The Time It Takes for a Text to Cross the Ocean
Gia Margaret
"Good Friend"
Interactive Listening Experience
The notification pops up on my phone while the bus turns a sharp corner, throwing the weight of my bag against my knee. You type that you have caught the flu. The screen goes black again, reflecting my own tired face against the window, smeared with the grease of the city. There are thousands of miles between this shaking plastic seat and your bed. I press my thumb against the dark glass, pushing down on the smudges, as if I could somehow push a wet towel or a bowl of hot soup through the pixels. Instead, all I can offer is the dull rhythm of my typing, watching the three gray dots pulse on your end while the heater by my ankles blows dry, stale air over my boots.
My morning commute overlaps with your restless midnight. You text again, mentioning you couldn't sleep, so you sat up to drink tea with Rhodri. I read the name twice, my thumb hovering entirely still over the keyboard. The bus lurches forward, and someone’s damp umbrella brushes against my calf, leaving a cold, wet streak on my trousers. I look out at the passing cars, their headlights bleeding into long red lines in the early dawn. You are sitting at your kitchen table, holding a warm mug, sharing the quiet, vulnerable hours of your sickness with someone who is simply there. The physical proximity of another person is a heavy, quiet fact that I cannot compete with from this side of the world.
I step off the bus into the biting wind, immediately reaching into my coat pockets. The lighter flicks twice before catching, illuminating the cracked pavement for a fraction of a second. I take a drag and stare at the lock screen again. The desire to be a good friend forms not as a grand declaration, but as a dull ache in the roof of my mouth. I cannot run out to a pharmacy for you, nor can I touch your forehead with the back of my hand to check your temperature. The only thing I can build across this gap is a string of words, arranging sentences in my head while the morning traffic rushes violently past my shoulder.
The phone vibrates in my palm, another sudden flash of harsh white light cutting through the gray morning. I do not unlock it right away. I just hold the device, feeling the brief, mechanical buzz against my skin, letting myself pretend it is the thud of a pulse. My shift starts in ten minutes, a full day of standing, nodding, and moving boxes waiting for me under fluorescent lights. I slip the phone back into my pocket. The lining of the coat is thin, and I keep my bare hand wrapped around the cold metal casing, walking toward the building, waiting for it to light up the dark pocket just one more time.
Leaving the shoes by the door
It is late afternoon here when I finally sit on the edge of my bed, untying my laces with slow, deliberate tugs. The message I wrote has been sent, sitting at the bottom of our chat, completely still. You haven't opened it yet. I imagine you finally asleep, the fever breaking, your room quiet except for the streetlamp casting long, unfamiliar shadows across your floor. I leave my socks on the rug and lie back against the mattress, listening to the muffled sound of tires rolling over wet asphalt outside my window, wondering if my words will look any different to you when you wake up alone in your own morning.
Songs playing while we wait for a reply
Daughter — "Medicine"
A swelling, atmospheric ache that perfectly captures the quiet helplessness of wishing I could cure your fever from thousands of miles away.
Hovvdy — "True Love"
A warm, unhurried acoustic rhythm that sounds like the simple, heavy desire to just sit quietly at your kitchen table.
Ichiko Aoba — "Asleep Among Endives"
A soft, dreamlike melody that mirrors the stillness of your room as you finally fall into a deep, healing sleep.
Khalid — "Location"
A steady, grounded beat that echoes the persistent pulse of staring at a dark screen, waiting to bridge the vast physical distance between us.
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