and my mouth began to freeze.
With each successive line, I feel the room disappear around me. It’s just Christopher and me, alone in the room. Me, serenading him on the guitar. Vulnerability seeps into my tone, in a way that counters the up-tempo poppiness of the song.
Christopher’s gaze doesn’t leave mine.
Just before I get to the final chorus, another intrusive thought about Samuel comes, snapping at me out of my memories. The symbolic embodiment of him manifests in front of me. Lucy on the left professionally, and Christopher on the right, at least sexually, if not romantically.
I try to shake the thought away, but I can’t push it out of my head.
My fingers stumble on one of the chords, forcing me to stop.
“Sorry guys, I lost my focus. Can I take a minute before we go again?” I ask.
I need to find something to distract myself.
I slide the guitar into the stand and jump off the chair, but get yanked back by the headphone cord. I quickly remove them, leaving them over the mic stand, and make my way to Christopher and Lucy as the thoughts become stronger.
Samuel’s voice echoes in my head.
You think you can replace me.
You think I don’t know what you’re doing.
Samuel’s words, the last conversation we had before the crash, swirl around in my brain.
And what he accused me of is now true. Chris stands right in front of me.
“That was great,” Lucy says, although I can’t bring myself to look at her, at them.
I look at the clock above the door instead.
Will I forever be haunted by Samuel’s ghost?
Am I condemned to live a life of suffering?
“No seriously.” She reaches for my arm as I tuck my hands into my jean pockets. “That song is really something.” She lifts up on her toes, trying to catch my eye.
“Appreciate it,” I say, finally. I drop my gaze to meet hers, once I manage to push the thoughts of Samuel away. “I could really do with a drink right now.”
“Sure, what do you want? I’ll run and get it for you.” She waits for my response
“Nathan was going to head out and grab me a drink. Can you go get him to make it for me?” I ask, ignoring her look of confusion.
“Okay…?” My response obviously doesn’t make things clearer for her, but she turns, exiting the room to go chase down Nathan.
“What did you think?” I ask Christopher, who is standing awkward and silent in front of me.
I usually restrict myself to asking my team for opinions about my music, or the fans who consume it. I learned early on not to listen to the critiques of snobby music journalists. I even framed a few of those reviews, and hung them up in one of my bathrooms back home:
Listening to this felt like bad sex—lots of buildup, zero climax.
This song lasts longer than most of my exes, yet somehow still left me unsatisfied.
If foreplay felt like this song, I’d fake a headache every time.
But since I wrote this about Christopher, I’m desperate to hear his thoughts.
“Sounds like this muse has managed to cast a spell on you,” he says, chuckling.
