Speaker 1: I hadn't dated anyone in five years. After Emily, it
stopped making sense. People tried my sister, especially even co
workers I barely talked to, invited me to things, always
with a luck that hovered somewhere between pity and optimism.
Most of it ended the same way, someone asking if
I thought about therapy or maybe trying again. I appreciated it,
I really did, but it felt rushed, like everyone was
trying to get me to move forward before I had
time to pick my feet up. There wasn't anything obviously wrong.
I went to work, replied the text eventually, and even
smiled when I was expected to. But with people, I
kept things at a distance. I couldn't let anything real
in without feeling something would break open. Most days I
told myself I was tired. That was easier than admitting
I didn't know what to do with the space she
left behind. New people felt like stand ins for something
I couldn't recreate, and the idea of trying again made
me feel dishonest, like pretending a wound had closed when
I could still feel it every time I turned my
head the wrong way. For the first few months, I
used to stop and talk to her same turn off
just past the tree line, a quiet spot with a
bit of sun in the mornings. I'd bring coffee sometimes
and sit in the grass with her, pulling out a
handful of blades to play with. I tell her about work,
about my sister's latest attempt to set me up, and
how awkward it felt. Anything to fill the silence. There
was no version where Emily and I worked anymore. I
knew that, but I kept showing up in the mornings
every other day or so before work, like clockwork. It
was selfish, but pretending we were still together. It was nice.
Eventually I stopped meeting up with her as often. My
therapist said that meant I was starting to move on,
and it was a good sign. I didn't feel the
need to talk every day. I didn't argue, but some mornings,
on the drive to work, I'd catch a glimpse of
her on that stretch of road and instinctively ease off
the gas, just slowed down enough to see her. Then
I met Claire. We were both invited by mutual friends
to a backyard barbecue in late spring. I was leaning
against the fence with my phone in hand, pretending to
check something when she walked over and asked if I
always looked that board or if tonight was special. I
told her I was trying to figure out the exact
minute it'd be socially acceptable to leave. It was meant
as a joke, but it was also true, and something
about that made her let out a snort, laugh, sharp
and unexpected, like she hadn't meant to let her escape.
I remember thinking that laugh was the first honest sound
I'd heard in forever. We spent the rest of the
night orbiting around the usual small talk without ever landing
in it. We ranked fast food fries, debated the worst
gas station snack, and traded the craziest things we'd overheard
in public. When it got too cold, she handed me
a number and told me to call her when I
was ready. Said I would, and I did. It started
slow coffee, which turned into a couple of drinks, and
walks had turned longer than we meant them to nothing forced.
Being around her felt easy in a way I didn't expect.
By the third month, I caught myself doing things without thinking,
reaching for her hand, leaning in close to say something
dumb just to make a laugh. I wasn't floating anymore.
I was there. Claire never asked for context. She just
left space for me to figure it out on my own.
I think she knew I was still mentally sorting through
things I didn't tell her about Emily. I wasn't ready.
It didn't feel right to bring up old relationships when
something new was just starting to feel stable. And even
if I had, I wouldn't have known where to begin.
Not long after, I moved, not just to get closer
to Claire, though there was part of it. The job
was better, a quieter place, better pace, less noise between
the hours. But if I'm honest, I think I just
needed something that felt different, somewhere new, to wake up
somewhere she hadn't been. Claire helped with the boxes. She
unpacked the kitchen, while I stood in the living room,
hands on my hips, staring at a blank wall, like
it might tell me something about the version of myself
that was supposed to live here. At some point, she
called out from the other room, hey's this yours. I
walked into the hallway and found her kneeling by an
open box holding a photo album I hadn't seen in years.
The cover was worn soft, the edges. She opened it
without waiting, flipped through a few pages. Is this your
awkward phase? She joked, holding a photo of me and
maybe twenty I smiled kind of something like that. Then
she turned the page. There was a picture of me
and Emily, one I didn't remember packing. Claire didn't say
anything for a beat too long. Her eyes skimmed the page,
then flicked up to mine. I knew what she was
going to ask before she did, but instead she closed
the album gently and set it aside. So I'm guessing
she's not your cousin, she said, half a mild tugging
at the corner of her mouth. I didn't say anything.
I didn't need to. Whatever reaction crossed my face must
have told her enough. Claire smile faded just slightly. You
want tea or coffee? That was it. No pressure or push,
just the soft pivot back to the kitchen. She understood
that she brushed up against something and decided to leave
it alone until I was ready. I liked that she
didn't push the playlist. Showed up the morning after she
stayed over. We were both running late. She took the
first hour while I stood in the kitchen, half dressed,
scrolling through my phone while the kettle heated. It was
there at the top of my homepage, a new playlist
you remember us right. At first, I thought it was
one of those autogenerated nostalgia things. Spotify does things like
that sometimes, But there was no thumbnail, just a collage
of art albums I didn't recognize. I hit play. The
first track was quiet, with soft vocals and slow guitar.
