visual picture of his mind. I adore him.

The downside of having such an eloquent and literate boyfriend is that I can’t match his way with words, even if I can imitate it pretty well. I try my hardest, and somehow can’t find a way to convey what I want to. I sometimes want to go to him, ask him how he does it, how he translates his thoughts onto paper with relative ease- but I know Ryan would say something akin to ‘it isn’t easy, it’s difficult, most of my work is terrible, I only show you things after I’ve edited and drafted it like fifty times-’ and I would cut him off, curl my fingers with his to catch his attention before he can wind himself up with his own self-slander, tell him it’s okay; that I just want to know how he comes up with the original line. Entire, made-up conversations have been entertained in my imagination many times, and the Ryan in my head would tell me that it just came to him, he didn’t know how, but it was mostly me that brought it on. Yeah, baby, I made it that far, I’d tell him. Then we’d get distracted, I by his hands strumming absently at the strings of his guitar, him by my smile, flashing effortlessly because when I am around him I don’t have to think of an excuse to do so, and the conversation would effectively be over.

Lost in thought, again, I realise that I’ve been staring at the blank, mocking pages of a notebook, dwindling down to the last sheets from the amount of times I’ve ripped one out and crumpled it up. Glancing at my watch, I curse under me breath. We’ve been living in the same cramped quarters for months now, never more than shouting distance away from eachother, and somehow I am late to meet him outside. Slamming the accursed notebook shut, I stand and push my hair out of my eyes, spinning around on my heels to quickly survey the not-so-organised chaos of my room. I don’t use it much, anymore; most of our time is spent in his bedroom, because, for some reason, the fucker managed to bag the biggest one. I even pulled out the ‘I’m the frontman’ argument (and Jon and Spencer, who had initially been on my side, quickly decided that I no longer deserved it).

For this reason, I have no idea where anything is. My eyes almost skim past a hoodie that is strewn over the unmade sheets, and I dodge dirty laundry to reach out and pick it up, establishing immediately that its Ryan’s, or, well, was. When I pull it over my head, the sleeves are too long, hiding my wrists and the beginnings of my hands, and I roll them, then stoop to pick up my boots from where they were stood against the wall, hopping and trying to keep balance as I pull one on, them the other. Glancing at my watch again, I decide that I have approximately thirty seconds before Ryan comes looking for me, and pull open the door and shut it behind me decisively.

...He’s not in the lounge. Fucker lied- No, wait, he’d never said he was going to be in there, he said he’d be- I click my tongue, disappointed, as if I’ve been beaten in an argument by myself, and head towards the front door, having to forcefully push the handle down as age has stiffened it up almost fully. Stepping outside, it is late, unusually bright afternoon, the sky is a light, icy cornflower, and an unexpectedly chilling breeze sweeps into me as I exhale and my breath spirals off into the air. Hugging the hoodie closer to my body, I stamp my feet on the ground and glance towards the lakeshore reflexively, the wind wrenching locks of my hair from their natural position and hanging them untidily across my face, so I squint and I recognise Ryan’s form, hunched over, undoubtedly focused on some notebook, in an instant.

We’re all so busy these days that Ryan and I have resorted to scheduling time in which to enjoy solely eachother’s company. Most of the time the band spends working together, writing and recording what we can before Spencer accuses me of being ‘too distracting’ (not my fault Ryan is weak and has an even worse attention span than me), and I am kicked out. Another large portion of the time we spend alone, conjuring up individual ideas to bring to those sessions. The rest of my time I spend vying for Ryan’s attention just as Ryan spends it vying for mine.

Stopping beside him, I immediately lower myself into the ground and draw myself close to his side, enamoured suddenly by memories of that fateful night by the lakeshore where I told ryan that I loved him. The connotations from that are so strong that I know that for as long as I live, no matter what happens, if I ever return here, I will be floored by the lingering sense of intensity and raw emotion. Closing my eyes, I exhale again, suppressing a shiver. I’m cold, but I say nothing.

”You should’ve brought your jacket,” He says, lifting his head up from where he was concentrating on some line or other and shutting it with one hand, setting it down on the ground beside him.

”I did,” I protest, waving my now fully unrolled sleeve in front of his face to make my point.

”That’s mine,” Ryan replies, and I grin. He is now fully focused on me, regarding me with wide, warm eyes and a soft smile. We fall into place automatically, one of my hands finding its place with fingers curled into the steadily growing curls of his hair, the other against his waist. I feel his feather fingers at the back of my neck and at my own waist and we both draw eachother in, meet in the middle in a simple, gentle kiss. His hands feel like home.

