The Girl

He could never sing. Not really. I mean, he could hold a note, and his voice was nothing to cringe at—but by no means and in no way was he a singer. Which made it all the sweeter when he did sing to me. Sometimes at night, after long movie viewings coupled with sessions of sticky summer kisses, I would be tired and while holding me in his arms he would just start singing. It was always very quiet, and it was always made up lyrics about me. Sometimes just my name, over and over, and then something about how much he loved me, or how beautiful I looked. Those hazy moments during the summer were one of the many losses I faced while we transitioned ourselves into fall. We were both suddenly busy—I had two jobs, and he had work and school, and we no longer celebrated our quiet moments by lying down beside each other and enjoying the darkness.

We had fewer and fewer moments under his blanket, whispering and laughing as quietly as possible while he fumbled to find me in the folds of the covering. He would feel his way along my face, finding my lips with his own, but usually finding my nose, chin, or cheek first.

We didn’t have that as often because life had happened, and we suddenly had to force time to slow down for us. This was so unlike we had ever been before. We were supposed to have it easy. The world had been ours.

Halfway through our only summer I listened to a certain song, and showed it to him later. He liked it.

“When you cry, a piece of my heart dies, knowing that I may have been the cause. If you were to leave, fulfill someone else’s dreams, I think I might totally be lost”

It was our secret song. I played it constantly, falling in love with him, but also with the song, and the idea of someone loving me that much. I had a fantasy where he sang the song to me to propose. Made all the more meaningful, of course, by the fact that he was never very good at singing. It would be flawed and perfect if he sang it to me.

But we never got that chance.

The familiar guitar chords and soft words interrupted my studying one day. Curious, I stepped into the kitchen to discover my roommate and best friend listening to it, eyes shining. How could she know, how could she not, does she not realize, does she not see? My heart was full, my eyes were thankfully dry, but the stinging sensation in my nose warned of tears.

“Isn’t this so perfect? It’s the perfect song! I know he’ll love it. And it can be our song!” the words made no sense to me.

The song, my song, his song, our song.

 It wasn’t hers to take. It meant something to me.

The song, my song, his song, our song.

We would never dance to it; never listen to it together again.

The song, my song, his song, our song.

It wasn’t for anyone else but us. How did she not realize? It wasn’t hers to take.