Slipping Out

My body still remembered the sensation of earphones slipping out of ears.

Every time the train swayed, the earphone cord of the boy sitting next to me bounced lightly on his lap. A white cord. One for each ear, splitting into a Y-shape.

He kept his smartphone in his bag, just winding the cord around his finger over and over. I couldn't even tell if music was playing.

Only the movement of his fingers winding the cord continued, rhythmic and steady.

With a sudden brake, my umbrella tipped over slightly. The tip caught the boy's earphone cord next to me. For a brief moment, the thin white line connected me to him.

I instinctively relaxed my hand. If I pulled just a little more, it would slip right out of his ear.

My body knew that sensation well.

Back in the day, I used to pull my friends' earphones out all the time. I'd pinch the cord from behind and give it a tiny tug. I'd call out to them as they turned around, holding the earphone that had slipped out of their ear.

It was much faster than calling their name.

The friend who turned around would look a little annoyed, but they would smile anyway.

"What?"

That one word was enough.

I would put the pulled-out earphone into my own ear without even checking it. Usually, it was a song by a band we both liked. Even if it was in the middle of the intro, I knew which album and which track it was without having to listen. Just before the chorus of the lyrics, my friend would look at me. They would make a face that said, "Right?" Even without saying anything, we understood each other.

Back then, when I wanted to convey something, I would pull on a wire before using words.

In my bag, earphones were always getting tangled. No matter how many times I untangled them, they would be tightly knotted again the next day. That's why, when wireless earphones came out, I thought I would finally be free.

The cords stopped tangling. My bag and pockets became much neater.

"Excuse me."

The boy next to me bowed his head slightly. For just a split second, a look of annoyance flickered across his brow and then vanished. He pinched the earphone cord again and began winding it carefully, as if nothing had happened. I hurriedly straightened my umbrella. The cord that had been connected to the tip of my umbrella slipped away. The train came to a complete stop. The doors opened, and the boy stepped out into the flow of people without ever looking at me. Only the white cord continued to be wound around his fingers until the very end.

I am still waiting, somewhere in my body, for the sensation of earphones slipping out of my ears.