Straight ahead are treetops, leaning over the lake and beyond, for as far as I can see, an ocean of leaves and branches in which I wouldn’t be able to drown even if I tried to. Maybe if I get irremediably lost in the mountains, a wood nymph will take pity on me and pull me into a tree to live there forever. It’s cold, dry, late evening, and when I look up, the impressiveness of the streaks of orange and pink and gold take my breath away for a second before I look to my side at that familiar spot and there is nobody there to catch the horizon, nobody there who was always so much kinder on my eyes.

A slight breeze makes me shiver, and I catch myself wishing I’d brought a jacket with me. I told you to bring your jacket, He would say, if I complained about being cold- of course my jacket, of course not his, we aren’t together anymore, and it’s not like I still have hold of a few of his hoodies that smell like him and I just can’t bring himself to take them back and have to face him, look him in the eye, because I know I’d become overwhelmed just as I am now, by the intense nostalgia and painful reminiscent memories that flood my mind as I stand here, a few feet back from the shore, staring at the water. I’m not allowed to be sad, to be in pain about it. I broke up with him, not the other way around- it was my decision- and yet, here I am, having returned to the place it all began in an effort to accept my past and therefore be able to move on with it, finally.

For a while, I’d been thinking- I can now hear Ryan’s name without feeling sick and guilty. I can now think about him without feeling an empty pain and longing, or a lonely hand by my side with no other hand to hold. I’d been focusing on getting a new band together- after our split, the band split also, Spencer and I soldiering on and continuing with the name and Ryan and Jon going off on other ventures that I couldn’t allow myself to be interested in. Last I’d heard, everything was at a standstill for them, content was dry and infrequent- that was until about a week ago, when I was sent the same fucking soundcloud link by dozens of fans until I caved and followed it. When Ryan’s name flashed before me on my phone screen, my stomach flipped over, and then my whole body stiffened when I read the title of the song. If I knew what was good for me, I’d close it, not bother listening, I’d come too far to just regress into sadness that I brought upon myself to begin with anyway.

But I’ve never had any impulse control, and nobody was around to stop me, so I pressed play and felt myself unravel. His voice was always so beautiful, but, more important than that- the lyrics themselves, so blindingly obvious and heavy-handed about the subject matter, made me feel like I’d been punched in the gut and winded. I found myself blinking furiously, Ryan’s voice resounding deep in my bones, creeping into the marrow along with the guilt I’ve been carrying around with me for months.

I’m back in the present, and blinking furiously again at the ground, trying to gain control of my breathing. I stop blinking, letting my eyes dry out before welling up, because my body knows how to take care of myself better than my brain does. I feel the tears in my eyes, let them overflow and run down my cheeks. Some of them drip off my face, landing on my clothes. One lands on my hand, warm for a second before turning ice cold. I don’t bother to look. Don’t wipe them away, either; they can stay where they are. Dry out where they fell.

Lonely moonlight. Fuck, what about the guilty sunshine? I have been wrestling with my guilty and remorseful consciousness since the breakup, a breakup I still can’t justify, having gotten over my initial panic about the weight of commitment. Ryan, clearly, if judged by this recent song, had not. As I listened to Ryan’s voice come softly through my headphones, declaring that someone he loved someone else, I wondered- who did he think I was in love with? My eyes turn upwards from the ground to the horizon and then I turn slowly, resignedly, back to face the cabin, clenching my shaw and shivering from the cold. Upon hearing that single, I felt the need for closure. I thought that coming back here would allow me to accept the past and move on. Instead, I feel the ghosts of his hands at my hips, his lips at my jaw, my cheek, my temple, the corner of my mouth. I feel him hook me in and dig his claws in from hundreds of miles away. He may have left my life, but he stubbornly clings onto my heart, and as I walk back towards the cabin, I wonder if I’ll ever get chance to tell him I’m sorry that the end of our love story wasn’t as picturesque and fairytale as the start. If I meet his eyes again, he’ll know.

...I’ve never been a patient man. Who knows when, or if, I’ll get a chance to even see Ryan again in passing, never mind approach him and apologise and ask him about this song, this beautiful, painful song that makes me ache because I was the one who caused the hurt to show obviously through his translucent, soft voice. I head back inside, the cold having chilled by bones but the sun conversely warming my skin, reminding me of gentle touches, kisses, warm embraces- things I hadn’t experienced in a long time. Maybe the reason I found it difficult to start dating or even feel something for anyone else was because I was too busy being his to fall for someone new- no, that was jumping the gun, I broke up with him, it’s final, not going to change.

