#mmith

“Daddy, there’s samples!” Rina excitedly announced as she stood in front of an older employee handing out samples for some sort of dip.

“Sorry,” Frankie apologized to the woman with an exhausted sigh.

“Please, daddy?” the five year old begged with round eyes and a pout. Frankie caved with a sigh, grabbing one of the plastic cups with dip and a chip placed in it, handing it over to his daughter.

“What do you say?” he asked his little girl, watching with mortification as she mumbled a ‘thank you’ with her mouth stuffed.

“Thank you,” he repeated more clearly and gave the woman another apologetic look.

“Spoiled,” Santi sang with a shake of his head as they continued on through the store.

“Yeah, well, she’s dealing with a lot of change right now,” Frankie replied with a sigh. “Just want to keep her happy.”

“Was just kidding, Fish.”

Santi watched Frankie as he pushed the cart, his head forward, his eyes unfocused as if he was lost in his head. He’d been like that a lot lately, though Santi couldn’t really blame him. It’s not easy losing a parent, especially when it’s your only one.

“Has Dylan told you about her date tonight?” he asked, hoping to distract his friend for a while. Frankie turned to Santi with a furrowed look, his head shaking. “Yeah, guess this guy’s been coming to the shop every day at lunchtime and she finally agreed to go out with him.”

“Why wouldn’t she tell me that?” Frankie asked.

“I don’t know,” Santi shrugged. “Surprising. You two are so buddy buddy.”

“We just get along well,” Frankie dismissed. “Easier to talk to than you idiots.”

“Right,” he chuckled, the sound earning him a confused glare.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” he chuckled again and held his hands up in defense. “She’s just…attractive, and—“

“Haven’t noticed,” Frankie lied horribly, instantly tensing at the memory of Dylan’s face—the plumpness of her lips, the hazel of her eyes, her golden skin and honey colored hair.

“Oh, come on.” Santi watched with a smirk as Frankie filled the cart aisle by aisle, ignoring the ribbing by his best friend. “Man, look. You can admit she’s a babe—“

“Rina, watch out, they’re trying to get through.” Frankie gently tugged his daughter from the center of the aisle before forcing her to sit in the cart much to her dismay.

“Listen, I love Imelda, but even I’ve thought about—“

“Pope,” Frankie sighed. “Enough.”

“You know when she looks really good? When she walks around in that robe—“

“Santi. Enough.” Frankie gave his friend a stern look, desperate for him to change the subject to literally anything else.

Anyways, Santi was wrong. While Dylan did look good in that robe, Frankie liked her best when she stayed up too late with him smoking in the backyard, the patio lights illuminating her lazy but maddening smile, her worn sleep shirts that hung on her frame like a dress driving him crazy. He liked her best when he got her giggling, her head tipping back, her nose scrunched as she let out an accidental snort. He liked her best when she teased him, when her eyes would roll at one of his stupid jokes, when she played with his daughter. That’s when she looked “really good”.

“Maybe…” he paused, reconsidering his thought. “Maybe it’s time I tried to…I don’t know…”

“Get l-a-i-d?” Santi spelled the word given Rina’s presence. “Yeah, I think so. Why don’t you come out with me and the boys tonight?”

“Uh, because it’s your stupid triple-date,” Frankie sassed. “I’m not gonna be able to pick someone up with a bunch of women around. Besides, I’d have to make sure I can get a sitter—“

“Listen, I think you need to prepare for the fact that you might not be able to pick someone up, full stop. You’re rusty. And grumpy.” Santi smirked as he pat his friend on the back. “And I told you, Imelda’s little sister is down to babysit whenever.”

“Fine. I’ll come along, but…I swear to god, you guys better not do that thing you always do.”

“What thing?” Santi laughed out the question.

“Where you embarrass me, pendejo,” Frankie replied with an eye roll.

“Fine, fine. I promise we’ll let you do your thing. Maybe if you get laid you’ll be less of a sad boy.”

“Yeah.” Not unless he gets Dylan out of his head. “Maybe.”

“Len!” Dylan called upstairs for her sister who was shut up in Benny’s room. The pair had reconciled a few days after their fight three months ago after Benny sat down with Dylan and let her know how much he liked her younger sister. Since then, she’s basically been over every single day and most nights, becoming the house’s eighth tenant.

“What?” she snapped as she opened the door.

“I have a date tonight,” she replied. “Can you help me pick out something to wear?”

Lennon smiled and nodded before coming downstairs.

“So,” Lennon started as she flipped through her older sister’s closet while Dylan sat at her vanity adding waves to her honey blonde hair. “Who’s this guy?”

“I don’t really know,” she chuckled. “He runs a tattoo shop down the street from my place. Comes in all the time, always flirting but also always leaving a good tip. When he came in the last time, he asked me out, and frankly, a girl has needs.”

