The Letter

He was pacing, pacing, back and forth, back and forth.

They had played the first.

They had played the first and she hadn’t been there.

He wondered if perhaps he had missed her. If he had waited all this time, these days, these seconds, and he had overlooked her. Impossible, he thought, shaking out his hair.

It was impossible.

“Gerard.”

Frank was leaning against a speaker, watching his friend move, forward, backward, and everything in between. He knew Frank wanted a response, but he could not stop moving, could not stop pacing. He could not raise his head in acknowledgement, as it was too busy mulling over the previous night, going through every detail and analyzing every face that he could remember.

He could remember hers.

And it hadn’t been there.

He wanted to look, so badly to just look, look into the crowd. He could hear them, their murmurs and excited chatter, taunting him from the main part of the venue. He wanted to look, but he was too intimidated. He was afraid of disappointment. And he was stuck, stuck behind speakers and amplifiers and equipment, pacing. Just pacing.

“My Chemical Romance, five.”

He ignored this. He had heard it plenty of times from bustling people, plenty of times over six months, over twenty-four weeks, over four thousand and thirty-two hours.

“She’ll be here,” Frank reassured him, glancing around to the stage himself.

He barely heard this statement, as he was too busy pacing, moving, back and forth. He had his microphone switching between his hands, his fingers splaying nervous erratic patterns around its length. Around and back, thread and remove. Tap, tap, tap, repeat.

“Mr. Way.”

Around and back, thread and remove. Poke, prod, switch hands. Move, move, slip and still. Tap, tap, tap, and repeat.

“Mr. Way!”

“I would leave it,” Frank advised the girl, who was flitting nervously around the unresponsive lead singer.

“But his microphone,” she said, gesturing wildly towards the stage. “It’s supposed to be on stage, on the stand!”

Stage, he mused silently to himself, rolling the microphone between both hands.

“Look,” Frank said, pulling her away. “He’s got it, yeah? It’ll be fine. It’s not like he’s gonna lose it.”

Yes, he thought. He knew he owed Frank something, a nod, at least, but he was back to rolling. Tapping, pressing, switching and twirling.

“You guys ready?”

Ray had bounded in gleefully, slinging his guitar over his shoulder with a slight bounce to his hair.

“Home sweet home, baby!” Frank said, slapping hands with Mikey with a grin. “Nothin‘ like a sold out Jersey jam.”

Jersey.

They were in New Jersey.

Tap, tap, tap, repeat.

“You ready, Gee?”

He knew they were waiting for his response. His response would mean everything to them, to the show, the crowd. Was he ready? He didn’t know.

Roll, tap, reverse, slip, slide.

One, two, three, four.

He nodded shortly, mostly to clear his thoughts, and to his stagnant being, they all smiled. It was good enough for them, and they bumped fists amongst each other before preceding him onto the stage.

The first thing he was aware of was the noise. It was a complete wall of sound, a wall that separated him from them, him from them, him from them.

Him from her, if she was here.

But she had to be here.

He heard the echo of ‘Look Alive, Sunshine,’ of “Dr. Death Defying,” and he saw the lights. They were pulsating, almost flashing but not, and he clenched his microphone, his teeth, and every muscle in his body. Was he ready? He would have to be.

The slam of guitar notes tore apart what was left of the silence, and they electrified him, sending shivers of adrenaline down his spine as his pinky found its spot underneath the microphone. It was a burst, like the lights as they suddenly flashed forwards, momentarily blinding him as he pushed towards the front of the stage.

He was searching desperately, turning left, then right, then back and again. His hand pushed back his hair, his disgusting hair that he was dangerously close to shaving completely. Kid after kid was there, pushing, screaming, reaching to be closer to them, to him.

He stalked towards Frank, for the kids. He jumped and he danced and he thrashed for the kids, but he sang for her. He wanted, if nothing else, to give the best fucking performance of his life. He felt like he owed her that much, if she was out there. The fervency he felt shocked him, pulsed through him stronger than anything else on stage.

He was at the edge of the stage again, searching hands and faces, hands and faces, hands, hands.

He saw it, scrawled haphazardly in black marker, smudged and imperfect on skin. The word, that word that had been getting him to this point from the very beginning.

Inspire.

He followed that hand, hand to arm, arm to shoulder. And her face was there, she was there, and she looked happier than anyone else in front of him. He was relieved; relieved and happy and anxious and elated. And his eyes touched hers, and he reached out, battling aside grip after grip until his hand locked with the one he was focused on.

His fingers laced with hers before he could blink, and he had to swallow back the emotion building in the back of his throat. He could feel the humidity between their palms, aware that her fingers squeezed his with a minute force. He could almost feel the word written on her hand searing his skin, and he held on tighter, afraid to let go and lose the feeling forever. The grip was defied and pushed, pried and tugged, but he refused. His eyes observed her in selfish hunger, darting between every feature present on her delicate face. She was so close; she was real. She was now, like seconds, like one, two, three. But then her fingers were slipping, falling, trailing, lingering, then gone.

But she was there; she was still there.

He was almost afraid that she would disappear whenever he blinked. He couldn’t look away, look at Frank, at the other kids. His eyes were permanently stuck, stuck on her, on her smile, on the word that burned on her hand. He didn’t look away until he absolutely had to, until the show was over, until the energy from the crowd had dissipated and the overwhelming elation began to fade.