Still, I have to say something, even though I don’t know whether it will just make things worse. We had, surprisingly, spoken since the breakup; mostly about picking up things, the issue about the band name, talking casually but all strained and awkward about music and how hard it was to find good producers. That’s it. When I scrolled up too far back, and I started seeing the messages sent between two people in love, not two people both unwilling to let go of the other from their lives. I spent the whole following afternoon deleting them all, removing the evidence it ever existed. Any pictures, though- no, I wasn’t going to delete those. Maybe there would come a time where I could say ‘this was me with my friend, Ryan’. Not ‘ex-boyfriend’. Maybe.

I’m at an impasse, standing in the hallway of the cabin when I shut the door behind me and debating which room to head into. I take a step automatically in the direction of Ryan’s, then check myself, turn, and head towards my own. It’s been used by so many other people since I last came here, and it is strange to see the room so empty and bare, the bed made and everything pristine, if a little dated. Trudging across the wooden floorboards, I sit down at the end of the bed, feeling the mattress depress, and I find Ryan in my contacts, now saved simply by his full name. Too formal. Unnatural. I swallow any emotion threatening to throw off the steadiness of my hand and I type out a message.

Hey.

Too ominous, I have to follow it up.

I heard your new song. I bite my lip, hard, and continue with, It’s great. Your voice sounds so different. Beautiful, harrowing, heartbreaking. I have too many words to say and no guts to say them.

Hit pretty hard, I gotta admit.

Brendon being front row at that show, Brendon's voice so powerful he elicited a crowd response stronger than there'd ever been for myself, Brendon's willingness to drop everything and run off with this maybe-successful-maybe-not band and be our frontman - it was all such a bizarre series of events to bring us to this point. When I first actually held a conversation with Brendon I'd already been harboring this surface-level infatuation for a while, and it's not like our first exchange was anything world-changing or electrifying enough to make me think that Brendon would be my soulmate, but. There was a spark. Nothing I'd expect to grow into the full-fledged flames our relationship now was, so to speak; I'd had girlfriends, a multitude for all different lengths of time, and sure some of them I had considered special at the time.

That was before. At the cabin when we first told each other the truth (not just 'I love you,' it's important to add, but 'I am in love with you'), that was it for me. I knew I was in this for life, if Brendon would have me, and given our experiences and our connection and every late night drawn out conversation, I was pretty sure the dedication was mutual. Maybe it's the fact that I'm young, dumb, don't see any issues with the future because of naïvety, but I have never considered myself to be naïve. In fact, just the opposite, and so much so that not even love could blind me - this was just sheer fact, that I was supposed to be with Brendon, and Brendon was supposed to be with me. I suppose if I said any of this to someone else I would sound a little crazy, maybe, but I have little intention to talk to anyone but Brendon these days, anyway.

From that point forward (and maybe a little before that), Brendon was imbued into everything I did. Music became lighter, graceful, the instrumental depiction of the exact energy I saw radiate off of Brendon. Lyrics became less dreary and no longer told stories of woe and heartbreak, instead more sentimental and fond, because I had nothing else to say anymore but good things, no compulsion to spread anything but love. My attitude, life in general, took a complete one-eighty. Even when Brendon was nowhere to be seen, lights were brighter, colors more vibrant, tastes more powerful. I didn't want to waste away in my room writing things unseen and unsang anymore. I wanted my lover at my side, wanted to see the imagery I was penning down, wanted to show him and hear his voice when there was eventually a final draft (though Brendon sometimes insisted taking on the first try, and suddenly my rough draft lyrics sounded much better to me).

This all tended to stay in my head, though. Even if we knew about one another, Jon and Spencer deserved some space from all of the Valentine's day-style charades, so I saved it, tucked every thought away to be converted into song, probably. (And then, when my drummer and bassist looked up from the writing presented to them in confusion and asked why the entire record was turning into love songs, I'd just sort of smile and shrug and catch Brendon's eye). Brendon and I had some complex scheduling tactics, where we'd meet outside in that same spot, recover from time apart even if we'd been just a room away. Even closed doors didn't guarantee much privacy when 1. the other two here happened to already be annoyed by our ludicrous codependency and 2. hung around playing video games all day, where the fact that Brendon and I barely spared seconds apart when we were able was blatantly obvious, right within seeing range.

