after the credits roll for look back1, a special interview segment plays. the director and main voice actors point out their specific intentions with certain scenes (they kept the sketch lines in for certain shots as a nod to the artistic process in creating an animated film). people start filing out of the audience. I think about what a great metaphor it would be if I were the only one left in the audience (this doesn’t happen). I think fujimoto is talking to me directly the same way I think god talks to me directly, sometimes. if I’m the only one hearing the message, maybe it doesn’t matter if it wasn’t intended for me. I watch the way the movie inspires artists to pick up their pens and pencils. I watch the way people stay after the credits2 to hear how the director meticulously pieced together each part of the movie — soundtrack, actors, background art — and I think my writing has become an ouroboros. I think I am devouring myself, I am writing so I have something to read, I want someone to hold this love I have, but there are no other hands than my own.

my friend tells me to read omniscient reader’s viewpoint because it is a love letter to writing. I am halfway through the manhwa3 when they tell me their favorite dynamic is between three characters, two of which I’ve already met. they are shocked when I immediately guess who the third is — a love letter between the reader and (novel) character is not complete without an author4. in our three-person group chat5, we have our profile pictures set to the main triad of the manhwa. we make jokes on whether I am the reader or writer, but I think maybe just the argument serves as proof that one cannot exist without the other. the metaphor fell apart because the theater refused to empty. I am glad the metaphor fell apart because it means there’s someone sitting in the theater besides me; when I am looking through the screen, there is someone looking back. I think of how in the manhwa, the reader is the writer’s only reader and I think you are the only one I am talking to, sometimes. why do you draw, fujino? why do you write, han sooyoung? the words are becoming blended, but the answer remains the same. I think I am being devoured, everything I consume will consume me back, I want to hold your love in my hands, but I fear my hands are no longer in the theater.

it’s almost midnight and “waiting room” by phoebe bridgers1 has been playing in the background for an hour (know it’s for the better I know it’s for the better know it’s for the better) my two most recent texts are: ten voice memos to my friend describing my fridge — two cartons of expired milk, expired eggs, one expired takeout box — and a text to my therapist. I know I haven’t been taking care of myself lately (phoebe is still singing “know it’s for the better” in the background) and I don’t know how to start. I stare at the ceiling but it is dark so maybe I am staring at nothing except I know the ceiling is there so maybe I am just staring at a lack of light. somehow I zone out long enough that the song has gone back to the endless loop of “know it’s for the better.” it feels like this song has been on loop for days and maybe it has been. I don’t look at my bookmarks because the list grows with my guilt. I’m sorry I haven’t read your most recent essay; there is nothing edible in my fridge. the song loops to “know it’s for the better” again. I write “I don’t know how to end this poem” in my original note but I think I mean “I don’t know how to end this song” but I think I mean “I don’t know how to stop waiting.”

regrettably, I don’t listen to pop music but “we can’t be friends (wait for your love)” has been on loop for the past few days. I watch the music video when it’s recommended to me because “eternal sunshine of the spotless mind” is the only movie I’ve seen more than five times2. ariana’s voice on the track is angelic; she sings “we can’t be friends” and I start thinking of a beam of light reflecting off glass so clear it could be diamond. if I close my eyes, I can see a wind chime in the backyard of my childhood home. there’s sunlight and a light breeze brushing my cheek. ariana doesn’t repeat the way phoebe does, but I must’ve had my eyes closed for a while because we’ve returned to the chorus of “we can’t be friends but I’d like to just pretend.” there is a text I leave unsent: “we can’t be friends (anymore)”; I am waiting for the track to loop back to “wait until you like me again wait for your love your love I’ll wait for your love.” I know I am waiting for a love that doesn’t exist in the way I want it to. it doesn’t make the love any less real, but it doesn’t make ariana’s repeating “but I’d like to just pretend” hurt any less either. the song fades to black. I don’t send the text. ariana’s voice continues to echo “I’ll wait for your love I’ll wait for your love I’ll wait for your love.”