of course.
what if the song chose me?
I think people choose what hurts them most and call it art, so it’s easier to admire the beauty in it.
There’s a long gap. So long I thinkhe’s gone. Then—
maybe that’s why I chose it. why I choose a lot of things. people too.pain and beauty sharing my head space like old friends? that tracks.
My breath catches. I stare at the words until they blur. Before I can reply, a new message arrives, a voice note. Just a soft exhale, then his voice, rough from sleep and something else.
“It was never my intention to haunt you with this, but I guess that’s a happy coincidence I’ll take, since it got you to message me.”
The message ends, silence again. I press the phone to my chest, eyes burning, every rational thought screaming at me to put it down. Instead, I hit record. My voice comes out soft, barely above a whisper.
“Goodnight, Rafe.”
I send it.
The dots appear again, fast this time. Then they vanish. Somehow, I know he won’t reply tonight. Because he’s somewhere on the other side of this story, listening to my voice the way I listened to his. Because we both keep writing this song together, even when we shouldn’t.
The morning light cuts across the room before I’m ready for it. My phone lies face-down on the nightstand, a small, magnetic curse I can’t stop thinking about. I stare at it for a long minute, debating whether I even want to know.
When I finally flip it over, there’s no new notification. Just the same last message sitting there. My stomach twists. Part of me expected it, maybe even needed the silence. This is what I wanted, distance, sense, the grown-up thing to do.
I throw the blanket off, head into the kitchen, start the kettle. Steam fills the room, the following scent of coffee is both bitter and rich. Zosia’s drawing she gifted me still sits on the counter from yesterday, bunnies and carrots smudged at the corners. I run my thumb over the page, trying to focus on the simple brightness of it.
The phone buzzes. My heart jumps before I can stop it.
didn’t mean to leave you with ghosts.
or demons. whichever we decided.
hope you slept anyway.
if not at least tell me the coffee’s strong enough to keep you standing.
It’s Polish coffee. Kawa parzona. Strong enough to wake the dead.
then pour me a cup.
I don’t answer, I set the phone facedown again, lean against the counter, and close my eyes. I could tell myself I won't reply but Iknow that's a lie.
From there, Sunday unfurls slowly, soft and endless, sunlight stretching through the blinds like a lazy cat. I tell myself I’m going to get things done, laundry, charts, groceries, but somehow, my phone keeps finding my hand.
Rafe keeps messaging. First, a meme about a disastrous art exhibit, then a clip of an old band he loves, playing live. By noon, we’ve wandered into a thread about favorite painters, dog-eared books, the smell of vinyl sleeves, how the air in museums feels heavier because of all the history it holds.
Hours slip by, every time I set the phone down, it lights up again. Banter, curiosity, that strange feeling of having a connection in my brain restored that I didn't even know was missing. Maybe I never even knew it was there.
Dominik’s name pops up midafternoon and suddenly I realize I forgot all about anything else but the back and forth between Rafe.
good afternoon, moja kochana. did work and laundry steal you from me already?
My pulse jumps for an entirely different reason. I snap a quick selfie with my long-cold coffee and type back:
Good afternoon, Moja sila(my strength). Sorry, so much to catch up on, my brain is gone. How are you and Zosi?
He replies instantly with a photo of him and Zosia, both mid-pancake bite, Zosia’s mouth covered in syrup.
