She says the words stutter-stop, distracted, unsure. Feeling and expression deftly hide behind two years of ill-practice: two years of change. Nerves rise in her throat as the dull edge of panic saws at the back of her skull. Maybe it has been too long; maybe the words have been lost on her now.

Maybe she never had them to begin with.

She buries her face in his pillow, too sick and too frustrated to try again.
He quietly picks up his guitar and begins to play. The notes strike her ears and shiver up her spine; it is a song they both know well.

He strums the guitar and she takes a deep breath. The words fall from her mouth like rain spattering on the doorstep, melodies weave in and out in intensity, tone dancing with chord, wrapped tight in remembered emotion. Voice rough, eyes welling, hairs tingling at the nape of her neck, she sees once more the face, the set, the lights. Suddenly she knows the words, feels the heavy, raw emotion hanging visible in the air.

Now there is no dark, silent audience to captivate but herself, but that is all that matters. It is all that ever mattered. She sits suspended in time: not seeing the concrete blocks of the dorm wall or the boy concentrating on his guitar for her benefit, hearing only the music and feeling the weight of the show bearing down on her heart one more time.

The words slow and she comes to silence as he brings his guitar to the close. Singular notes picked from the acoustic hang in the air with the final goodbye.

You're going to have to let him go someday, too.
Goodbye. Mrs. Gant.

Stop. Breathe. She closes her eyes, feeling high-charged and backstage. Chills are still prickling her shoulders in the quiet.

Emotional memory is a powerful, powerful thing.

ink :: graphite