In the year or two after I broke up, I wasn’t entirely loveless, but I didn’t truly fall in love either. I met a few peculiar people—like the guy who would only watch superhero movies—but most of them have slipped from my memory, and deservedly so.
It was the summer before I graduated from university. Since May, I’d been living the limbo of unemployment. By then, I’d sent out hundreds of job applications. Only a dozen companies responded, and I was shortlisted for three roles: journalist, accountant, and the job I hold now.
The waiting felt endless. My days revolved around refreshing my inbox—both physical and digital—tutoring kids, and burying myself in books, films, and music. Films, always at night—sometimes one, sometimes two or three in a row. If I felt like writing afterwards, I’d often find myself up until three or four in the morning.
When you’re idle, and your future feels like a giant question mark, your mind inevitably wanders—especially if, like me, it’s prone to wandering anyway. I began sharing films I’d watched, songs I loved, and my own writing on Facebook. Almost everything I posted seemed to orbit the theme of longing.
One night, at 4 a.m., I shared a Japanese song: One More Time, One More Chance. I knew it was the theme for 5 Centimetres Per Second, though I hadn’t seen the film at the time. A short while later, I received a message on Facebook:
"I hope this doesn’t seem too forward. It’s just that the song you shared perfectly captures how I’m feeling right now. It feels like fate. Thank you for posting it, and I wish you well."
I stared at his name and profile photo, trying to place him, but nothing came to mind. Judging by our mutual friends, we must’ve met at a summer camp years ago. Could it really have been six years since then?
His message was so formal, with a tinge of melancholy, that I spent a long time considering how to reply. In the end, I wrote: “I’m glad you liked it, though I hope it doesn’t make you too sad. From what I’ve seen on your page, you seem to love music too. If you have any recommendations, I’d love to hear them.”
And just like that, we started talking about music. He asked what kind of songs I liked. I said my taste was eclectic but leaned towards melancholic tracks—mostly rock and acoustic. He said he liked sad songs too and suggested I listen to Such Great Heights by Iron & Wine.
I told him I loved the tender sweetness of the voice, tinged with just enough pain to make it unique. He seemed surprised. Not many people take the time to listen intently to someone else’s recommendations, let alone resonate with them. I explained that I always listen carefully—because music is something I genuinely care about.
It reminded me of my favourite exchange from Once:
Girl: How come you don’t play during daytime? I see you here every day.
Guy: During the daytime, people want to hear songs that they know, just songs they recognise. I play these songs at night, or I wouldn’t make any money. People wouldn’t listen.
Girl: I listen.
One loves to share, the other loves to listen. Meeting each other feels like luck. And so, I (re)met a new (old) friend.
Listening to Such Great Heights again today, I heard these lines:
"They will see us waving from such great heights
‘Come down now,’ they’ll say.
But everything looks perfect from far away.
‘Come down now,’ but we’ll stay.”
But we’ll stay.
