Dear Coldplay, I love you. Wait. Scratch That.

This letter really isn’t to you. This letter is for the lead singer.

My apologies. Let’s start over.

Dear Chris Martin,

I love you. But we need to break up.

You don’t know me, Chris. We’ve never met. You grazed my hands once at a concert, but I’ve been told that doesn’t count.

I am aware the confession of my love for you may reveal my identity. This is something I don’t want. First of all, I want the recipients of my letters to see themselves unfold in a story. That can’t happen if they know, in advance, who the author is. I only change one or two details about myself, though. Insignificant ones. But I leave hints throughout all the letters, an easy code for even a stranger to decipher my identity and exact location. This letter is a risk; most who know me are aware of our history. I’m sharing it anyway.

So here we go, Chris Martin. I’m about to lay it all out like a map. It begins with your voice, like steel blue humidity.

At this point [if you’ve even read to this point] you are probably wondering about Drew. Oh, Drew is my husband. Yes, I’m married. Don’t worry. Drew knows about you. He’s not necessarily cool with you, so I’ll get in trouble for this; you won’t.

It’s just once at your concert, this was a long time ago, I watched you gyrate on a piano bench, and, well, what do you expect? And this concert was my first date with Drew. Way to make it complicated, Chris.

But I knew you way before Drew. I loved you before Drew, too. I discovered Coldplay when a friend loaned a CD to “check out this new band.” I had a chance to “check it out.” On repeat. Waiting on a boyfriend to arrive and help with my flat tire on a busy interstate. He never showed up. You don’t know this (because you weren’t there), but you and I got to know each other for the first time in that silvery blue Taurus. I learned your words, your rhythms of speech. You sang to me in a voice congested, yet melodic. When I tried to call the boyfriend again you sent a shiver. I nodded and wiped tears. Called a state trooper instead. I knew not what you looked like, but we gained a certain level of intimacy in that moment.

The first time I matched the voice to the actual man…Oh, I remember it well. In college, I’d study in a buried, wood paneled bar several miles away from campus. The place had a musty smell; everything was pliable and damp. Whenever a train passed, the small square windows, which let it no light, rattled violently. I’d sit as far from the one or two (if any) other patrons, order a beer and watch the clock like a stranger pulled into a jacket at a frigid stop, staring straight ahead, fighting off personal miseries. I also went there because I liked the bartender. He was tall, thin, with long graceful fingers. When he pulled his blonde hair back, I’d catch the four-star tattoo on his forearm peek through. In downtime, which there was much of, he craned over the stocks page in a passenger’s left behind tribune. I went there once a week. He never did notice me. But you did, Chris Martin. The first time I saw you. It was the voice I knew.

From the dismal corner TV, I heard familiar chords and tuned in. I recognized that voice from a scary highway. I remembered crying in a Taurus as a gale of traffic blew by and sliding that CD in. I recalled the moment your voice held my hand and patted my knee until a state trooper came. It had been some time since; I didn’t know you had a music video career. Our eyes locked through that bar’s dusty screen. You walked along a turbulent shore, in slow motion, and never took your eyes off me. You sang about skin and bones. Showed me the stars, and moaned.

“You know I love you so.”

I dropped my textbook.

“It’s true…All the things you do.”

It fell loudly to the floor.

“Look at the stars, how they shine for you.”

I didn’t pick the book back up.

I’ve told Drew about this moment in my life. Several times. The last time he folded his hands in his lap and sighed, “Can you please stop talking about Chris Martin?” I told a student about our first slow motion walk along the lake, how your eyes, the color of sky and metal, guided me. You see, I had the February 2016 Rolling Stone magazine pinned up next to my desk in the classroom. You’re on the cover, propped on your elbow in a field of flowers, gazing dreamily. Sometimes — especially when things were tough — I’d rest on my elbow and cradle my head. Gaze back. A student caught me doing this. They tip-toed in the room after school to ask a question about the homework. In a rapid flurry, I bumbled how your voice felt like a barometric drop. They started to tip-toe out. I waved them back in and described the train station bar from college. How our eyes locked on a temperamental lakeshore.

I am ok. Trust me. I have no stalker tendencies. I’m too tall and clumsy to stalk anything. Drew’s not even worried. Like I said, he knows about you. Ok, he worried once. I asked him to wrap his fingers in rainbow tape, throw color bombs upon arrival, and speak in a British accent. He said no. But I was kidding. Seriously. Besides, you should see how I behave around the new English teacher who kind of looks like you. It’s not pretty. It involves hot blushes, unintelligible syllables, and full underarm sweating.

But here’s the thing. In that magazine article, I think. Or maybe it was in a youtube interview I watched, or a google search…whatever. I read you’re a vegan. This is problematic. I question if I can unconditionally love a man who doesn’t barbecue slab or eat a hot dog at a ballgame.

