‘Huh, that is better actually.’
‘You’re welcome,’ he grunts.
I sigh and shuffle under the sleeping bag to generate some warmth as silence hangs over us. I’m wide awake, and when I see him pull his hand through his messy hair out of the corner of my eye, I assume that he feels the same.
‘So,’ he says softly. ‘Whydoyou want this thing so much? If you don’t mind me asking. You can tell me to fuck off, if you want.’
I steal a glance at him in the darkness, just about making out how his hair falls haphazardly across his forehead and pillow.
I weigh up the potential answers to his question in my mind. I could go for the soft version of the truth: that I discovered theband while I was going through a difficult time and their songs helped me through it. It wouldn’t be a lie.
My mind stutters. I’m hesitant to divulge the truth, as I always have been. That a horrific period of time in my early teens left me in tatters and Queen Ego helped to piece me back together. When I had never felt more alone, I desperately sought connection. And when I discovered Queen Ego, I found it.
Back when I was thirteen, listening to their music on my bus ride to school cooled my fear and dampened my dread. To my bullies, I might have been tall, freckled, awkward, odd-looking, all wrong. But I was able to build a music and light-filled cocoon around myself each day, an invisible shield that no one could touch.
The kids that tormented me never knew it was there, and couldn’t break it down because they couldn’t even access the knowledge that it existed. It gave me a power nobody could see. Because the music would always welcome me when I needed to hear it. And that was enough.
And so for years, with their music I created a sanctuary in my mind that was just for me. The safety and consistency of the music – of their existence – was enough on some days to keep me going. Even when I hit my twenties and my first and only romantic experience imploded, leaving me reeling, the music was there. Their words held me up and the melodies kept my feet on the ground.
As I got older, I rarely told people about the depth of the love I held for my favourite band. It was too often met with mockery, pity or obvious discomfort. Strange looks and raised eyebrows. Most responses left me feeling judged or like I had revealed too much, almost always making me wish I had kept the more sensitive parts of myself private. Like it was a mistake to put that side of my life on display. Especially if I said anything akin to the band ‘saving my life.’ People didn’t like that. It took me a while torealise that some people aren’t comfortable with the power that art can hold.
I always wondered if it was because some people couldn’t understand it – because they had never travelled to that place in their mind. I couldn’t blame them. Sometimes I envied them.
Trying to explain this to Elliot, though… the fact that a band kept me sane? Kept me safe? I’ve come across a few too many people who hold genuine contempt for people who happen to love something that fiercely. With a love that is so overwhelming that it used to make me wonder if Iwasderanged. Fangirl, freak, nerd. They could all be used in the same breath.
The idea of Elliot having that kind of reaction makes my skin crawl. I don’t think I’d be able to look at him.
He even said it himself. He had already assigned that role to me the moment we met – the fangirl, the crazed girl. I couldn’t bear to tell him the truth now, see a look of derision directed at me and then continue to be tied to him for two days. Not after he’s shown me signs of genuine kindness.
I can’t risk it. Of all the things about me, I refuse to be mocked by him for this.
I quietly fiddle with the rings on my fingers under the sleeping bag.
‘I suppose it’s a long story. I was having a bit of a tough time in my teens when I discovered them and… well, their music helped. I’m not really sure what I would have done without them.’ I swallow nervously, hoping that’s enough to keep him satisfied.
I feel his gaze burning through the darkness. ‘I get that,’ he says gently.
My chest deflates with relief.
‘What about you? You really don’t want it at all? It’s just for your brother?’ I ask. There’s no sass in my tone, I really just want to know.
He’s quiet for a moment as he stares dully at the ceiling of the tent.
‘I mean, yeah,’ he says in a low voice. ‘I’m doing this for him.’
Minimal information shared.I can’t blame him when I just did the same.
‘I don’t want you to feel like I deserve the stick more than you do – I just can’t let go because of him. I know how much it would mean to him. Especially coming from me.’
‘He loves them like I do, do you think?’ I ask.
He nods. ‘Yeah.’
‘Why isn’t he here? Didn’t he want to come?’ I ask.
‘No. He isn’t getting out much at the moment.’
I frown. His eyes finally flick back towards me.
