Dear me,
Drinks on the left.
Drinks on the right.
Party dresses everywhere.
Makeup so heavy it turns faces into guesses.
The same songs again and again —
like the record is broken
and no one wants to fix it
because at least it's familiar.
Everyone is talking about accomplishments.
Money.
Sex.
Life.
It's a new year.
And I'm in the middle of all of this,
trying to get to the bar for another drink.
My mind is a mess.
That voice again — the one from the letters.
Tonight I don't want to be becoming.
I just want to party.
—
Another drink doesn't do the trick.
There's a border I keep finding —
the side where this is enough
and the side where one more sip becomes something else entirely.I'm standing right on the line.
Not sure which side I'm choosing.
Not sure it matters.
My body is stiff.
Bracing for something that never arrives.
There's a feeling I can't shake —
that something here doesn't add up.
Not for me.
Not anymore.
—
Dear me,
I wore black, like you told me.
I let my hair down, like you told me.
And yes — I like what I see.
I'm just not sure I recognise her yet.
—
The music gets louder.
Someone refills my glass without asking.
I smile at the right moments.
Say the right things.
And somewhere in the middle of all of it
I start to drift.
Not outward.
Inward.
She followed me here.
From the bathroom mirror.
From the Sunday mornings.From every letter I wrote thinking no one was listening.
—
"Alice, Alice, wake up."
Her voice.
My voice.
The one I've been building
one Sunday at a time.
Everything blurs.
My body moves with the music.
For a moment I am exactly where I am supposed to be.
Until —
"Alice, Alice, wake up."
—
And I did.
But the rest of the room didn't.
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