Nothing I could name, but the melody felt like something
I'd heard once in the background of a coffee shop.
I let it play while I ground the beans and
filled the press. Then the second song started. I was
leaning on the counter when it hit me. It wasn't
just familiar. It was hers Emily's, one of the ones
I used to hum without realizing, tapping a foot against
the dash. I hadn't heard it in years. For the
second it played, I could feel it in my chest,
sharp and too sudden. I reached from my phone from
halfway to skipping. Claire walked into the kitchen just then,
towel wrapped around her hair, damp and clinging to her neck.
Oh I love this one, she said. She brushed past
me and nudged my hand away like it was nothing.
Go shower. You gonna be late, I hesitated. Then I
handed her the mug, took my phone with me, and
set it on the bathroom sink. I stepped in and
let the hot water hit my shoulders, but something about
the song stuck behind my ribs. That second one was hers.
Then the third track started, and that was it, the
song Emily and I joked about getting married to. I
pressed my back to the tile and slid down until
I was sitting on the shower floor. The water was
too hot, but I couldn't move. That third song pulled
something up I kept buried so deep I'd started to
believe it wasn't there anymore. My chest tightened until it
hurt to breathe, and I just sat there, knees pulled
in while the water ran over my face like it
might wash something out of me. I let it happen.
I let it break through, slowly and quietly, until I
managed to pull all the pieces of me back together.
When I finally stepped out, I checked the playlist with
a kind of quiet dread. It had been created that morning,
which was impossible. Sure, Emily and I used the shere
a Spotify account, but that was years ago. Now, seeing
her name tied to something new, still pulled at something,
and for a second I caught myself wondering if she
knew about Claire. Once I realized what I was asking,
I let out a low, tired laugh. Not because it
was funny, It was just one of those reactions who
can't control when something hid in the wrong way. It
settled in my chest and dragged up guilt, and it stung.
I'd moved on, and I hadn't seen her in a
long time, and even though I kept telling myself I
had my reasons and that it was healthy, they didn't
feel like enough anymore. I don't know what shifted, but
suddenly it felt like I owed her something, thing that
I betrayed her. For the first time in a while,
I felt like I needed to see her again, not
just remember her, not just scroll through old photos or
let a song cut me from the inside. I needed
to be there. I dressed quickly, my heart still thudding.
When I stepped out, the house smelled like fresh coffee
and clear shampoo. She was by the door, boots half on.
You good, she asked, yeah, I said, just tired. She
reached out and fixed the piece of hair near my temple.
You're always tired. I'm working on it. She handed me
a travel mug, kissed my cheek, and left before I
had to explain anything. Things were just starting with Claire.
I didn't want to ruin that. I didn't want to
pulling away, but I had already made up my mind.
I called in sick and left before I could talk
myself out of it. The playlist started on its own
as I backed out of the driveway. I didn't touch it,
just let it play. If I wasn't sure before I
was sure. Now windows cracked, The road stretched ahead like
something waiting. The day felt too quiet for what was
happening in my head. The town was only an hour away,
mostly highway, then that familiar stretch of two lane road
that curved through old hills in open fields. It had
been a while, but I knew the way. I didn't
need a map. About half way there, a slow song
faded in, barely audible at first. I didn't recognize it
right away, not until memory came in hard behind it.
It was the one that played the night we danced
in the kitchen after a mom's funeral. We hadn't eaten
and we were both wrecked. But the song had been
on in the background, and she pulled me close without
saying anything. Resting ahead in my chest like it was
the only place that made sense, I gripped the wheel tighter.
My throat burned. I blinked hard and didn't look away
from the road. A few miles later, the music shifted.
Don't Break My Heart. It played once, then again. The
line kept looping, break, Break, Break, glitching and distorting. It
echoed like the car itself had picked it up and
was repeating it back to me. The hair on my
arm stood up. I looked up just in time to
see the semi drift into my lane. I hit the
brakes as fast as I could. Tires screamed, and the
world jolted. Everything inside the car slammed forward. The truck
missed me by inches. I sat there on the shoulder,
hands white knuckled on the wheel. My heart pounded in
my throat. The music had stopped because of the song.
I was safe, but I didn't know if that should
comfort me or scare me. My mind hurt thinking about it.
There was no doubt in my mind that this playlist
was set up by Emily. She was somehow in control
of my phone. In a way I didn't know was possible,
but this was something more. How did she do that?
The rest of the drive passed in silence. The playlist
was still open on the screen, but nothing played. Even
when I tried booting up another playlist, no sound came out.
