It was getting late and we had just wrapped up our post-dinner card game. You were a room away, getting things settled as I crawled beneath the covers, recalling the events of earlier that day; the surprise of an email notification for a file being shared with me. Recordings. The attached note explained that you were granting me access to five years worth of musical tinkering; The innermost bits of my musical brain, you wrote. This archive was your most prized possession and I was the first person you shared them with. I was stunned. I wanted to reciprocate. I wanted to match your decision to trust.
I’ve shared this blog before with mixed results; the last time I showed it to the guy I was seeing it was not well received. I’d been made more than a little wary of sharing this collection, but I so badly wanted to share my roughly recorded thoughts. Message sent. It was out there, there was no taking it back. If I thought I was nervous moments ago, it was nothing compared with the anxiety I was feeling in the minutes leading up to your response: Subscribed. That’s pretty gutsy, putting yourself out there like that. I’m impressed.
My phone buzzed beside the bed, the screen illuminating the New Message notification and beneath it, the sender: the ex.
Several messages sent back and forth, my frustration growing with each, when you walked into the room and settled into bed beside me. I laid my phone down and buried my face in the pillow, my mind fairly well wrecked. The unexpected contact was not one I wanted to tackle that evening or, really, ever again. We read the messages allowed, I explained the loves of my past and my history of mistakes. We laid there in the dark for a few moments, my nose and lips pressed against your shoulder while I listened to our breathing match and slow. Out of the dark came your voice, shaking a little more than usual, but determined:
This isn’t really a thing that I do. I’m an overthinker, this sort of anxiety usually cripples me, but I want to start. I want to share with you.