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“Excuse me, what?” Lucy stopped in her tracks. “I’m just saying that maybe you should open up about your emotions. It's like you're using your lyrics to hide,” Tom said with a patient voice - so infuriatingly patient! He was always so composed, so in control of his emotions, even when they had been fighting for what felt like hours - like now. “I just want to be close to you, and considering the amount of time we’ve been dating, I think it’s reasonable. Why can't you just tell me how you’re feeling?” His eyes sought after hers for some kind of validation. Her piercing gaze met his and pushed him back. “Maybe, Tom, because I'm not some high-end actor whose job literally is to be in touch with their emotions,” she hissed. “Oh my god, Lucy! Maybe if you weren't such a precious little pop princess, you could allow yourself to put your emotions somewhere else than lyrics people won't understand anyway.” He didn’t even raise his voice, but his now impatient and sharp words cut right through her. Her face had been stone-set with anger ever since he brought up the state of their relationship, but now sorrow and hurt flushed all over her expression, trying to grab hold of the girl. Realizing the weight of his words, he softened and tried to comfort her. “Lucy, I’m sorry.” She waved her hand in front of her face, trying to push her tears back. “Don’t… try,” she stammered and walked past Tom on her way to the lobby, where she put on her shoes, grabbed her jacket and walked out the door. “Lucy!” he called after her in desperation for her to come back and listen. When he realized she wouldn’t, he gave up. Standing in the doorway he saw his girlfriend walk away. In one last attempt to make her know he cared for her, he shouted, “I’ll call you,” after her. She turned around and looked at him. Judging from their expressions one would think Tom was the one who was hurt; his worried frown, his hopeful lips slightly apart as if trying to say something, and his puppy eyes, diamond-shiny with tears, and able to cut through both glass and hearts. Lucy, however, was blank. She didn’t know what to say, do or think. Finally, she spoke, “Don’t waste your time,” before turning on her heel and walking away.
Lucy more or less kicked in the door to her apartment, ripped off her shoes and jacket, before walking straight into her living room and flinging herself face first onto her couch. She let a long, exasperated “ugh” rip through the silent room and laid still while she waited to figure out what to do next. After a couple of minutes of self-pity, she pulled herself together and picked up her journal laying on the coffee table. Picking up a pen as well, she began writing. She might be bad with spoken feeling, but saying she didn’t get her thoughts out would be a straight up lie. With a spiteful mindset, she began her entry.
‘I’m probably mad if you call me on Monday. I’ll still be angry about today and the fact that you dare call me, thinking that I would want to listen, is just stupid. I’ll have been on your mind when you went for a run, when you ordered your regular coffee, when you took Bobby out for a walk. You’ll be at rehearsal, and Zawe will notice something is off. “What’s wrong?” she’ll ask, and you tell her because you can’t keep a secret and you need it off your mind.
I can’t take things off your mind. I can't listen and I can’t relate. You are so much better off without me, aren’t you?
You’ll call me between the matinée and the evening performance, by Zawe’s encouragement.
“I’m sorry, Darling,” you’ll say, and I’ll know how you run your hand through your hair and look down, like you always do when you worry or are in deep thoughts.
Are any of those thoughts about me? Do I still inspire you? Or has my muse-like light faded for your eyes and left you nothing but blank pieces of paper and melodies sounding out of tune? Will my songs repulse you, remind you of better times that no longer exist? We crashed on our way to our honeymoon, didn’t we?
“I don't give a shit,” I’ll say, and I’ll know how much it hurts you, how your eyes go shiny with those awful tears I hate so much. I never dared to tell you how much I hate to fight, how much I hate to make you hurt.
Guilt overcomes me and I don’t fit in my body anymore. Shame digs through my skull and I press the red icon to cut our connection. I don’t want you to hear me cry.
Guilt, fear, shame, anxiety, anger all mush together and explode, press themselves out of every pore in my skin. They hurt so bad as they tear through the thin membrane keeping my truth inside, only for me to see. They hurt me. You hurt me. And I am so mad.’
‘I’ll probably be happy if you call me on Tuesday. I will have tossed and turned all night, fearing I hurt you more than you hurt me.
I’ll be waiting by my phone, and every time it rings I’ll hope it’s you.
It rings. It’s my manager. A magazine would like an interview and a photo shoot. I’ll say “sure thing!” with an enthusiastic voice you taught me to do. You taught me to lie, to act and pretend, you did it to help me on those horrible days when I could not even say yes to brunch without combusting. And I used it to hide, like I always do.