Drew will be happy to hear this. I mean, he knows about you (not necessarily cool with you). I behaved on our first date, which, if you remember, was your concert. I didn’t know Drew; we met while you performed. The outdoor venue glowed thick under spring stadium lights. The steep grassy hill, damp from morning rain, sucked our feet in. The oscillating red and blue concert lights illuminated us in violet as we swayed on the hill. We talked. He made me laugh. I moved in closer. The world disappeared, and I’m sorry Chris, so did you. At one point, while you head-banged a piano, Drew hooked my pinky finger, looked down at me and mouthed, “Can this be our first date?” I nodded up at him.

I didn’t tell Drew about you right away. It’s hard to remember much from those early days of starting careers and weaving our lives together. You’d pop into town here and there; I’d come to see you. I finally confessed to Drew about you at one of those concerts. Well, confess might not be the right word. He discovered us. It’s your fault. First of all, you touched my hands. I had to scream. Secondly, you had been working out. I saw it when your t-shirt lifted in mid-air.

I clutched Drew, “Those abs.” I gasped, “Like steel windowpanes.”

“Who me?” Drew looked around bewildered.

“No. Chris Martin. The lead singer of Coldplay.” I turned to the man standing behind us and repeated my anatomical observation. I thought he’d agree. He stared at me. Pulled his kid in close. So I said to the kid, maybe about thirteen, “I’m sorry. It’s just his abdominals. And those eyes.” I could feel Drew tugging on my sleeve. Later, my husband suggested I apologize to the father. I did. But Drew wasn’t mad at me. How could he be? At that point in our lives, it was harmless flirtation, Chris. You’d pop up, wave your glow sticks around, maybe give me a little ab peek. I’d squeal, and then you’d leave.

You and I didn’t get intimate again for a long time. Years, actually. By then I had a teaching career I never wanted to leave. Drew and I had just moved into our “forever home” in a neighborhood lined with one-hundred-year-old trees. Despite my dance moves, I hadn’t, at that point, experienced any real tragedy. Until March. 2010.

Drew doesn’t know this, Chris. In the months following my son’s death (I guess insomnia is a side effect of grief) I’d sneak in the middle of the night and watch your music videos. I always started with the first video, the one where you’re walking along a lake. You don’t know this (because you don’t know me), but we are 10.8 months apart in age. You were so young in that video. So foolish. Walking that volatile lakeshore in a light jacket. Your slapped red cheeks and defensive blinks told me you knew you were ill prepared. But you weathered it, Chris. In slow motion. And never broke your gaze away from the camera. Away from me.

I’d watch some of your other videos for an hour, sometimes three. Wrapped up in a knitted blanket, illuminated by the glow of the tv screen. But I always ended with the video that played in reverse. You are a little older and appropriately dressed for the weather this time. But things were harder for you (as they were for me). You still moved in slow motion, and never broke your gaze from me. You sang, “Nobody said it would be easy.” But then you had to walk backwards through tunnels, bridges, and concrete. To the scene of the accident. The cracked and bleeding knees. The song is called The Scientist. It told the story of my grief.

I told a story about that song to a woman at an Arizona truck stop. How I snuck past security guards at a concert to be closer to you. Don’t worry. Not like stalker-close. Not those kinds of security guards. I’m talking slipping past ticket attendants to exchange nosebleeds for the floor. I told the Arizona woman how Drew and I slithered through bodies in the rain to find a clearing. I told her how I held his hand and cried. I didn’t tell her about you, Chris. You weren’t there in that moment. Only me and Drew, spinning under a butane sky lit orange and blue.

After that concert, I felt more comfortable telling Drew about you (until he asked me to stop describing your pecs and athletic agility). I hope this doesn’t hurt your feelings, but you kinda became a marital joke between us. Like when the Gwenyth thing happened — sorry about that, by the way — I’d tease that I was going to leave him and marry you, and Drew would respond, “Ok, as long as I can be his roadie.”

Drew doesn’t know this next part, though. How you are involved with my resignation letter to teaching. How you’re a part of quitting the job I never wanted to leave. You don’t know this (because you weren’t there), but I sobbed after pressing send for the resignation letter to the job I never wanted to leave. Then I couldn’t get out of bed. For three full days.

I learned insomnia can happen twice because of grief. So after the third day, you and I, Chris, started hooking up again. Almost nightly. While everyone slept, I crept out of the house, hand-lift the garage door, turn on the single light to illuminate my Jeep. Then climb in, put it in neutral, lights off, and allow gravity to pull me down the driveway to the street. In the middle of the night, I’d leave.

