But after we started writing, it wasn’t just a few short messages. It wasn’t just small talk that meant nothing, things you write and forget a few days later. It was more, from the very beginning. That’s why I couldn’t go with Dad. I just couldn’t.
Dad was right. I was afraid. I’mstillafraid.
Last year, I was afraid it wouldn’t work in real life. I was afraid that we could be friends online but wouldn’t be able to talk the same way in the real world. Things like that happen. You can get along fine when you think you know each other but actually don’t, not completely.
If I’d met Easton and the band, I would have had to tell him the truth. I would have had to tell him that the girl he’s writing to is Liam Bellamy’s daughter. It would have been impossible for me to lie to him. But I was afraid to tell him who I am. Afraid that he would treat me differently if he knew. After all, it wouldn’t be the first time. Besides, I wasn’t ready for it. Maybe I’m still not ready.
Now I’m scared that he’ll hate me because I disappeared for the last six months and didn’t answer his texts.
He doesn’t hate you. If he did, he’d have stopped writing to you a long time ago. He’s your friend. Have some faith.
That’s what Mom would have said if she were still alive. A dull pain spreads through my chest, a black hole that threatens to swallow me. It’s already swallowed me repeatedly these last few months.
My throat tightens, tears threaten to overflow, and I stop in the middle of the sidewalk. I don’t care that the people behind me have to step aside, and they give me dirty looks as they rush past.
Breathe, Rayne, breathe.
But I can’t. It’s like there are shards of glass in my lungs, tearing me apart. Not for the first time, not for the last. Over and over again.
Breathe, just breathe.
In.
And out.
I gasp for air, and somehow I manage. It’s unfair that it still hurts this much even after six months. Whoever said that time heals all wounds was lying. It doesn’t. It still hurts just as much, and it hasn’t gotten any better. If anything, it’s gotten worse, because now the shock has worn off. Now all that’s left is the pain, a stab inside of me that takes my breath away.
“You’re in the way,” a cold voice behind me says, and I flinch. I stumble a couple of steps to the side and freeze in place. I have no idea what to do.
Go to him. He doesn’t hate you.
That’s Mom’s voice again, warm and gentle. I want to cry because I’m not even sure anymore if that’s really how she sounded. Was her voice the same as the one I hear now, or have I already started to forget her?
Don’t think about it. Just don’t. You won’t forget her, you can’t.
But I can. It’s different than it is with Dad. His voice will always be there. As long as I have his records, as long as there are streaming services and the internet, his voice will be there. Mom’s won’t.
Of course there are videos of Mom and Dad, and of Mom and me. Voice messages. But that’s different. I don’t know why, but it’s different from Dad’s songs. They’re there, full of his emotions, and that’s why a part of him will always be with me.
I can’t hold on to Mom like that. She only exists on my phone, only for me. At some point the whole world will forget what she sounded like when she laughed, how bright and soft her voice was when she used to read to me when I was little.
I stop thinking, turn around, and then start walking again. I can’t be scared anymore, I need Easton. I need more than just his messages; I need him in the real world. He’s my best friend.
Out of breath, I stop in front of Repeat Records. The shop is bigger than I expected it to be. Easton sent me a few photos last year, but it always looked smaller. I see now it actually has two floors, with instruments displayed in the upstairs windows. I remember Easton telling me that he started to work here because he couldn’t afford a new guitar. He worked hard for months to save up for one.
I push open the door and hear a soft jingle as I enter, my eyes glued to the ground. I can’t bring myself to look around for him, and I don’t understand why. Maybe I’m afraid he isn’t here. I don’t know if I’ll be able to make myself come back if I’ve made the effort for nothing today.
But then I hear the familiar strains of “My Heart Is Lost” byblackbear, and I know immediately that he’s here. He sent me the song three days after we started texting.
Nervously, I wander between the bins full of records, my gaze lingering on a few album covers: ABBA, Queen, Taylor Swift, Lana DelRey. Now I want to look around after all, to make sure Easton is there. But something is still stopping me. It doesn’t make any sense. But if I look at him and he looks at me at the same time, then... I don’t know what will happen. I might go crazy.
Calm down, for heaven’s sake.
That’s not as easy as it sounds, not with the cramping in my stomach and the racing pulse I can feel in every part of my body. My palms are sweating. What if he hates me? Should I introduce myself? Will he recognize me? But no, how could he? I’ve never posted photos of my whole face. He has no idea who I am, and I have no clue what I should say to him.
Hi, I know I’ve ignored you for the last six months, but now I’m here. It would be nice if we could be friends again because I don’t know anyone else in this damn city and I feel so lost.
No, probably not.
