I touch my lips, the phantom press of his mouth still lingering like a song stuck on repeat.The kiss was a collision of past and present, of everything we lost and everything we’re still scared to want.I almost begged him right there—to fuck me, to love me, to take every ounce of me like he used to.
To remind me that we weren’t broken, just interrupted.
But I didn’t, and a lot has happened since then.
And then there’s DeadStrings.
The man who lives inside my inbox and my headphones.The man who makes me laugh when I don’t even want to smile.Who sends me songs that say more than any words we could exchange.He gets me—not through explanations or questions, but through instinct.Through something that feels ...inevitable.
It’s easy with him.Effortless.No masks, no past between us.Just this quiet pull that began with a lyric and grew into late-night confessions.Something that feels like it’s always been waiting.
He makes it easy to feel wanted without being possessed.Seen without being judged.And that’s something you don’t throw away just because the man you thought was your forever suddenly wants another shot.
If those promises were ever about me—and not just the idea of me.
What if getting the girl had a different meaning?
Roderick could’ve met someone else.Someone who doesn’t flinch when old songs play or overthink kisses.Maybe he realized I’m not his.Maybe that look in his eyes isn’t longing—it’s closure.
I hate this.This doubt.This quiet ache I can’t soothe.
It’s not about my worth.I know who I am.
But I don’t know who he is anymore.
And I don’t know if I’m falling for a memory in boots and tattoos ...or the anonymous soul who messages me from the dark corners of the internet with songs that feel like they were written for us.
Can I even be in love with a man I haven’t seen?Haven’t touched?Haven’t kissed?
God, what if I already am?
ChapterOne Hundred Six
Private Message | EchoZone Internal Chat
From: DeadStrings
To: StringTheory27
Date: October 3rd, 1997, 11:23 PM
Subject: Danger?
After a conversation with a friend—well,more like a philosophical interrogation over things we didn’t clear up before—I’ve been thinking.
What if we meet?
Wait.Before you say no, just—hear me out.
We’re strangers.At least by old-school standards.We haven’t seen each other.We haven’t exchanged names, addresses ...there’re just these late-night messages and a very opinionated cat and dog duo that may or may not become musical collaborators one day.
And I get it.There’s a risk.What if one of us is dangerous?A weirdo?A serial harmonica enthusiast?Cowbell fanatics?
There has to be a way to confirm that this ...whatever this is—this thing that’s been growing between playlists and confessions and sarcastic debates—is real.
Let’s call it friendship.Even if it feels like more some days, even if it terrifies me to name it anything else.
I just want to make sure it’s legitimate.That I’m not imagining it.That you’re not secretly a con artist using my love of Hall & Oates against me.