But, we got our way sometimes. I've been outside for a good ten minutes already, picking up on a thought I'd abandoned. So feather fingers, if I am truly made of one million glowing constellations... I'd heard the door close moments ago and leaves crackling underfoot, but only now when Brendon's beside me, dropping to the ground and seemingly coming closer to steal warmth, do I look up from my writing. He's shivering - he's always forgoing comfort for style, or convenience, whatever. My mouth's automatically curled into a smile just because he's so predictable, and it does that anyway when he's around, but that doesn't help my efforts to sound serious. He really does need to care more about getting pneumonia.

"You should’ve brought your jacket," I say, closing my notebook and setting it aside, abandoning the line entirely. There are still ideas playing in my head for how exactly to word the following line... I think I owe it to you to try to be every hallucination... I let it go.

”I did," he responds, plaintive, and I try to look serious again to no avail, because my hoodie's sleeve is hanging off of his hand, apparently his proof that he'd brought something to keep him warm.

”That’s mine,” I point out, rewarded with his easy, always stunning grin. All right, then, forgiven. Naturally, my hands find their way to the back of his neck, to his waist, his fingers in my hair and at my side. It's automatic, always automatic, simple, and without any real thoughts behind it, we meet in a kiss, time running even slower here than it did in the cabin.

I've never liked to hash things out. When I'm in a mental rut and it feels like the world is crashing down on me, I take every subsidiary emotion, every suppressed expression, and turn it into metaphor, warp it until it is unrecognizable. If I do otherwise, then I'm vulnerable, and the last time I made myself vulnerable, I ended up with an entire record and some spare notebooks detailing my exact feelings about a guy who left. Some songs disguised it through different pronouns and unrelated anecdotes, but I still can't listen to our bestseller, personally. With notebooks, I can shove them into dressers, into old storage bins, even spill coffee on them, then all the evidence is gone. But I've gotten better at hiding things again, like I did before, and it feels a little safer.

Unfortunately for me, he still crossed my mind, and even when I was focused entirely on another subject, he found his way into my words, made himself the subject matter. These were, in fact, love songs, the ones on mine and Jon's record. But there's a reason they sounded hurt, wistful, off-track with the beachy and pleasant instrumental. I let Jon take the wheel a lot now, because he could be trusted not to write from heartbreak or painful nostalgia. In the end, though, we still made something that could practically provide Brendon with royalties to live off of, considering how much secondhand involvement he had with the process. I was proud of everyone's work, just pissed off at myself, pissed off at the fact that I couldn't listen to my own creation unless I wanted to feel the heartache all over again.

When he ended it I was good at hiding it then, too. I didn't want to steer him into something he truly didn't want, so I didn't beg for another chance, didn't try to convince him of how he actually felt. But I also didn't fully believe him. Commitment was scary, yes, but when I put things into perspective... it wasn't just committing, it was Brendon. I'd known practically from the start that I wanted him with me forever. We were soulmates, for fuck's sake, I woke up every morning thinking of him, went to sleep at night thinking of him, based every decision around how it may affect him. He was my life. And I knew for a fact - or I thought that I knew - that I was his. At this point, though, after so long with no real reconnection, I've lost my conviction. He meant it. We weren't going to get married, or be with each other forever, or even say 'I love you' again - it was over, I just need to accept the end.

Once it dawned on me that this was really happening, I put up the walls. I kept all the Brendon memorabilia because I didn't want to let go just yet - and therefore interviews with pictures of him still remained on my shelves, magazines where we made front page and he stood starkly out from the rest of us still hung on the walls, even this stupid old package of Starburst sat half-untouched in one of my cabinets. With time, the visceral emotion that crossed me on every occasion where I was reminded of him faded away, into something calmer, still hurt but more of an ache than a sting. And I heard demos for their new songs. They were using my name and I'd accepted that (okay, it wasn't mine, but it felt like it). But my lyrics were taken, disassembled, set to a new tune and warped and almost-mocked (but I think that may be a stretch in itself to say). Everything fucking sucked all over again. As a person, not great. As a writer, I was inspired. So. After months of nothing, I started writing again.

Sometimes I hoped he heard it. Jon's and my album, I hoped he heard some of those songs, sure, but the demo on SoundCloud, that was important to me. That was deep, and personal, and way too much to show the world but I wasn't going to just sent him the audio, 'here's everything I never said.' It wasn't a hope like some who'd been through breakups might hope - I didn't want to hurt him. Not at all. I just wished he understood how much it affected me, wished he could read everything running through my head when he was telling me it was over, all because I couldn't say it out loud. Here was the aftermath, for all to see. I am a poorly built structure, watch me crumble. I wandered through the sunshine, remembering when you were mine... I don't think I could be much clearer.
I'm at home when I get the message.

