Blame the Composer

I recognize the song within seconds. The few measly notes that reach my ears are all it takes for me to relive every moment of the last two months. I try to blink away the memories, but his eyes burn into me with each flash of darkness. 

I could so easily skip this song and move onto the next one in my queue, but it doesn’t feel right. Despite everything carried in the haunting lyrics that once felt so sweet and comforting, I can’t pretend this song has never been sung. 

This time, I will not cry. I lie to myself, my hesitant finger hovering over my phone screen, aching to save myself the torture. I choose to give myself the benefit of the doubt, letting my phone drop on the passenger seat. 

Inhale, exhale. I take a breath with every slow beat. 

My eyes lock onto the road in front of me as the first few verses pour out of the speakers. The words instantly take me back to our first encounter. His confidence and charisma overwhelmed me almost as much as his towering height. His gray, stormy eyes absorbed me, and the low thunder of his voice soothed me endlessly. His smile flashed like lightning, striking me over and over, electrifying me. 

The most beautiful memories of him play out in my heart as the music plays. The feeling of his hand covering mine still scorches my skin. I hear him on our first date, telling me how he adores the way my “soft little hands” absently traced the skin on his as he drove us back to my house. 

I see myself on his lap, pushing his hair off of his forehead. It would always flop right back into place, so I made it a habit to keep my hands in his hair. I feel his lips trail lazily along my jawline, down my neck, across my collarbone. 

I hear his deep laugh echoing in my ears alongside my own giggle on our first Valentine’s Day. I remember the rain beating against the roof as we dried it off ourselves inside and sipped on wine a little too carelessly, making the best of a Valentines picnic gone wrong. Lucky for him, I love storms.

I feel his arms wrap around me as they did when I laughed, when I cried, and when I just wanted to be close to him, which was all the time. The smell of his cologne still marks everything he ever gave me. 

My car hits the rumble strip, forcing me back to reality. I could pull over, I could pause the song, I could skip the rest of it altogether; but I can’t fully pull myself out of his memory. 

Then, his voice, singing this chorus to me. In the car as he drove, over the phone, in my voicemail while I was asleep. I resist the urge to replay every voicemail he ever left me. But as the next line floats through the air, I’m taken to the heartbreak.

I don’t fight the waves of sorrow that capsize my heart as I remember his lies. He broke more than just the promises he made. I go back to his constant criticisms of my mother, the lack of effort he put into getting to know my friends, the snide comments when I dared to help him as he complained. 

His lack of attention as I all but screamed at him to give me more, to show me any sign of affection when I felt I was giving too much. The dirty secrets his friends told me about him stain the memories.

I hate myself for ever thinking a negative thought about him. Nevertheless, a small part of me can’t help but hate him for being gone, even though I know he didn’t do it to himself. Dying was the worst thing he’s ever done to me by a long shot.

My mind wanders to the second worst: the night he finally told me everything he’d been keeping from me. The betrayal, and all the little supporting acts of dishonesty that made it hurt twice as much. On some level, I suppose I could feel the dishonesty, but having the person I loved and trusted more than anyone finally admit to it tore me apart entirely. 

I come unraveled all over again, just as I did that night. When he finally told me, I ran, and the thunder and lighting chased after me. After all, how could I bear to meet his eyes while his words shredded my heart right there in my chest? 

My feet pounded relentlessly on the ground as I put as much distance as I could between us, my lungs heaving with pain and exhaustion. I don’t know how far I ran, but I do know that I didn’t intend on ever stopping. I never understood why people ran until that moment, where my love for him was so excruciatingly intense that I had to at least try everything in my power to escape it. How else could I be okay? How else was I supposed to ever let him go, to make sure he could never shatter me again? 

Of course, he caught up to me eventually, catching every piece of me as I fell apart. I hated how much I loved him, how much I still needed him even after everything. I screamed and thrashed and sobbed until I couldn’t breathe and had no choice but to let him put me back together as if he had never broken me. With that, he gave me the love story I thought I would only ever read about.

But none of that is what gets me. It’s his sneeze. His loud, violent, hideous sneeze that would come out of nowhere and absolutely terrify me; I would give anything to hear it again. Its memory, too, comes out of nowhere, puncturing my grief and causing everything to pour out. 

The last notes of the song finally ring out, marking an ending that I desperately want to rewrite. I blame the composer. 

I’ve listened to this song every day since the last day I saw him, and there isn’t a single day that I haven't cried while listening to it. Today may not be an exception, and maybe I’ll never be able to make it through those four and a half minutes without becoming a mess, but maybe I will eventually. Maybe, someday, this pattern will fade with him. 

Until then, I’ll keep trying. 

Tomorrow might be better. I whisper the words to myself as the next song begins. But you’ll never know unless you try.