Writer-girl, Interrupted

Music reminds me of you. I’m almost afraid to hit play. Because what if a song comes on and it makes me wonder where you are, and I don’t know, and I really really start wondering and I have to go out of my way to find a way to distract myself to stop thinking about you so that I don’t have to spend my time thinking about someone who is not thinking about me?

Sure, I have no proof that you are not thinking about me. But I don’t have any proof that you are either. So I guess I will write in silence. Once I start typing, I no longer hear the music anyway.

Like that day that you called and I had been writing for so long, staring at the computer so long that when the phone rang I didn’t even realize what I was supposed to do with it. The music had been playing all along but I hadn’t been hearing it. Some part of my mind that I didn’t even know was awake took over and answered, but I could barely make sentences. You started talking, then thought maybe I had no idea who it was, because my tone of voice didn’t change, as it normally does, when I realize that it’s you and you can hear me smile from there. So you identified yourself. I knew it was you. I always know when it’s you. I just couldn’t make sentences.

The music was still playing and I didn’t even realize it had been playing all along until I started trying to explain to you that yes, of course, I know who it is, but I can’t speak, I can’t make sentences, I'm trying to mute the music, but all I can do is listen to you talk, just the sounds, not the words, I can't comprehend the words exactly, but I know what you are saying is meant to put me at ease and somewhere in the back of my mind I just want to keep listening. But I can't just keep listening. I have to react. I have to say something, because you are worried now, that I'm not talking, that I'm not laughing, that I'm not giggling like the little girl I was when first we spoke, when last we spoke, when every time in between. I can't just keep listening, but I can't seem to make sentences either.

It wasn't me listening to you that day; it wasn't me that answered the phone. Because if it had been me, the me that always wants to talk to you, she would have said something, she would have reacted the way you expected her to, warmly the way she always does when you say something light and silly and unforgettable, a future secret. It wasn’t that me. I know it because that me would have first been aware of trying to hide the excitement in her voice when she answered the phone so you wouldn’t know, because she’s too cool to let you know all the time, how happy she is to see your name on the caller id.

It was another me. The one who’d been far, far away, staring at the computer screen, not even hearing the music. Probably formulating some words that she wanted to write about you. She was writing about you somewhere in the back of her mind, silly boy. That’s why she didn’t smile through the phone when she heard your voice. She was writing about you.