[i]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 [/i]some[i] 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. [/i]So feather fingers, if I am truly made of one million glowing constellations...[i] 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.

[b]"You should’ve brought your jacket,"[/b] 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]I think I owe it to you to try to be every hallucination...[i] I let it go.

[b]”I did,"[/b] 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.

[b]”That’s mine,”[/b] 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]

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]I wandered through the sunshine, remembering when you were mine...[/i] I don't think I could be much clearer.
I'm at home when I get the message.

[i]Hey.[/i]

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]I heard your new song. It’s great. Your voice sounds so different.[/i] 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 [i]what[/i] 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.

[i]Hit pretty hard, I gotta admit.[/i] 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.

[i]Thanks! Maybe one day I'll have your vocal skills.[/i] 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.

[i]How'd you find it? SoundCloud isn't quite like the radio.[/i]