A few weeks ago, you sent me a recorded message.
I don’t remember what it was about. But I do remember that while you spoke, I could faintly hear you moving around a guitar in the background. I could hear the soft, vibrating hum of the strings at the instrument being lifted, and the firm clack of wood against mosaic as you gently set it down on the floor.
And it was a little thing. It was tiny. A few months ago, I would have grinned at the sound and made a comment in passing about instrument ASMR.
But it wasn’t a few months ago anymore. It was now.
And all I could think was, Oh. Those sounds are so ... domestic. So utterly mundane.
All I could think was, Oh. Is this what it would be like to be with you? Would the partner you eventually choose hear all these painfully normal, homely sounds as you spoke to them on the phone every day?
All I could think was, Oh. But what if I don't want to ... give away what little of you I already have?
What if I want to be that person?
What if I want to be your person?
Is that allowed? Can I ask you? Would that be okay?
But I said none of those things. I bit my lip against the thought, made a comment in passing about instrument ASMR, and—for the zenith time—shook my feelings off. Like they were powdery snow from a blizzard. Like they were stubborn sand from a stormy beach. Like they were unappealing remnants of something deceptively beautiful that would, with one wrong step, swallow me whole.