And then there you are. Seeing right through me and outing my emotions before I even understand them myself.
It rings again and this time its right. My heart skips a beat at the sight of your name and I pick up.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
Silence. I guess we hadn’t thought we would get this far, so we forgot to plan what to do. You’re such a careful planner otherwise.
“So…”
“Yeah…”
Oh god, where do we go? We’re stuck in a loop, aren't we? I can't hear what you're feeling, and I realize you can't tell I’m smiling either. I want you to know I'm smiling because I know you like my smile, but I'm scared.
Are you smiling? I wonder. I hope you know I like your smile, even though I haven’t told you. I should probably tell you…
You break the silence and bring me back from my thoughts.
“I’m sorry, Lucy,” you’ll say, and I’ll tell you not to be. I should be better at sharing my thoughts, and I tell you I like your smile.
“I have to start somewhere,” I say in a low voice, but you chuckle, and I know you’re smiling. I know if I was there, you would hug me. One of those big hugs fit for all occasions, where your arms wrap all the way around my back, and its almost as if you're holding me up.
One of those hugs where, if I'm tired, I’ll bury my face in the crook of your neck, and you’ll rock me back and forth as if you’re lulling me to sleep.
One of those hugs where, if I’m sad, I’ll press my forehead into your chest, and you know I’m actually pressing my sorrow down in anger, because I’ll feel less fragile and less ashamed, so you whisper “it’s okay” and brush your hand over my hair.
One of those hugs where, if I’m happy like now, you’ll hold me close and I’ll hold you closer, in some sort of foolish attempt at transferring my joy from my body to yours.’
‘I’m probably out if you call me on Wednesday. I’m sad you didn’t call me yesterday, where you would have made me happy. I’m out in some bar getting drunk with friends, trying to get you off my mind.
There are guys out here too, but I ignore their advances. Their legs aren't as long as yours, their hair isn’t as curly. You have nothing to worry about, but do you know that?
Maybe you think I’m ignoring you, and you get angry. You think I’m childish for avoiding you.
Maybe you worry something has happened to me. Bobby notices your change in mood and whimpers to get your attention and begs for you to cheer up. I would have done the same. Your smile-wrinkles are cuter than your worry-wrinkles after all.
Maybe you guess correctly and think I’m out. Maybe an online tabloid ad answers your question as you scroll through your news feed. Paparazzi pictures under a clickbaity headline: “Singer Lucy Burns spotted in downtown London”.
I know you’re not jealous of the guy dancing next to me in the picture. It’s not in your nature. But I know you envy him, because I know how much you love it when I grind against you.
I know you fear for a moment, that I’m trying to move on from you. Trying to forget you completely. Are you afraid you screwed up for good?
Then I’ll be scared for a moment. What if you’re trying to move on from me? What if I screwed up for good?
Why did I leave my phone on silent? Why is the music in here so loud? Why can’t I just be an easy girlfriend?
Forcing down another shot, I try to forget you and have a good time.’
‘I’ll be so close to crying if you call me on Thursday. Yesterday's alcohol made me do things I regret. I tried to wipe you from my mind, but I couldn’t, you were there in every face I saw, and now I’m hungover and not really sure what I did last night.
Did I make you angry? Sad? Maybe you decided to forget about me...
But you call me. And I pick up. And I try to hide my trembling tone, but I know you heard it. I will have forgiven you from everything you said when we were fighting, a long time ago. Will you have forgiven me?
“Hey.” Your voice is soft and soothing, and the only thing I want to hear. One word from your lips, and I know I can clear my conscience. Then I will recognize the guilt in your voice. You will apologize for our fight. And I will start crying.
And I will hate myself for it, because I know how much more guilty it will make you feel. I don't think you would understand my emotions better than me this time. It’s tears of joy, tears of relief. I will have been so scared you wouldn’t call, but now you will be scared you should have called sooner.
I’ll sob and apologize and feel ugly and vulnerable and I’ll cry and cry and cry. You’ll make me cry, but for once, I’ll try to be okay with it. Be okay with me. I’ll know you’re okay with me. Because you’ll tell me, like you always do.
You’ll hush me like you always do, and say, “it’s okay Darling… It’s okay.”
And I’ll believe you.’
‘I’m so wild if you call me on Friday. I won’t even look at my phone when I pick up, but I’ll recognize your voice instantly.
I’ll have forgotten everything about our fight, and I know you will have too.