Hey.

Somehow I already know he has heard it. Part of me is glad - part of me wishes I'd immediately deleted it and let bygones be bygones. I missed him so much, but putting things back together, even just to be friends again, sounded even more painful than dwelling on memories tended to be. Before even considering how to respond, I contemplate whether I should at all. He's still 'B.' I wish I'd changed it before - it'd be so much easier to ignore 'Brendon Blake' than my 'B'; there was some tiny level of disconnect. I look around, at this creaky hardwood studio apartment far below my means but that I couldn't let go of quite yet, at all the thrift store furniture and the instruments strewn carelessly about and the half-read or half-written in books on every available surface. There's not much of a life to ruin if I let him back in, if he wants back in. And, more than anything, I want so badly to just hear his voice again, in conversation and not a televised, far-away interview.

I heard your new song. It’s great. Your voice sounds so different. Great? I illustrated the shattered pieces of my life, dressed every shard into a word, and it's great? I know he's being polite. I know I should appreciate the distance he's giving me, know he's maintaining boundaries. But I know him. I have known him and loved him for years. I don't want pleasantries. I don't even know what I want, but anything where we're not acting like strangers is ideal. I'm still frozen, feeling stupid and caught, sitting in a too-big armchair in a hoodie he would have swiped from me on sight and staring at my phone like it holds the meaning of life. He shouldn't have this effect on me. I can't imagine seeing him in person. It dawns on me that I'm a little afraid of him, even, of the hold he has on me still.

Hit pretty hard, I gotta admit. Oh, there, so we aren't ignoring what it's about. Great. I smirk at the screen for half a second, cynical, then set it down on the sidetable, curling into myself and placing my fingers over my temples. I will the world to fuck off and stop turning, just breathing for a few moments, absolutely no coherent thoughts running through my mind. It doesn't, though, and I drop my hands to stare at the phone from a distance, torn between wanting to cry or replying back angrily or calling Spencer to tell him to pass on some kind of message to go away. Except I don't really want to do any of that, because I do miss him so unspeakably much, and three tiny messages are all it takes for me to fall way back in progress, back to wishing he loved me enough to stay despite the fear. So I respond, hesitant, my face half pressed into cushions like it would shield me from anything.

Thanks! Maybe one day I'll have your vocal skills. I'm always overly friendly in these texts. Not sure why. Gotta be some kind of defense mechanism. I send that and deliberate what else to say, exactly, other than 'thanks for inspiring it,' and I guess I sort of want to hear that he'd seeked out the song for himself, was looking for me like I always look for him.

How'd you find it? SoundCloud isn't quite like the radio.

/

I’d never- mock him. What was there to mock? I was madly and ridiculously in love with him. He could do no wrong. I’d meet his eyes, rich and sparkling in some ridiculous Disney Prince way that I swore I never exaggerated for a second, across the room and everything would just feel okay, like it was going to work out, because why wouldn’t it? What reason did we have to think otherwise, that we’d end up this way, living separately in what our past selves would consider a waking nightmare? We were so good together- affectionate, maybe somewhat clingy but it didn’t matter because there was no possessiveness there, just a deep-set trust, a connection that wasn’t debatable. Certainty. Commitment. The word, ‘forever’. This is what used to run through my head when we smiled at eachother, his smile reserved and mine wide and unfettered, until his matched it in intensity. His smile was my favourite thing in the world. His happiness is all that ever mattered.

Our love was contagious and as such it took root and festered within the music we made until the album we made up in the cabin was just an anthology of love songs, back and forth confessions, secrets slipped into metaphors, switched pronouns and euphemisms, references to sunshine and moonlight. Imagery of nature and beauty and love and complex constructs that we had built to house our romance made the album so obvious but we didn’t care; we weren’t hiding it, just chose not to officially acknowledge it, though I often entertained the idea, wondered about the potential backlash. Rumours surrounded us already and continue to to this day; the nature of the split was so vague and unconvincing that all sorts of theories arose, the most ironic being some kind of love triangle, that I slept with his non-existent girlfriend or vice versa. When asked about it, I just laugh along. Like there’s no bad blood, there’s nothing there to be serious about. ‘We’re still friends’, I’d say, singing his praise as neutrally as I can about the man I am- was- in love with, but it’s hard to convince the media that this is true when I took his words and warped them almost beyond recognition.

