A story centered around the lyrics of "Your Own Disaster." All lyrics (italicized) are copyright of Taking Back Sunday.


I.

It slipped under the door with a whooshing sound on the hardwood floors of her apartment. She lay there, reluctant to leave the comfort of her dark couch, warm from the hours she'd spent on it. The sound startled her into sitting position; broke the quite of room, making her sit up. On the floor it lay, a black CD cover, barely distinguishable. She picked it up – the CD itself was blank. Maneuvering around the shadowy room to the CD player, she pressed the CD into it and pressed play. After several moments of static silence, the song began. Guitar strums fluttered through the darkness and his voice slithered in.

Just think of this and me as just a few of the many things
To lie around and clutter up your shelves.

She sat down, turning on a light, and looked around the room at the words. The evidence was there – sticker pictures, a stray book, and loose change. She never left loose change hanging around; instead she kept it in the container in the kitchen. A clutter. The room's cold air blew into her lungs - the heater wasn't on – but an unexpected fury was growing inside her chest, expanding her bones that ached from not being used, overlapping the heart that did not beat with the same rhythm is used to.

The she had a trash bag in her hand and was throwing things inside, including the change, and even a sole sock that hid under the bed, and the towel that did not belong to her. The song played on, but she didn't hear the rest.

She unlocked the door, but hadn't even taken a step out when he stood up. The light was dim in the hallway and it was late. She could just barely see the shape of his face, the silhouette of his hair.

"Anna." he began.

"What are you doing here?" Her voice was as cold and distrusting.

"Anna, your friends – they said you wouldn't come out. They said it's been days and you've been in here all this time." His voice was the complete opposite of hers: low and pleading and full of sentiments, like he was singing the song with different words.

She stepped around him carefully, walking to the trash chute. His things tumbled noisily down into the dark and she walked back to her door. He hadn't moved.

"I'm worried. For you."

The fury disintegrated, replaced by the blankness of the past few days. She stepped into her apartment again and looked at him again.

"Just leave." And she closed the door quietly.

The song was ended as she turned off the light and slipped back under the duvet she'd placed on her sofa, and then started again, on replay.