“Hey!” Your voice will be upbeat and excited, and mine will be too when I say “hey” back. “You wanna go out?” you’ll ask and of course I will say yes.
We’ll meet at that club up north of the theatre, where they play Nick Murphy’s old covers and serve the best drinks in London. You’ll get a Jameson on the rocks like you always do, and I’ll stick to my alcopop. You’ll make that joke about how I’m a lightweight drinker, and I’ll snap back and say I don't value appearance over taste when choosing my liquor.
And you will laugh, won’t you? Throw your head back and laugh that breathy laugh, that you would think would be louder judging by your stomachs jumping. But it's just audible over the upbeat music. Won’t you laugh for me?
Turn your gaze back to me. Look hungry. Take my hand and bring me to the floor. Please?
We’ll dance to the high-energy tunes until the DJ slowly fades them into the slower tracks, and when ‘No Diggity’ comes on, we’ll be grinding our hips to the rhythm.
I’ll feel your breath against my neck like so often before, and how your bulge grows against me, and as Friday becomes Saturday, I know what you want.
We’ll be in the backseat of a cab making out, and some overplayed song will be pumping its beat for the driver to listen to in an attempt to ignore us.
But a moment later, you’ll hesitate and pull away from me. Your lips will be parted and your eyes will be searching, as you try to find something to say. “I’m sorry,” falls from your thin lips and beams from your deep, blue eyes.
Now I’ll be the one hesitating, my lips will be parted and my eyes will be searching. And I won’t know what to say. I never do.
You’re the one with words. The one with emotions.
I’m the one who’s lacking. And I wish I could tell you.
But I don't have words. Even though I have emotions too.
I wish I could tell you… And I do my best to try…
“I’m not good with words,”
And you’ll close my lips and close my eyes when you kiss me again. Speaking a language I understand. One I can respond in. I’ll kiss you back.
Minutes feel like seconds as we make our way home. They'll pass too quickly for your liking, you would want to dwell by them. You always do. You feel every moment fully, as I speed by them. Dwell by every romantic kiss as I drag you into the next.
We’ll go upstairs, already undressing each other as we enter the bedroom, with no regards to what we will think in the morning.
“I just want you. Your naked body against mine.”
We’ll tumble onto the bed and fumble our last bits of clothing off. You’ll kiss my neck and grab my breasts, lick and kiss my nipples.
You’ll push yourself inside me and groan as you press your face into my neck, where you resume kissing me once you’ve settled in my core. And I’ll moan your name as you start thrusting into me. My face will be buried in your neck as well, and my shaggy breath will brush over your skin as I nuzzle closer to you.
My hands will be in your hair, holding you close, and on your body, squeezing your lean, flexing muscles, down your back to your shapely ass, that you like having touched, even though you haven't told me. For once you’re the silent one.
Your hands will be pulling my hair, making me look up at you, and on my lower abdomen moving down to my pussy, where you’ll place your thumb on my clit, pressing in sync with the thrusts of your pelvis.
We’ll go over the edge. You’ll moan those strained groans as you let yourself go, and once you've gathered yourself, you’ll whisper my name in response to me. Because I’ll have moaned your name loudly and repeatedly when I reached my climax. All because of you. ‘
‘You’re a waste of my time if you call me on Sunday.
If you haven’t called by then, then what are you doing? Do you have someone else? Was last weeks’ fight our end? You’re usually far too reasonable to leave a fight about not talking, with not talking.
I’ll be pissed.
You said you would call!
You’ve made me so mad, so broken, so lost, but you’re the one who can bring me back together. Comfort me. Please?
Sunday, it's too late.
Sunday, I truly don’t give a shit, because you clearly don't give one about me either.
The war is over. I did the best I could.I’m only myself. And my feelings, those you call my ghostsYou say I've hidden in my lyrics. And you say I’ve forgotten you. That you want more.
So I’m probably mad at you.Mad if you call me on Monday.Mad if you call me on Tuesday.Mad if you call me on Wednesday. Mad if you call me on Thursday.Mad if you call me on Friday.Mad if you call me on Saturday.Mad if you call me on Sunday.
I’m just so mad at you.
So infinitely mad.’
Lucy was piercing the pages of her journal with her pen, trying to press the anger out of her body. She was ready to throw her abused book across the room when the ringing from her pocket brought her away from her rage.
‘My phone is drilling into my skull, trying to make me pick up, and I realize I haven't predicted anything for what if you call me today.