Like I said, it wasn’t meant to mock him, but the ‘As a boy’ was just too in-your-face, changing the pronouns I thought would give us cover, but then. The chorus I had no excuse for. I was just crafting my desperation into a song when I really didn’t have the right because I ended it. I Had to watch him struggle with the concept and grasp to understand my reasoning as I broke his heart, and I wish I was being dramatic and self important about my role in his life, but I knew him. I’d known him and loved him for years. Knowing exactly how he feels about me isn’t hard when I feel the same way about him and letting him go was one of the hardest decisions I ever made. Other songs were more spiteful or desperate or lonely or sad or passionate but the fact I’d used his words made that specific song so much more meaningful.

At the time of writing down all of my own internal struggles, I sort of forgot that they’d all been on an album released for the whole world to hear, and more significantly I forgot that Ryan was part of the world, would hear the songs, would pull my lyrics apart at the seams because he’s like that, genius ENGLISH dropout he is; always analysing. Looking back on his soundcloud release, it hits me that maybe he never intended for me to hear it. He’d have sent it to me. We are probably still experts in communicating in the most obvious and simultaneously cryptic way on the planet. Regardless of his intentions, I heard it anyway and let it unravel me, and Ryan had certainly gotten his point across. He is still in love and he misses me and he is hurting. So, to face my own conflicting emotions about this whole mess I have made of us, I am back at the cabin, our cabin, sat on my old bed where we shared so much, confessions, kisses, heat, love. He’s just Ryan Rowe in my phone and a million words flash through my head as I read it- baby, darling, ryan, sweetheart, babe, Ry.

I text him, not knowing what to expect, but I know already that I will stay here until he acknowledges my message. It’s a promise I have made to myself. There’s a few minutes that pass by of nothing, and I wonder if he’s read it, too scared to check, if he’s left it on open, if he hasn’t seen it at all, if he’s going to block my number or reply or call or. I wouldn’t mind him calling. It might be nice to hear his voice. But- before I can properly get ready to have some form of communication with him, the first in a while, he’s replied. Thanks! Maybe one day I’ll have your vocal skills. Memories flash through my head. Singing rough versions of his songs back to him, singing to him in the evening or even to sleep. My voice is the reason I got to be with him in the first place. I’ll never take my voice for granted. My eyes roll at my own absurd drama.

Another text- How’d you find it? SoundCloud isn’t quite like the radio. A frown forms on my face. To be honest; I wish I’d never heard it. I try not to be self destructive and seeking him out like that would be a death sentence on any attempt to get over him. I feel awful for trying to because he sounds so breezy, nonchalant. I know he is hurting. I am too, I want to tell him, but I don’t think he’d appreciate the empty sentiment. I’m just honest with him, because what else can I really be? Some fans decided to send the link to me, like, hundreds of them. Just as well, really, not like you would have shown me.

I’m sat on my old bed, back against the wall, legs folded, and I blink at my phone, taking my bottom lip between my teeth because I am nervous. Realising my last message sounded way too passive aggressive for this to be a normal, not out of the ordinary catchup between exes, I follow it up, pressing send before I have w chance to think it through. I’m sure my hands are shaking, though. Call me? You know I hate texting.

Unfortunately, I did hear the songs, and I am always my own worst enemy - I’m prone to analysis in the worst way, particularly when it comes to Brendon’s newer works. I remember listening to it for the first time, hoping to hell and back that Brendon paid someone to write these lyrics, but knowing him too well at the same time. Brendon wouldn’t relinquish creative control to some unknown, and he especially would never let words so true to our situation leave from a pen that was not his own. No, it would be too lucky. I had been in bed, hidden from the world, both earbuds in, not wanting to invest myself that fully but afraid to miss a note. I bought the album as soon as it was released, despite the tremor that came from seeing the announcement (and why that anxiety arose - I wasn’t sure. It’s not like the album was predictably going to involve me, and it’s not like I’d been nervously awaiting its release; maybe I was afraid to hear my own creation release something undoubtedly better without myself as an essential player).

