I don't wanna know what you think when you see me. Probably better that way. I don't need the recap, don't need the version you tell somebody else when I'm not in the room. I've heard enough secondhand weather. I'm fine. Fine-ish. Kitchen light's been on since midnight, fridge keeps clicking every few minutes like it's got something to add. I keep walking past the same chair like eventually it'll say something useful. It hasn't. You left quick. Door shut. Hall went quiet. Then that little pressure change, that whistle around the window frame. Funny what starts sounding important when nobody's talking. Just make a sound. Doesn't have to mean anything. Say "hey." Clear your throat. Drop your keys. Just make a sound. Something real enough to prove I wasn't talking to the furniture again. Outside, guy at the corner store's mopping around somebody buying cigarettes and orange juice at two-forty. Bus rolls by mostly empty. One woman in the back staring straight ahead like she's been assigned there. I walk three blocks for no reason, hands in my coat, phone at twelve percent. You used to say I'd grow out of this. Maybe I did. Maybe this is the adult version. Better shoes. Same walk. Then it hits weird. Not dramatic. Just somewhere between a crosswalk changing and a car taking too long to turn. I think about your voice. Not the careful one. The other one. Just make a sound. Doesn't have to mean anything. Say "hey." Miss a note. Laugh at the wrong part. Just make a sound. Something real enough to prove I wasn't talking to the furniture again. If you ever sing to me again, don't fix it first. Leave the breath in. Leave the part where you almost start over. I liked you best half a second before you remembered yourself. That's probably rude. Still true. Everybody's got that public voice. Clean edges. Good posture. Yours never fooled me much. I'm not asking you to come back. That's not what this is. I don't need headlights turning into the driveway. Don't need some big speech outside at four A.M. Honestly, the neighbors would hate that. I just hate how quiet a room gets once it knows you're listening. Clock. Heat vent. Somebody upstairs drops something heavy. There. Three things still exist. Just make a sound. Doesn't have to fix anything. Say "hey." Say "wrong number." Say nothing, then breathe. Just make a sound. Something real enough that for five stupid seconds I don't feel like I'm leaving messages for an empty room. I don't wanna know what you think when you see me. Keep that part. I just wanna know if anything I said made it across.
