I woke up this morning, stretched, made a cup of coffee and began writing. A few hours later, you woke up. You began talking to someone on the phone and in the silence of an early Saturday morning, I could hear snippets of your conversation. Your voice sounded different, as if you had been crying. It sounded heavy, broken, cracked. You spoke into the person on the other line, desperately explaining your side of the story.
Last night, you threw a Diwali party and graciously invited me over. I couldn’t come. From the sound of it, guests included laughter, good jokes, music and close friends reconnecting. You have excellent taste in music by the way — I appreciated the 1990s throwback playlist the most.
Ironically enough, I had a feeling you would cry today. You did the same thing when I moved in next door four months ago. Our birthdays are days apart and you threw a birthday party where, again, friends, booze and music celebrated another year around the sun for you. The following day, you cried.
A week later after your birthday, I woke up at three am to hear you yelling at someone. It was the type of yelling that raises goosebumps — your sounds were more animal than human. Your screams, crying and words were coming from deep within your chest, your voice unrecognizable as it chocked with sobs. You were pleading. A man’s voice wearily responded intermittently, replying to your anguish. Your guttural sounds of wailing was the personification of uncontrolled suffering at three am, perhaps the most quietest and purest hour of the night.
Haunted by memories of me crying similarly in the past, I waited until you stopped crying before falling back asleep. This pattern continues — friends, parties, fights and crying are repeated over and over again, like a perverse grounds hog day extended into repeating weeks in the life of the girl who lives next door.