You're in the front seat, waiting for the others to arrive at the station, and I'm in the back, when this song comes on next on the cd. And then we both start singing to the song - a little off pitch during the chorus, but in earnest nonetheless. I tap to the beat on the window, and I see your head nodding along in the car mirror.
It's like we're speaking in a language that people no longer remember except for us, and we're agreeing on every single thing we're talking about.
You tell me about the girl you're in love with (it hurts, doesn't it?), how you're scared to death that you won't get to see or experience everything the world has to offer (I know, there is that bothersome thing called time), and that people will eventually forget who you are - the colour of your eyes, the shapes of the lines on your palms (I'm scared too, but I'll remember you, I promise).
I tell you about my love of scented markers and how I attempted to eat the tips off them (that's actually kind of gross), about my fear of being alone (you never are), and of getting people to understand who I am (you're a little weird but I still dig you).
The song stops, and we stop too. Everyone gets back into the car, and then I go back to sleep, head bumping against the unwashed car window as we drive onward.
I wonder if you had heard me just as well as I heard you
(I love you).