His legs were crossed, his foot jiggling wildly, and he signed, hugged, person through person. He refused to let himself look down the line, look for her, but he wanted more than anything for the line to just disappear. They had come full circle, full circle in six months, twenty-four days, four thousand and thirty-two hours.

Full circle in over one million seconds.

He smiled, smiled, laughed, smiled, posed, hugged, and smiled. They were tired, the kids were tired, he was tired, but he refused to be tired; not when he was so close. And the line was ending, swirling down, mingling, lingering and gone.

He blinked.

The line was gone.

Gone?

He looked around, left, right, but there was no one around. Frank was standing, Ray was standing, Mikey was stretching. They were all smiles, talking, chatting, laughing.

But the line was gone.

Frank caught Gerard’s eye, saw his face, and Frank’s own smile flickered.

She hadn’t come.

He sat, still sat, not standing or moving. His foot had stopped jiggling, he had stopped smiling.

He felt like he had stopped breathing.

But the door was open. The door had opened, opened when none of them were paying attention, and a lone figure entered the room, shyly, uneasily.

“Uhm...am I too late?”

Their heads snapped up; his snapped up, his hair whipped back dangerously fast as his eyes found the last girl standing in the middle of the floor. And he smiled. He smiled genuinely, a real smile as she looked up, found his eyes with an almost practiced ease. She looked away just as fast, but it was her.

And he was smiling.

Frank had not seen his friend so happy in an endless amount of time. He stepped back, away from the girl, and motioned to Ray and Mikey to do the same. “Nah,” Frank called to her, moving around the table and towards the back of the room. “We’re just wrapping up, actually.”

A look of relief flickered momentarily across her face, until she realized that the only one still at the table was him. He stayed, while the other three spread across the back of the room, grabbing drinks and talking amongst themselves. And as she looked at him, her eyes pierced his.

And everything he wanted to say was suddenly gone.

He tried to open his mouth, to speak, but he could not. She seemed lost for words as well, and they simply looked at each other, blue on brown, until the brown broke the gaze and blinked furiously. He was blinking so he had something to do, but then she spoke.

“You’re.” She cleared her throat nervously, playing with a thread on the end of her shirt. “You’re really talented,” she said quietly, a light flush playing at her cheeks. But she didn’t look away, like she was trying to convey the sentence also through her eyes.

He swallowed.

“I read your letter.”

It just spewed out, fell from his mouth without contemplation, and she bit her lip, her eyes widening just noticeably.

“You...I...” She paused, coughing awkwardly. “You remembered...” she trailed off, her fingers now finding the ends of her hair.

“Why did you write it?”

It sounded like a demand, like an accusation, and he immediately regretted it when she visibly flinched.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, playing with his fingers avidly. “I didn’t...”

“I know.”

They both fell silent again; he didn’t look up to see what she was doing. Frank and Ray were murmuring in the background, and he could hear Mikey chuckle occasionally.

“Ge..rard?” When he looked up, she caught herself. “Mr. Way?” She frowned. “Uhm...Gerard.”

He smiled, just a fraction, just enough for him to know it was there. But it was also enough to let her see.

“If...if it offended you, or anything, I’m sorry,” she said honestly, biting her lip. “I didn’t...I mean, I just sort of wrote it.” She tugged more pronouncedly at the tips of her hair, and he found himself standing, reaching out, and pulling her hands away from it.

“It’s okay,” he said, a full smile now curling his lips upwards. “Thank you.”

That’s all he could say, and it seemed to be enough. She smiled shyly in return, nodding her head, and he pulled her close to his body, despite the table separating the two of them.

“Thank you,” he said again, and she sighed, her small arms squeezing his waist before pulling away.

“I’ve been...counting,” she said, giggling nervously to herself. “Since I gave it to you. Just seconds, really.” She peered up at him, smiling. “Thank you for reading it,” she said, her eyes shining earnestly. “You’re really...I mean...” She looked down at her hand.

He reached into his back pocket, pulling out the small strip of paper that was now tattered and worn thin. He held it out to her, and she took it, squinting at it before recognizing the tiny slanted writing.

“It’s...I always have it,” he told her, and she looked speechless. “I mean, in my pocket.” He looked down at his own hands, smiling to himself. She brushed his arm, handing the strip of paper back to him.

“Thank you,” they both said at the same time, and he smiled, and she laughed, and he hugged her once more. She gave him a small wave, one final farewell, and she turned, heading towards the exit.

“Wait!”

She turned, looking confused, and he wondered himself why he had stopped her.

“Seconds,” he blurted, “How many seconds were there?”

She smiled.

“Fourteen million, five hundred and fifteen thousand, two hundred and thirteen,” she recited softly, rubbing her hands together before stuffing them in her pockets. “But I guess..." she shrugged. "Now I can start from one again.”

He watched her leave, watched the door close slowly behind her, and he looked down at the piece of thin paper, smiling as he read it. He knew he would carry it with him always, despite whatever happened between now and again.

He would always follow her word. He would always work for her word.

He would never forget her.

Inspire.

And he started counting.