Ribbit

You once told me that you hate the sound of your own voice. And I knew you didn't mean that the way that other people do. It’s normal to dislike the yawping or the simpering as it falls from your own mouth. Yet your hatred was different. Rather than simple disdain, you were insecure about your voice. I've never met someone like you—never met someone quite so upset by that old familiar sound. You hear it from the first few uttered words, and it never leaves. I would assume you would just accept it. That’s what I did. My own voice sounds like a twelve year old boy to me. But that’s a fleeting thought that almost never surfaces.

You confessed this about yourself, and it seemed so odd to me. But who am I to dismiss a feeling?

For someone who hates their own voice, you speak often enough. Not an extraneous amount—but you don’t try to avoid letting that sound leak out. Instead of bottling it up, you bravely raise your voice, and whisper sweet things, and shout when necessary.

I admire so many things about you.

I admired the way you could forgive my mistreatment of you. I admired your brave face when you were still my friend even after I chose someone else over you. I admired the fact that you still wanted me, even after all that time. Our history made it all the sadder when you walked away from me, motorcycle helmet in hand. That hurt.

I never thought your voice sounded weird—in fact, I loved everything about it. It sounded like summer nights hanging out the car window, and popsicles from juice concentrate, and stolen glances because of inappropriate crushes. It sounded like that one night, on the beanbag chair—a night I can never extract from my memory. It sounds like my phone dying because it’s so cold in the bed of your truck but the stars are worth the frozen toes. The stars were worth it, and so were you.

I really love the sound of your froggy voice.