Mara Vey

Tonight I'm sitting behind the mixer, listening to a voice telling the story of someone it's never met but has loved for three years. It talks like that's the most normal thing in the world. I just stay quiet, turn the volume down, and think: there are things that only exist when we don't touch them. Like this radio station, like late-night calls, like an eight-month relationship without ever once seeing each other's face. People say intimacy is skin on skin. But I think intimacy is knowing the other person's breathing changes rhythm when they're about to lie. And I've heard that thousands of times, from people who've never seen me. Sometimes I ask myself: if we met, would we still have anything to say? Or would there just be meaningless silences left?