I’d never- [i]mock[/i] 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 [i]obvious[/i] but we didn’t [i]care;[/i] 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 [i]Ryan Rowe[/i] in my phone and a million words flash through my head as I read it- baby, darling, ryan, sweetheart, babe, [i]Ry.[/i] 

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. [i]Thanks! Maybe one day I’ll have your vocal skills.[/i] 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- [i]How’d you find it? SoundCloud isn’t quite like the radio.[/i] 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? [i]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]

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. [i]Call me? You know I hate texting.[/i]