By Caleb Morrow

Listening, after all, is a surefire way to feel whole again.

1.
It was a day we were determined to keep ourselves together, so we went to a place where there were bound to be dogs. To the left and to the right and behind and all around us, tails wagged carelessly. We could be alright in a place like that. We could manage.

Before we’d sat down on the grass patch, everything that day had gone wrong. I angered easily at the littlest things, thought it was one of those times where you just needed to eat, but that was too lazy a remedy. I couldn’t quite point out what was frustrating me in the interrogation room. Hell, it could’ve been anything.

Then, sunlight pierced through mid-January. It was the calm before the annual ice storm, when everything shuts down for 24 hours, permitting everyone to do their best impression of cozy. A single beach volleyball was left unattended. I text Bashar that it’s waiting for us; he tells me his initial instinct is to say I’m okay, but on second thought, this year is supposed to be our year of Yes. Dogs had determined they could confide in me, at least for today, and I learned from easygoing, middle-aged men that their puppies’ names are Murphy, Charles, etc. One of the dogs plays fetch with me, scooting the ball closer towards me with uncertainty before retreating strategically, waiting to pounce. That dog’s name I never learned.

Occasionally, someone would catch me looking at them and smile. I note something down in my journal, probably about how the dogs’ owners seem to be looking to socialize just as much as their pets are. Bashar asks if he can read it; he sees his name. I laugh a little shyly and close the journal. The dog is eager to fetch again.

This moment is airy, carefree. I’m reminded of Clairo giggling in the back of “Second Nature.” The unnerved feeling that’s lingered all day finally subsided. There are times when life gives me no choice but to give in, wave the white flag and let the ambience settle itself around me. I’d be an amateur not to surrender.

2.
It felt less like a student film showcase and more like a chance to listen in on other people’s dreams. The first student film came on — about a future where Earth found itself out of time and humanity stumbled upon another planet with the potential to sustain life. It was a world-altering animated short, only three minutes long. It felt as though I was the only person in the theater to fully grasp what the director had just pulled off. The project was quickly swept away as other waves pulled in. A sentimental short about a director’s mother and grandmother, who had been at odds for a couple of years. Next, a film about an Uber Eats delivery man, a familiar face to any West Campus frequenter.

Realities merged and overlapped for an hour until the showcase ended. My friend and I left feeling bittersweet; it’s sensational what our peers can do, but why haven’t we come up with something to call our own yet? When would we invite people into our world rather than continue intruding on the ideations of others?

I don’t mind if it’s not yet our turn. The films in tandem brought me out of myself, and what more can a mere observer ask for?

The place we all find ourselves most frequently is in our heads. Reality has a way of unraveling and looking more ambiguous than usual if our minds are too self-centered to etch out life’s bigger picture. We’re only able to make sense of ourselves when we reflect on where we stand amongst a wider backdrop.

So I will continue eavesdropping on the stories other people tell. Listening, after all, is a surefire way to feel whole again.

3.
Sunday, my roommate’s kitten, sits on the windowsill. This is the place I find myself pitying her the most. Look, but don’t touch. How dreary it must be to not touch, I think initially. But then I remember how mesmerizing it is to simply observe, and then I don’t feel so bad anymore.

4.
This is the busiest I’ve ever seen the place, and rightfully so, I think. It is such a beautiful day that later, I impulsively go on an eight mile run and stop to take a picture of a graffitied pigeon urging all trailgoers to show themselves some kindness. Doses and Mimosas is playing from a faraway frathouse. A party underneath me plays a Team 10 song, from the Youtube era where brother was pitted against brother. From here, the neighborhood’s every murmur is amplified.

A presumably frat guy is on the phone next to me. He seems earnest in his attempt to understand some academic material. It’s only the second week of the semester and he already sounds exasperated. I wonder if he is made angrier at the fact that Logan Paul’s voice is echoing beneath him while his peers unwind poolside. He leaves.

Two girls come up, and one takes a picture of the other. The girl whose photo was taken declares she must get that photo sent to her immediately, that this is the best picture you’ve ever taken of me! It is not hyperbole, I decide. My current favorite picture of myself also took place on this rooftop; it was my first picture on Tinder during my short-lived winter break urge to dabble in vulnerability. The two girls leave as quickly as they appeared.

Three guys come up next, and I zone out to the sound of their assured conversation. I jot down in my notebook how I love the way sunlight feels on my legs, how I’m basically wearing something paparazzi would catch Paul Mescal in when he’s out for a run. The guys talk about their body counts, loud enough where I can hear every number perfectly. I think it’s wonderful that I either seem harmless or distracted enough to permit such noise, or maybe they simply do not care at all. Whatever the reality, I let myself feel special.

There has always been a magic about this place, which would explain why both the girl and I had the best picture of ourselves taken up here. It would also explain why once, on this very rooftop, two strangers lay flat on their backs, their heads touching, blindfolded, performing some kind of giggly ritual. I look over and see that one of them has brought a book up with them, and I’m able to make out the letters M-A-G–I-C-I-A. When the guys talking about their body counts first came up here, one of them yelped about a chair’s static stinging him. He says that when he comes up here, he’s always electrified. I struggle to find a better way of describing the sensation.

No matter how electric it may have been, magic has the tendency to end abruptly, with no warning at all. By now, I know better than to argue with magic. I accept the sensation when it’s willing to reveal itself and simply wait for it to make its rounds again. The guys start to call women bitches; they obstruct their own momentum. I feel enchantment dissipate between my fingers. One must always wager the risk of being exasperated by the environment they initially wished to eavesdrop on. One of the boys calls his friends goons, perhaps in a last ditch effort to save himself from the eavesdroppers’ wrath. I get ready to leave. Even the happiest fairytales have to end. ■