It felt like I was now somehow getting the silent treatment,
something Emily used to do with a few times I
upset her. I reached town around the early afternoon. Everything
was where it had always been, the crack sidewalks, the
houses we'd pointed out to each other, the corner that
we used to wait on after school, trading dumb jokes
and stories that no one else would care about. And
I hesitated Before when I reached this point on the trip,
my heart would race with the thoughts of seeing Emily,
an unhealthy obsession turned compulsion. But for the first time,
there was a second thought that cross wired my brain,
thoughts of Claire. This only started after she stayed the
night at mine. Emily's intentions were clear. Was I ready
to just walk into them? I made a decision with
a deep breath. I turned the wheel, ready to exit
the town and leave Emily behind once and for all.
But it seemed Emily wasn't done with me. The song
that came through my car speakers crackled with pops. It
was so loud, borderline distorted with volume. I didn't even
know my beat up car could get this loud. Nothing
I did would soothe them. My phone screen was unresponsive.
The volume dolls span with no change. I wanted to
fight it, but I knew I couldn't. She had a
hold over the situation that was beyond my understanding, and
deep down she knew she didn't even have to push
this hard. My brain screened at me to run, but
my heart wanted to see this through, and all logic
was being thrown out the window. I parked where the
neighborhood thinned out. Trees were taller here older. I followed
the same stone path. I didn't have to wonder where
she was, didn't have to call to arrange a meeting spot.
She was always in the same place. Then I saw her.
I stood in front of her for what felt like
two long hands in my park. Its mouth too tried
to say anything that wouldn't sound stupid. I kept waiting
for the silence to break on its own, hoping the
guilt would settle into something I could carry again. Sorry,
I haven't been around, I said. Finally. It felt strange
talking to a grave after this long, but once I started,
I couldn't stop. I told her. I tried to move on,
that it had taken longer than I wanted to admit
that even now I wasn't sure i'd done it right.
I said a name a few times, just to feel
the weight of it again, but it felt foreign. My
nose stung and my eyes burned a bit. Down hard
just to hold myself together. And then I told her
about Claire. He probably already knew, but I gave it
to a straight, a formal introduction. It felt right to
say it out loud. You probably wouldn't love the idea,
but Claire makes me happy, and I need that. I
need something real, I said. But it hasn't stopped me
caring about you. It never could. But holding on the
way I had it started to feel more like a
weight than a memory, I added. I know you're upset,
I said, and maybe this won't help, but I hope
it at least makes sense. I miss you, I always will.
I was broken without you, but I'm finally getting better.
Just as the words left my mouth. I started to
hear something. It's been so low without you here, like
a bird without song. It was a song coming from
my phone. I didn't start it. I hadn't touched anything.
The voice was unmistakable, sneid O'Connor. The track was nothing
compares to you. Emily used to play it when she
thought I wasn't listening, humming along under a breath in
the kitchen while she moved between cabinets like the whole
house belonged to the rhythm. Nothing can stop these lonely
tears from falling. Tell me, baby, where did I go wrong?
I tried wiping my face, but it didn't do anything.
I thought. I cried it all out in the shower
that morning, but the tears didn't slow. They kept coming,
slow and hot. No, No, it wasn't you. I just
thought staying away helping. Everyone kept saying I needed space,
that moving on meant not looking back too much. I
rubbed at my eyes. But I should have come sooner.
I should have done this my way. I thought I
was healing, but really I was just avoiding you. The
chorus played again, quieter now, just the voice and the
wind and everything. I hadn't said in a long time. Look,
I'll visit more, I said, not just when I'm falling apart,
not just when I miss you. I'll give you updates
on my life, even the boring parts. I let out
a sob chuckle at that. But please, you have to
let me live my life. Okay. The song ended and
the playlist didn't load another. I stayed for a while longer,
watching shadows shift across the stone while I waited for
the tears to stop falling. A strange feeling of peace
washed over me, and eventually I stood and walked back
to the car. The sky had gone pale. I didn't
know if anything I said had mattered, but it felt
like something had let go. The drive home was quiet,
the playlist never started again. I left my phone silent
in case it ever did come back on. Part of
me wanted to hear from Emily again. Little flashes of
her kept cutting through her laugh, the way she held
a mug with both hands when she was tired, how
she used to steal the covers and pretend she didn't notice.
She hadn't been trying to break claar of me up.
She was just lonely. When I got back. I taketed Clare,
just the simple I'm home. I didn't trust myself to
say more than that. She called a few minutes later.
Her voice was soft and steady. She didn't know anything
was wrong, but something bubbled deep inside me. But I
told her anyway. I sat on the edge of my
bed and said everything I've been holding in, about the playlist,
the drive, the songs I hadn't heard in years, about Emily,
about how long it had taken to feel remotely normal again,
and how even now I wasn't sure what that meant.
I told her what she meant to me, that I
didn't know if I was doing this right or if
I ever would, and that I love her. Claire didn't interrupt,
and when I finished, I felt lighter for the first
time in years. I felt understood, like some one else
had seen the whole mess of it, what I'd lost
and still carried, and she didn't flinch. She welcomed me.
I could breathe again, because I wasn't holding that weight alone.