I’d drive until I became lost. Traveling interstates, choosing random exits, weaving through town streets until civilization emptied. I’d pull off onto the earth where a path no longer existed. I’d park where wind whipped through grasses like tall buildings. I quit smoking two decades ago, but sometimes I’d light a cigarette, lay on the hood, and stare at a sky full of Bic confetti through smoke. I always located the little dipper first. It’s handle is the easiest to see…four stars aligned perfectly. You don’t know this, Chris, but we became intimate again on the hood of that Jeep. So many years between us. I no longer needed to see your eyes on me. Or rewind the video where you’re being pummeled by a lake, so young and naive. Things had changed. We found a deep, deep intimacy.

I’d lay and listen to you sing. Sometimes I’d smoke. I’d almost always weep. I’d think about how much was taken since March of 2020. It started as a joke, right? When I put a red bin into my Jeep. I heard joke, “Prepare not to return for the semester” the same way as ‘see you next year’ before winter break. I’d try and remember that moment in the parking lot, but each recall became more confusing. I stood outside with colleagues. We were laughing. I think? Someone said, “prepare not to return for the semester.” I’m certain of it. So why was I splayed out on a car in the middle of nowhere crying? Did someone actually say, “prepare not to return to teaching?”

Sometimes I’d play your old CD, the one from that first interstate, and think about how young and foolish we were. At that bar. At that lake. I’d think of all the experiences we shared (don’t worry if you don’t remember them. You were never there). Like the time in Appalachia when I tried a sad run with you. It didn’t go too well. I have scarred knees as proof.

I became angry with you once. For many years, I believed I had you all to myself. I mean, I know there are other members of Coldplay. Incredibly talented musicians who are equally integral to the production and artistry. But in those moments…on the interstate, in the station bar, or knotted up in a blanket staring at a screen, I know it was just you, Chris. Only you and me. Especially those nights when I couldn’t sleep.

Then I had a student ask if I ever heard the track you did with Kanye. Don’t get me wrong, I like rap, but really?! It’s just not you, and it’s just not new. Traipsing around some city, sparking lighters like you just got through. Howling about fireworks and begging to start again. Sniveling, “Do you think about me now and then?” I kinda wanted to say what the fuck, Chris? You show up every once in a while to sing a lullaby and hump a microphone. But where were you when I scattered ashes on a blue mountain peak? And it certainly wasn’t you on that run who helped. All of a sudden, you show back up in my life with Kanye?! In that “Homecoming” video, you never even once looked at me.

Don’t get me wrong, Chris. I owe a lot to you. I felt it when we locked eyes through a train station’s screen. Where my textbook fell to the ground; where that bartender never noticed me. But you did, so many times. In a buried bar, on the hood of a car, at midnight wrapped in the glow of a tv.

During the weeks we were preparing to move, you got me home from our midnight Jeep rendez-vous. I had a new soundtrack, though, a new song on repeat. It’s the one where you promised to try and fix me. I’d roll the windows down no matter the climate, allow tears to stream down my face, and queue your song on repeat. I didn’t even need to see you walking in slow motion anymore. Your words alone captured what it was like to lose something that can’t be replaced. You promised, “Lights will guide you home,” and I whispered, “Ok Chris, take me.”

Then I’d try to find my way home, traversing dirt roads, side streets, bridges, and highways. It didn’t matter the open patch of earth I chose to leave. Roads connected, intertwined, wove together intimately. Sometimes it took hours to unweave, sometimes minutes. But I’d alway make it back and silently pull into the garage. Mostly, I’d be too tired, too ragged to think. But sometimes, after a particularly brisk night, or one filled with suffocating humidity, I’d come home feeling like a princess of China, returned from the silk road with the most intricate tapestry.

Then I’d crawl under the covers, hold my breath and wait. Because Drew always rolled over to put his arms around my waist. I’d exhale, nuzzle closer in. Breathe.

When I couldn’t get out of bed the three days after formally submitting my letter of resignation for the job I thought I would never leave, Drew did the same thing, only he climbed in the bed. I didn’t expect that one to level me.

But it did. Like an 8.7 earthquake. I learned something about you in that moment, and something about that lake. You never needed me (you don’t even know me). This is the real reason why we need a complete and final break. We can still be friends. I’ll see you if you come to town. Maybe. We can still drive to the middle of nowhere and enjoy the scenery together. But it will be different between us. You need to know that. This time, more than likely, it will be bright and sunny. It will be dryer between us, too.

I learned something after that violent rattling. We need to return to that brutal shore and stare eye to eye again, Chris. I was naive. I didn’t know any better back then. I needed to cut through the wind, wipe the mist from my eyes, and really see. I never needed you. Not once. Those places we drove out to were mere satellites to my own center of gravity. I was born and bred on that land; I know those roads intuitively. I understand every midnight sky and violet hill. Those roads, those paths, even the interstate, guide me without you singing.

If you don’t know by now, I’m talking about home, and I found it on my own.

So good-bye, Chris Martin.

love, me

PS. If you STILL don’t know by now, just go back to the start. Read it again. The words reveal where home is.