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Goodnight From Me, Good Morning To You

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At exactly 1:58 a.m., you would begin to untangle your headphones, and by 1:59, you were laying back on your bed, with them plugged into your phone, waiting. Her voice would welcome you to the airwaves at 2:00, and from then on out, you'd let yourself just indulge in the music.

Okay, so you weren't actually listening for the music, even if it was pretty good, but for her. You didn't even know her name, which sounded crazy when you said it like that, but it felt like you knew her anyway. And sure, that brief stint of that psychology class last semester taught you all about how fetishes and stalking started, but this wasn't it. It wasn't.

There was nothing rational about this, you realised, but somehow, in the loneliness of moving to a new state, to a new city, to a new world from what it felt like, you had tried to find comfort, and you found it in Rosario Cruz; which was most definitely an alias.

She was on the campus radio station, hosting the 2am until 6am slot, her voice warm and comforting, with a hint of sharpness when she read the somewhat offensive messages posted on the station's Facebook page. It didn't seem to bother her, as her next song was usually a fuck you to the asswipe that wrote it in the first place, before returning to regular programming. But it showed you that she wasn't all smooth and seductive.

There were barbs on this rose.

But back to the point; she mostly plays 70s, 80s and 90s classics, with the occasional Amy Winehouse thrown in for good measure, and you could tell what mood she was in by the start of her set. When it was Joy Division's Love Will Tear Us Apart, and her sombre voice welcoming you to her night ahead, you knew someone somewhere had just broken her heart; and when she welcomed you with an almost silent chuckle before bouncing into Katrina & the Waves' Walking on Sunshine, you knew she was in a particularly chipper mood.

She made your insomnia bearable, and on the nights you really couldn't sleep, you'd just lie back on your bed, headphones in, and listen; like you were tonight.

She had become a comfort, a part of what was making college life so great, and you didn't know how to explain that. Some stranger was making you feel alive, making you feel something, when you were pretty sure life was making you cold and numb.

Whether she meant to or not, Rosario Cruz was making you happy, keeping you sane, and allowing you to crack a smile in the darkness of your room while your roommate slept soundly several feet away.

You didn't know her name either, and nor did you care to find out, Chrissy or Cassie or Cady something, you didn't know. She didn't like you, like most people there, and you tried not to let it get to you. College was going to be different from high school, that's what everyone said, and everyone was right.

High school had you ruling the school, college had you hiding in your dorm on Friday nights and feeling like you were lost at sea. Strangers, there were strangers everywhere, and you couldn't seem to approach them, you couldn't seem to break into their little cliques or even manage a hello.

Somewhere along the way, you had lost Quinn Fabray, and become this shell. Maybe it was the accident, the nightmares of the crash still haunted you, the pain of the metal crushing into your body still woke you, and no quick fix existed to cure all your problems.

Except the two to six a.m. set with Rosario Cruz and the music that spoke to you on some kind of spiritual level. That was nothing new, Glee Club had woken you to the wonders of music, but this was different. This felt like therapy, good therapy, and you were constantly in need of more sessions.

The only problem in all this was that within four hours, it was gone, and you were exhausted, and sleep never came easy. The music remained in your mind, washing over you and keeping you sane, but it wasn't enough.

And tonight, just as you were beginning to feel normal, your roommate's obnoxious alarm clock harshly broke your bubble and reminded you of the time: 5:55 a.m. You knew it was almost over, you knew your sanity, your anchor, was about to go. And then she spoke, ending it for tonight, until tomorrow.

"Alright, it's been a pleasure talking with you tonight," Rosario began, still sounding as upbeat as she had at the beginning of her set. "That's me almost done, just time for one more song." You hoped it was a good one, you needed it to be a good one. You'd have it on repeat until tomorrow, so it needed to be worth the honour of being the last played.

"To the ghost of Grace Kelly who I saw in the quad today, this one's for you. Now, goodnight from me, good morning to you. Enjoy." There was no more, Rosario was off, and the familiar sounds of James' Sit Down Next to Me began to play, and you could feel yourself responding in kind to it, the hair on the back of your neck standing on end, gooseflesh on your arms, and a chill up your spine.

This was for the loneliest, the lost, and the ghost of Grace Kelly, apparently; but it hit you, it pulled you up from the bottom of the ocean floor, driving you towards a breath, pulling you back to life, and maybe tomorrow wasn't going to be as bad as you thought.

Those who feel the breath of sadness

Sit down next to me

Those who find they're touched by madness

Sit down next to me

Those who find themselves ridiculous

Sit down next to me

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