I.
John is sitting on the edge of my bed, pinned to the quilt as if by spotlight. The windows are open despite the late hour, and moonlight pools on the carpet. It isn’t enough to read by, so I recite the one poem I know by heart. At its fourth beginning, John’s taut frame unfurls. 

 

II.

By the tension in his voice, I can tell it’s not the first time my professor has called my name. “Sorry, what?” I cringe. He sighs, and a girl across the room—I think her name is Avery—rolls her eyes. “I asked if you would share your feedback on Nadine’s story.” Ah, shit. “Oh! Right. Yeah. Um—” Perched atop the professor’s podium, John is conducting some unseen symphony. Outside, a train whistles. 

 

III.

A brief fumbling, then my desk lamp flares on. I take up a pen, but no words spill. A swift glance back reveals John sitting on the floor, leaning against my bookshelf. “Alright, genius,” I announce, “how do you do it?” Empty air. “How do you write things people will care about?” John remains silent while outside, a siren starts to wail. I throw my notebook across the room—a brief thumping of words against the wall—then quiet again. 

 

IV.

I am picking at the pink fabric of her office chair when my therapist says, “this is one of those screening questions I have to ask everybody, so don’t be offended, ‘kay? You don’t see or hear anything that isn’t really there, right?” Behind her desk, John is at the piano, hands folded neatly in his lap. One thing I’ve learned is that people will let you say anything if you do it right. “Would you believe me if I said beloved American composer John Cage is alive and in the room with us right now?” I whisper conspiratorially. My therapist throws herself back cackling. On her clipboard, she circles NO.

 

V.

The rain has been coming down since last night, but I stand on the bridge regardless. John is here, too, smoking next to the chain-link fence. When I stand next to him, he does not acknowledge me. “Do you ever wish it could be silent—like really silent?” John says nothing. “I do. I wish everything would stop. I’m tired of the noise.” John extends a hand, as if to catch the rain, but everything passes through him.