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). 

[i]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.[/i] 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]I meant everything I said that night[/i] played easily in my ears, and I waited for the theatrical replay in my head that is so inevitably told in films; [i]I will come back to life, but only for you.[/i] 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 [i]heard[/i], 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 [i]weird[/i].

[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 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. [i]Call me? You know I hate texting.[/i] I wonder if I knew that. I wonder what I know about him that’s still true. Anyway.

[i]Fuck.[/i] 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. [b]”Thank you,”[/b] is the first thing I say, unexpectedly. I purse my lips. [b]”I was nervous about it. The song. Thank you for listening.”[/b] 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. [b]”I heard your album, too. It was indescribable, Brendon. I don’t think I told you that.”[/b] 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.