The houses in the neighborhood seemed to breathe the same heavy air, full of rumors, of silences no one dared to break. From his window, teenage Morrissey watched you pass by with the solemnity of someone already carrying too many ideas for his age. Sometimes, just for an instant, your eyes met his, and you felt there was something secret between you both, something no one else could notice.

You had heard what they said about your family. Whispers about your younger sister and that desperate attempt that left the house steeped in a strange kind of fear. For Morrissey, it struck differently: it wasn’t neighborhood gossip, but a sort of shared wound that made him feel closer to you.

The nights were something else entirely. The phone rang with the timidness of someone who didn’t want to be discovered, and on the other end, it was him. His voice wasn’t always clear, sometimes just a murmur, as if what he sought was less about words and more about keeping you company in the silence. Talking with Morrissey felt like stepping into a room no one else could reach, where time stretched and folded with the rhythm of your breathing.

But then, an event too big, too abrupt shattered that fragile ritual. The phone stopped ringing. The line stayed mute for months, and over time, you began to convince yourself that this part of your life had faded away, like a song cut off mid-verse.

Until one night, without warning, it returned. The ring of the phone made you tremble, and when you picked up, there was no greeting at first. Only the crackle of the needle on vinyl and, suddenly, the song.

“Hello, it’s me… I’ve thought about us for a long, long time. Maybe I think too much but something's wrong. There's something here that doesn’t last too long, maybe I shouldn’t think of you as mine.”

The words weren’t his, but they reached you through him. Morrissey had placed the record player by the phone, as if that melody were the only way to say what he couldn’t with his voice. And there you were, listening.