They were young and independent, and they thought they had it planned. Should have known right from the start you can’t predict the end. Only four songs in. I remember turning down the volume here, hoping for some outside bustle to drown out the sound. It was at The Calendar when I actually did stop listening, just for a moment. It wasn’t so dramatic that I had this heartwrenching internal struggle of ‘I can’t bear this any longer’ - not quite. But the words I meant everything I said that night played easily in my ears, and I waited for the theatrical replay in my head that is so inevitably told in films; I will come back to life, but only for you. There was no montage in my head, there was no artistic retelling of our story. I was simply reminded that we were over, and this was closure, or a mimicry of it. I stopped listening, and occasionally I came back to it, just to observe the words, wonder whether there was a message for me and me only.

Brendon’s always been more direct than I am. He’s always been better at this. We feel, I think, just as intensely as one another, but he expresses it so much more beautifully, and is so much more forthright. If there was a message for me, it would have been received. This is why I don’t pursue. This is why every path I choose takes me further away from the life I used to lead, closer to safety. I am always swimming diagonally to shore, away from the current I floated with so long.

Here I am now, beached, sand in my toes, everything about me skewed by the tides. I look out upon the waters, and I miss the pull of the current, I suppose. This is why I continue to write about the past. If I don’t put it to paper, at least, I am afraid I will hear the version of myself in my head that yearns to be loved in such an unconditional way once more. He’s pretty convincing, when he wants to be. These writings take up an insurmountable number of pages in various books, always ending up scratched out, like I have some sort of confidential information I’m hiding from the world. No, I’m not hiding anything. I’m protecting myself. I know doors have closed. I know too much time has passed for me to go back. And anyway, the forefront version of myself doesn’t mind it.

I don’t think about any of it. The part of me that does, he’s easy to ignore. He writes his lyrics for fans to observe with critical eyes, then he disappears into the wind. Just like that. I have a comfortable routine, that way. But when I do let myself lapse and think of it, it ruins me just for a moment, because I still don’t know what happened. The closure that we pretend we have - it isn’t enough. It feels like I wrote this new song in a daze, with a possession. I come back to it and listen and resonate with it, but I’m almost shocked I made it public. This song addresses exactly what goes through my mind in those moments, those ‘lapses.’ It’s a question, but not really - it is also, so brazenly, a reminder. ‘I remember, and I hope you do too.’ There aren’t a lot of different verses - such a simple song, but with a vast reflection.

I feel absurd when I reply to Brendon nonchalantly, because I feel anything but that. He heard me. Not just heard, he heard, I can tell he listened truly, because if he had just let it play in the background with no attention on it, he wouldn’t be talking to me. I’m acting unnatural. I wish we could skip ten steps, so I can pretend we’re at least best friends again. I get it. You don’t want to be with me. I’ll take having my friend. This is weird.

Some fans decided to send the link to me, like, hundreds of them. Just as well, really, not like you would have shown me. I smile bittersweetly, and I realize my forehead aches from the anxious shape of my brow. I rub my knuckle between my eyes until the pressure goes away, hoping he just miscommunicated his tone. I try to carry on with my charade, which is so damn hard that I have to just let my fingers flutter indecisively over the keys for a moment, until another text comes through. Call me? You know I hate texting. I wonder if I knew that. I wonder what I know about him that’s still true. Anyway.

Fuck. Phone calls have not made me anxious in a long time. Yet... I start sitting up, running my hands through my hair, clearing my throat, positioning myself as if there was an optimal way to have a phone call. I’m curled in towards the couch cushion once I’ve finally settled down, my thumb hovering over his number. On an exhale, I call him, pressing my forehead briefly to the screen before shifting my phone to my ear, closing my eyes to drown my surroundings out while I listen to the other line ring. ”Thank you,” is the first thing I say, unexpectedly. I purse my lips. ”I was nervous about it. The song. Thank you for listening.” It’s at this moment that I hate having a smart phone. A coil would be very useful to occupy my nervous hands right now. ”I heard your album, too. It was indescribable, Brendon. I don’t think I told you that.” I’m a little quieter than when I began, words rolling out as if I’d been waiting to tell him these things. I suppose I was.

Letting myself indulge in memories of the past is a dangerous game. I remember the sensation of loving someone so absolutely that it felt like I was invincible; that as long as the two of us were together then nothing would ever get in our way, we were soulmates. I still feel that magnetic pull for him beneath my skin, as much as I try to ignore it, and often turn over the idea that the idea of invincibility has never been disproven. If we had stayed together, maybe we’d both be better off. I was the one who ruined it, brought him aside one day and taken his hands in mine, bringing them up to my lips as I bought time trying to think of how to properly break it off with somebody who is even a fraction as in love with you as you are with them. He’d been confused, I remember, but not suspicious at all, that was the heartbreaking part- I forced myself to meet his eyes when I told him what I wanted, watched him sort of fall apart, watched cracks appear in his control, saw him at his most vulnerable.

