Ode to pining

I think I’m hurting myself. I keep playing the same song over and over again, the one you played for me. I can’t name what it is, not now, but by the time 2025 ends, it’ll be my most listened to song—that I know, and we’re not even a week into the year. And when that big reveal eventually rolls around, perhaps you’ll be but a distant memory, and I’ll be laughing at the excessive hours I spent listening on repeat. And I’ll have all this vast perspective. And I’ll feel silly for my pleading, my pining, my praying at the altar of a song. But I’ll feel proud of myself for simply listening to a song over it, masochistic as it was, rather than choosing a more dramatic option, like writing a Substack post, for instance. Now that’s growth. I’ll pat myself on the back for making it through the year without revealing a fraction of my desire, for never digging myself deeper into a hole, for resisting the humiliation of chasing someone, and for instead neatly confining my feelings to shower singalongs. Perhaps by that time I’ll have found a new love, if I can even call it that—a new song, a new association worth playing on loop—and I’ll have forgotten about this one entirely. And I’ll be genuinely surprised to see its ranking at the end of the year. I might even give it a listen for old times’ sake. And if we’re all still using the same old apps, and if I feel I’ve got nothing to hide, I’ll share my top songs of the year. And if you haven’t yet sickened of my social media presence, maybe you’ll still be following me, and maybe you’ll see it. And it’ll stand out drastically from the other songs on the list, because of course it will. And you’ll think to yourself, “I love that song.” And you’ll be surprised that I love it, too. And you won’t remember hitting play for me in my bed as serotonin flooded your brain, as you closed your eyes, as you softly hummed, as I thought to myself, “Of course you love music like this,” as you swayed your head from side to side, as I curled into your lap and sighed. Or perhaps you will, but you’d never be so presumptuous to assume my listening streak had anything to do with you. And so the only piece of evidence will fall away. And I’ll let it—which is quite unlike me. And I’ll keep fighting the urge to turn myself in.