I need to hear that song again.
It’s doing something to me, sparking something in me.
I tap the lyrics that come to me into the search bar of my computer. That hole, that dread, I can barely breathe.
There. The page fills with lyrics sites. Sinful Serenade. In Pieces. I read over the lyrics again and again. Each time, my stomach twists. It hurts, and somehow that’s both worse and better than feeling nothing.
My heart is heavier and lighter at the same time.
My body is aching and empty at the same time.
I boot up Spotify and I listen to the song again.
Again.
Again.
Each time, I catch more of the lyrics.
I feel better.
And worse.
Empty.
And full.
I don’t know what the hell I’m doing right now. I don’t know what I should be doing. The only thing I want is for school to start. Then, I’ll have something meaningful to occupy my mind. I’ll have some way to block out all these thoughts.
This guy, this singer, he knows exactly how this feels.
He understands me.
And I understand him.
And that’s terrifying and comforting at the same time.
Megara
For weeks, In Pieces is everywhere. It’s on every Los Angeles station. It’s all over Spotify and Pandora. It’s playing in coffee shops and boutiques.
And it’s there, on my computer, on repeat.
It’s a powerful drug. I try to resist the hit. I let the ache in my heart build. I let that feeling that no one understands how much this hurts--that no one will ever understand how much this hurts--build and build until I can’t take it anymore.
Then I listen.
And I fall apart.
I make a playlist. I add other songs that tug at my heartstrings. Other songs that brush up against that overwhelming ache.
But none of them hit me as deeply as In Pieces.
None of the vocalists are singing for me.
It’s only this guy who is singing in my ear.
It’s only him who understands me.
I don’t know his name.
I don’t have a clue what he looks like.
But, somehow, he’s the only person who can comfort me.
I know that other people deal with loss. I know my parents are hurting, Rosie’s friends are hurting, a million other people are hurting right now.
But he’s the only person hurting the way I’m hurting.
He’s the only person who understands this exact mix of loss and longing.
Three weeks now.
Can’t sleep.
Gaping hole in my chest
shows no signs of recovery.
That word, a joke, you laugh.
“Running away again, kid?”
A minute here
and then you’re gone.
Lights out.
Can’t sleep.
Heavy head,
but no one else can see.
(No one ever did).
A lost cause still,
worse than before.
No signs of recovery.
That word, a joke, you laugh.
“Running away again kid?”
A minute here
And then you’re gone.
Four weeks now.
That hole, that dread.
I can barely breathe
Anywhere but here.
Anything but this.
I want to take your lead.
Every day, I understand him a little more. And he understands me a little more. My sister OD’d. On heroin. I had no idea she was using. I ignored every sign. Then bam, she was gone. A fire extinguished. And now the wisps of smoke are blowing away in the breeze.
When I close my eyes, she’s there.
Then she’s not.
The only time I let the grief seep in is during In Pieces. It’s the only time I’m safe enough to let down the dam holding back every ounce of agony.
I catch his name in the credits of one of those lyrics sites. Miles Webb.
It’s like he’s holding me, this Miles guy.
But that’s ridiculous.
How can a man I’ve never met, who I will never meet, give me this kind of comfort?
I want more of him.
All of him.
He’s a Google search away. I’m tempted to look into his life, to see how he interviews, to see what he looks like. But every time I get the urge to pore into his online presence, something stops me.
The relationship we have right now—him singing for me, me letting his words pour into my soul—is perfect. More information could only ruin it. What if he’s a cocky jerk? What if he’s a manwhore? What if he has more ego than Kanye? What if he bashes his exes with more vitriol than every Taylor Swift album combined?
This is what I want.
He gets me.
I get him.
I don’t ask him for anything but his voice in my ears, his words in my soul.
He doesn’t ask anything of me but my appreciation, my need, my consideration.
I resist for a long, long time.
Then the band drops a music video. Spotify reminds me everyday. Pandora too. I resist for days. Weeks.
I go to work. I see Kara on Sundays. I fill the rest of my time with anything I can find.
One night I get home late, tired and in desperate need of comfort. And there’s Spotify again, reminding me about the new Sinful Serenade music video. There’s a shot of a man in a lonely room, his face obscured by a broken door frame, his naked torso exposed.
Dammit. I’m only human.
I play the video.
It’s in black and white. A sparse bedroom, the window open, the sheer curtains blowing. And there’s his back. Miles. He’s pressing his palms into the window frame, his muscles taut, his strong shoulders tense with months of sleepless nights.
He turns. The camera catches the side of his face. His shoulder. The tattoo snaking down his chest and over his obliques. He’s just wearing jeans. They’re slung low around his narrow hips.
Even in the soft lighting, the lines of his torso are clear.
He’s incredibly defined.
And those tattoos covering his chest and arms…
The hot rock star in only jeans is a cheap attempt at getting attention.
But there’s also something intimate about it.
I’m watching him trapped in this room, restless and empty and out of his head. He’s trapped in that lonely room. But, really, it doesn’t matter where he is or who’s around.
He’s trapped in his lonely head.
He’s trapped in these ugly thoughts.
No one else gets how much it hurts.
No one else understands him.
He’s handsome. Incredibly handsome. But it’s not his brilliant eyes that grab my attention.
It’s all that pain in his expression.
The way he hurts like I hurt.
The way he understands how this feels.
I watch the video twice.
Three times.
Until I fall asleep.
• • •
The weight shifts in my bed.
There’s a breeze ruffling my sheets.
It’s sending my hair in every direction.
It’s soft on my eyelashes.
There’s another pressure on my skin. It’s nearly as soft as the breeze. Nearly as delicate.
Fingertips.
Fingertips on my forearm.
On my shoulder.
My collarbone.
It’s been a long time since anyone has touched me like this. Since anyone has touched me at all. There was my high school boyfriend, then a few almost-hookups.