I don’t really know what I expected his response to be. The crueler, more self-centred part of me wanted tears, wanted him to beg me to stay so I felt good about myself in the face of breaking someone’s heart. That isn’t Ryan, though; he just stared at me for a while, first in disbelief, his expression between desperation and nervous amusement, like the idea of me leaving him was so ridiculous that he was going to laugh. It wasn’t a joke, though, watching him sit back, pull his hands away, stare at me like I’d- well. Like I’d just done what I’d done. He’d asked me why and I’d struggled to answer, because there was no reason, there was just a part of me that screamed all the time I had committed to someone way too young, we were just emotionally dependent, there was more for the both of us out there. It was selfish and, as I realised long afterwards, untrue, but by that point it was too late. I wasn’t cruel enough to come back into his life and ask for him to take me back like I hadn’t disregarded every love song we’d ever written for one another, every word we’d ever said. Would he even want me back? I’m not so sure. I imagine he’s built up some walls since we finished.

So I just soldiered on, pretending I still believed in what I said with conviction, but made no actual indication that I was moving on- didn’t date, didn’t even try, hadn’t even had some silly rebound fling that I thought I would have. There was, therefore, nothing to fuel any songs from my new record other than him, as I stupidly decided to write songs about passion from a relationship that had gone cold- Hurricane was almost an insult, but it wasn’t meant to be. I wonder what he thought of that one and cringe. It was cruel. Other songs, though, were apologetic. The whole fucking thing was for him, just an extended apology, with a touch or two of arrogance to keep me from embarrassing myself. Hearing Ryan’s song put me in his shoes, had me imagining his reaction to my anthology of half hearted and unconvincing breakup songs. ‘I’m over you’, they said, taunting him, with very little conviction; they were desperate, bitter, translucent. ‘I still love you’, they said in a smaller voice; ‘I’m sorry’.

Part of the reason for wanting to talk to him is wanting to know exactly what he thought about my songs. He was clearly more mature and controlled than I am, able to listen (I know he listened) and not send me some cryptic message, confront me about my lyrics. We don’t address the obvious at first, though, we are being as civil as we can be. Impatient as I am, I want to call him, hear his voice, let him hear mine, pretend we’re both okay but know we aren’t. Back against the headboard of this stupid bed where we spent so much wasted time, I exhale, staring at my last message, waiting to see if he’ll call. None of the time was wasted. I took it all for granted. Didn’t realise what I had, or did, and didn’t value it like I should. Pride allowing, I want to apologise. Maybe then we can move on.

Startled by my phone ringing out of my wistful daze, I immediately and clumsily answer, bringing it up to my ear with a hurried inhale. My mouth is open and I’m about to speak but he beats me to it. Thank you. For what? Brow furrowing in confusion and a little bit of self hatred, I search through memories for anything I have done recently that would be deserving of his gratitude. Nothing. In reflection of our relationship, he always deserved better than me. I was nervous about it. The song. A pause as I close my eyes, play it through my head briefly. You taught me not to fear the dark. Even after I’d ruined us, he thought highly of me. Reaching out in the night for you, baby. I suck in through my teeth as quietly as possible. Thank you for listening. “Of course,” Is the first thing I say, blurt it out. “Of course, always.”

I think of how I dressed up the story of our relationship in Memories as a tale of a religious defector and some young girl that fell apart when they misjudged the strength that young love held. In many ways it’s nothing like us at all, but the chorus kind of speaks for itself. How I miss yesterday. I purse my lips and sigh. I heard your album, too. It was indescribable, Brendon. I don’t think I told you that. He sounds quiet, and somehow, even though I knew he had, the confirmation rattles me to my core. He heard Always, a song I wrote before I was even thinking of breaking us up. The idea makes me shudder. “I plead the fifth on all of it,” I say lightly, a hint of laughter, running my hand through my hair. Another goddamn song reference, but it’s a bonus track. Wonder if he heard those too.

“Is ‘indescribable’ a good thing?” I ask, letting my body slide down the headboard of the bed as I settle more into the sheets. Biting my lip, I remember my goal of apologising. ”I’m sorry.” My voice is soft and wavering. “For- well. For a lot of things. For writing about you so much.” All I can do is be honest, and I turn on my side, staring at the door to the bedroom. “Hey, Ryan. Guess where I am.” I’m smiling, despite it all. Like this is some inside joke.