Words for Nobody

Just take a look at me now...

It was a Sunday. I must have been thirteen — maybe twelve, with one foot still in childhood but already trying to fold myself into something cooler, sharper, less easily wounded. We were crammed into someone’s older brother’s car, the kind that smelled like knock-off Lynx and stale smoke, and Phil Collins came on the stereo — Against All Odds.

Someone groaned, exaggerated and loud.
“God, who listens to this?”
I did.
I loved that song.

But I laughed along. Said something like, “Ugh, yeah, so cheesy,” and pushed the part of me that sang along at home — curtains drawn, headphones on — deep down. I remember that specific kind of shame. Not because I didn’t like the song, but because I did, and I couldn’t admit it. Not in that car. Not with those people.

Years later, at 23 and mildly drunk on someone’s kitchen floor, that song came on again — tinny and imperfect through a Bluetooth speaker. I started humming before I even knew I was doing it. Across from me, someone smiled and said, “God, this song wrecks me.”

And just like that, I was allowed to love it again.

It’s strange, the things we carry. That moment didn’t break me. No one remembers it but me. But it was the first time I chose to be palatable over being honest. The first time music — which had always felt like safety — became a thing I could get wrong.

Now, whenever I hear Against All Odds, I don’t skip it.
I let it play.

Even if it still hurts a little.