Each recording has its own little corner of the night, marked by the day, the time and the reason it was never sent. Settle into these romantic audio stories and listen for the words that almost escaped.
Mon 00:42, the taxi home
I Took the Longer Way
Right, I've been in this taxi for twenty minutes and we're still nowhere near my flat. I asked him to take the longer route, which is ridiculous because I have work at eight. But the city looks different through a rain-covered window, doesn't it? All those little restaurants closing, someone carrying flowers under their coat, the traffic lights turning green for nobody. I keep thinking about the way you looked at me outside the station. You had that scarf wrapped twice around your neck, and you said goodnight like it was an ordinary Tuesday. It wasn't ordinary to me. I wanted to ask you to stay. Not forever, obviously. Just another coffee, another ten minutes. Anyway, the taxi is turning onto my street now. I'll probably delete this in the morning.
Restless longing
Wed 01:16, borrowed jumper
It Still Smells Like You
I found your jumper behind the bedroom door. The grey one, with the loose thread near the cuff. I was going to fold it and put it with the things you left here, but then I picked it up and, well, here we are. It still has that faint smell of your soap. I know that sounds embarrassingly sentimental. I even laughed at myself when I noticed. The kettle has just clicked off, and there's a completely untouched cup of tea beside me. We haven't spoken properly in eleven days. I could send a photograph of the jumper and make some joke about its extended stay. That would give you an easy way to reply. But I don't actually want to pretend this is about laundry. I miss having you here, especially on the quiet evenings when there is nothing to distract me from it.
Tender
Fri 23:58, the gallery
You Weren't Looking Away
Something happened at the gallery tonight, although absolutely nothing happened, if that makes sense. We were standing beside that enormous blue painting, pretending to understand the little description underneath it. Your shoulder kept brushing mine. Once, twice, then a third time, and neither of us moved away. I noticed your hand holding the paper cup, the little crescent of coffee on your thumb. I noticed everything, actually. Then someone came over to ask you a question and I suddenly became fascinated by the ceiling. On the way out, you asked whether I was going to the opening next Thursday. I said probably. Probably! I have already checked my calendar four times. I want to know whether you were looking at the painting or waiting for me to look at you. I suppose I could simply ask. I am not going to. Not tonight.
Anticipation
Sun 02:07, kitchen light
I Was Jealous of Tuesday
This is such a petty thing to admit, but I heard you mention Tuesday and immediately wanted to know who you were having dinner with. You said it casually, while rinsing your glass, as if the word meant absolutely nothing. I smiled and asked whether you were going somewhere nice. You said it was a little place near the river. I know that place. The tables are close together, the candles are always too short, and the windows fog up when it rains. I have been there with you. That's probably why it bothered me. I don't have any claim on your Tuesday, or your evenings, or the stories you choose to tell someone else. I know that. Still, I've been standing in this kitchen with the light above the sink on for far too long, rehearsing a question I have no right to ask.
Jealousy
Thu 00:31, train platform
One More Station Together
The last train was delayed, which gave us another twelve minutes on the platform. Twelve minutes. We talked about the weather, the broken ticket machine and a dog we could hear somewhere behind us. I had so many better things to say. I wanted to tell you that I look forward to Thursdays because that's when I usually see you. I wanted to tell you that I sometimes walk past the little bakery just to see if you're sitting by the window. Instead, I asked whether your journey was far. You laughed and said, 'You know where I live.' I did know. Of course I knew. Then your train arrived, and you stepped inside with that lovely absent-minded wave. I watched the doors close. My own train came two minutes later. I am recording this from an empty carriage, and I wish I had been braver on the platform.
Regret
Sat 01:49, hotel balcony
The View Was Better Before
There's a balcony here overlooking the old part of town. Somewhere below, a waiter is stacking chairs, and I can hear glasses clinking as the restaurant closes. It's a beautiful view, genuinely. Orange windows, narrow streets, the whole postcard arrangement. But earlier, when you were standing beside me, I barely noticed any of it. You had your sleeves pushed up and were telling me about a book you'd been reading. I kept looking at your hands. I think you noticed because you stopped halfway through a sentence and smiled. Nothing dramatic happened. We just stood there until the air got cold and went downstairs separately. Tomorrow we're both travelling home. I could ask whether you'd like to see me again. I could make this very simple. Instead, I'm holding my phone above the little balcony table, listening to the city and hoping you send something first.
Bittersweet
Tue 02:23, unsent apology
I Made a Joke Instead
I've replayed that conversation so many times that I can practically hear the exact moment I got it wrong. You were telling me something important, something you had clearly been carrying around for weeks. And I made a joke. Not a particularly clever one, either. Everyone laughed, so I carried on, but I saw your expression change. Just for a second. Then you smiled and changed the subject. I should have stopped. I should have asked you to finish what you were saying. The worst part is that I did understand you. I was nervous, and humour was easier than admitting how much I cared about getting this right. It's two in the morning, there's a glass of water sweating on my desk, and I'm finally recording the apology I should have made at the time. I hope I get another chance to say it properly.
Remorse
Fri 03:04, almost morning
I Nearly Said Your Name
The sky is beginning to turn that strange pale colour it gets just before sunrise. I've opened this recording three times, deleted it twice, and now I'm trying again. Earlier, someone asked me what I was looking forward to this weekend. I nearly said your name. Not your plans, not a place we might go, just your name. It came so close to my lips that I had to pretend to cough. We've known each other for months, and I still get that little flutter when your message appears. I like the way you say my name, too, especially when you're distracted and say it softly, as though we're the only two people in the room. I don't know what happens if I tell you. Perhaps nothing changes. Perhaps everything does. The first birds are making a terrible racket outside. I think this is where I stop talking. I was never going to press send.
Quiet desire