Kintsugi for a Fractured Playlist

The song playing in Dan’s left ear was probably the same one playing in Ryan’s right, but the forty inches of bench and a million tons of awkwardness between them made it impossible to be sure. It was some indie band Ryan liked, all jangly guitars and mournful vocals. It felt appropriate.

This meeting had been Ryan’s idea. A text message, blunt and to the point: ‘Park. Alice statue. 4pm. We need to talk.’ Dan had spent the entire day feeling sick, a nauseous cocktail of dread and a tiny, stupid spark of hope. Now, sitting here in the strained silence, the dread was winning by a landslide.

Last Saturday felt like a different lifetime. It had been loud and warm, a party in a crowded flat. Dan had been stupidly brave, fuelled by cheap cider and the mistaken belief that the way Ryan sometimes looked at him meant something more. He’d cornered him in the kitchen and the words had just spilled out, a clumsy, mortifying flood. ‘I think I like you. Like, *like* you.’

Ryan hadn’t said anything. He’d just stared, his face pale, before mumbling something about needing air and disappearing out the back door. He hadn't spoken to Dan since. Until the text.

So here they were. Sharing earbuds like they always did, a habit from a thousand bus journeys and library study sessions. But today, the familiar ritual felt like a mockery. The wire connecting them was a tripwire, a tightrope, anything but a connection.

Ryan was staring at the bronze Dormouse as if it held the secrets to cold fusion. He hadn’t looked at Dan once. The silence stretched, becoming thin and brittle. Dan knew if he tried to speak, it would shatter into a thousand cutting pieces. There had to be another way.

Dan pulled out his phone, the source of the music. His thumb hovered over the screen. Words had failed him on Saturday. Maybe music would work instead. He navigated to their shared playlist, ‘The Usual Rubbish,’ a chaotic dumping ground for every song they’d ever recommended to each other. He couldn’t add to that one. It felt like trespassing on a historical site.

He created a new playlist. He didn’t give it a name, just left it as the default ‘New Playlist 1’. He scrolled through his library, his heart pounding. This was a terrible idea. It was pretentious and weird. He was going to do it anyway.

The first song he added was ‘First Day of My Life’. It was cheesy, on-the-nose, but it was honest. It was about how everything felt different, sharper, since he’d met Ryan in Year Nine. He added it, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ryan flinch, just a tiny, sharp movement of his shoulders. He’d seen the notification on the phone screen. He knew what Dan was doing.

Dan’s fingers trembled slightly as he added the next one. A fast, angry punk song they’d both loved last summer, the soundtrack to an ill-advised attempt to skateboard down the steepest hill in town. It was a memory of easier times, of a friendship that was simple and uncomplicated. *I miss this,* the song was meant to say. *I miss us.*

He added a third: the quiet, acoustic song that had been playing in the kitchen on Saturday night, right before he’d ruined everything. It was a risk, a direct reference to the moment of impact. He watched Ryan, holding his breath. Ryan’s expression tightened. He finally turned his head, his gaze not quite meeting Dan’s, but landing somewhere in the middle distance between them.

“What are you doing?” Ryan asked, his voice low. He didn't pull the earbud out.

“I don’t know,” Dan answered truthfully. “Talking. Badly.”

Ryan was quiet for a long moment. The jangly indie song had ended, and the opening chords of ‘First Day of My Life’ trickled into the silence. It was painfully loud. Ryan finally looked at him, his eyes troubled. “You can’t just… drop a bomb like that, Dan. In the middle of a party. And expect me to know what to do.”

“I know,” Dan whispered. “I’m sorry. I just… it got too big to hold in.”

“It’s… a lot,” Ryan said, looking away again. “I don’t know what I think.”

“You don’t have to think anything,” Dan said, desperation creeping into his voice. “We can just pretend I never said it. We can go back to how it was.”

“Can we?” Ryan asked, and the question was genuine. It was full of doubt. “I don’t think we can.”

The tiny spark of hope inside Dan fizzled and died. This was it. The end of their friendship, played out on a park bench. He was about to suggest they just call it a day when Ryan held out his hand.

“Give me the phone,” he said.

Numbly, Dan passed it to him. He watched as Ryan’s thumb moved across the screen, scrolling through music. What was he doing? Deleting the playlist? Blocking him? After a few seconds, a new song appeared below Dan’s three. It was a song Dan didn't know, by a band he’d never heard of. The title was simple: ‘Begin Again’.