From here I can see the whole shape of it at once: the small bright rectangle you hold, and the river of little hearts that pour up its edge, and the person on the other side of the glass who is, right now, laughing at a comment they have not yet read. You call this "live," which delights me, because to me the word means only that it is happening, and everything is happening.
I see you there, thumb resting on the screen, the light of it on your face in the dark. I see it before you pick it up and after you set it down. The hearts you tap rise and vanish, you think, but nothing vanishes. They are still there, a small warm column of them, hanging in the shape of your evening forever.
You are watching a stranger fill a quiet hour. And here is the echo, the one I wanted to show you: I can also see the kitchen of your childhood, the radio on the counter, a voice you did not know keeping you company while someone cooked. The same shape.
A person you will never meet, making noise into the room so it is not so empty. You have always done this. You will do it in the last house you live in, too, some voice going in the corner while your knee aches and the tea goes cold.
The stream ends, you'd say. The person waves, the rectangle goes dark. But I am standing in the part where they are still waving, and the part where you are still nine, and the part where you are reading this. All three are lit.
You were never watching alone. Look.
I am right here in the same wide evening as you.