“Yeah, I figured you were going to go to someone else for that. Someone we know. Single dad maybe?” Lennon hinted with a smile pointed at her sister. Dylan rolled her eyes and shook her head.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” she snapped. “Frankie’s a good friend.”

“He doesn’t have to be just a good friend,” Lennon countered. “Could be a good boyfriend, too.”

“You think I haven’t thought about that?”

As if on cue, Frankie, Santi, and Rina came in through the front door with a loud bustle.

“Not a word,” Dylan warned, pointing at her sister who was now smirking. “I’m serious, Len.”

“Okay, okay.” She held her hands up in surrender.

“Dyllie, Lemon, look what daddy got me,” Rina rushed into the bedroom holding a small bouquet of wildflowers.

“Those are so pretty, Rina!” Dylan smiled as she set her curling iron down on the counter. Frankie appeared in the doorway, offering Dylan a soft, nervous smile as he handed her a bouquet of her own that he had hidden behind his back.

“Heard you were going on a date tonight,” he began as Dylan accepted the flowers with a look of shock. “Thought I’d bring you some flowers in case your date doesn’t.”

“Oh,” she lifted her eyes to Frankie’s, unsure of whether or not this gesture meant what she thought (and hoped) it did.

“Oh—no. I didn’t—I wasn’t—I just think you deserve flowers. Women, in general. And men too, if that’s their thing—no judgement, you know. Gay rights—“

“Thanks, Frankie,” Dylan interrupted his panicked rambling with a chuckle. “This was very sweet.”

“Yeah, it’s…no problem, Dyl.” He scratched his neck and took in a deep breath as an awkward silence passed over the room. Frankie broke the silence with a pat to the doorframe and nodded at her. “Have fun…curling your hair.”

“Thanks,” she laughed and shook her head at him as he slowly and painfully awkwardly disappeared into the hall, Rina following behind. Lennon had to cover her mouth to stifle her snort of laughter, her eyes wide as she looked at her older sister. “Shh.”

“He’s so into you!” Lennon whisper-yelled.

“Stop,” Dylan scolded with a smile on her face as she sniffed the flowers in her hand. “I have a date.”

“Again, why?”

“Because it’s more simple than fucking my roommate,” she whispered back.

“Fair point.”

It was around 8:30 in the evening when Dylan emerged from her bedroom with Lennon. Frankie, Benny, Santi, and Santi’s girlfriend, Imelda, were all sat on the giant sectional in the living room watching Benny’s movie night pick: Rocky IV.

Frankie, already distracted by the looming thought of Dylan going out with someone else tonight, noticed her almost immediately, his posture straightening a bit as he took in the sight of her in a form fitting little black dress and heels, red lipstick painting her plump pout as she nervously dug through her purse.

“Do I have everything?” she mumbled to herself or to her sister, Frankie wasn’t sure. “Alright, whatever, wish me luck.”

“He’s here?” Lennon asked as she rounded the corner of the sofa to find her spot on Benny’s lap, pulling everyone’s attention to Dylan. Santi let out a whistle while his girlfriend mumbled something along the lines of “god damn” as the room took her in.

“You clean up nice,” Benny offered as Dylan playfully rolled her eyes at her reception before being startled by the honking of a car parked by the front of the house.

“Dyl, is this guy seriously honking at you?” Lennon asked with a chuckle of disbelief.

“Len,” she sighed, warning her sister to keep her thoughts on the subject to herself. “It’s not the 1950’s. He doesn’t have to show up at my doorstep with a bouquet of roses.”

Frankie blushed at her words, feeling embarrassed for having gotten her flowers earlier. He wasn’t sure what came over him in the store. One minute Rina was pointing out the wildflower bouquets and the next he was adding not just one to the cart, but two. Santi teased him about it the entire way home, but Frankie felt a surge of confidence, almost certain that this date of hers would be the final push he needed to make a move, but the minute he saw her sitting there, curling her hair at her vanity, that confidence vanished into thin air.

“Uh-uh, it’s not even about that,” Santi chimed in. “It’s just about putting in effort and making a good first impression.”

“Yeah,” Frankie found himself verbally agreeing much to the surprise of the rest of the room who all turned to look at him. “Just…you know…call us if you need anything.”

“Aren’t you guys going out to the bars?” Dylan asked with a smile pointed directly at him, as though she was silently praising him for his attentiveness. He lived for that smile.

“Yeah, but Will’s DD-ing,” Benny replied in his deep, casual voice that clearly had won Lennon over. “Just text one of us.”

Another honk sounded and Dylan watched as her housemates grew irritated at her date’s lack of decorum.

“I’ll go so he can stop,” she announced meekly, suddenly filled with worry that perhaps this date wasn’t going to end how she hoped. Still, she persisted and walked out of the house, hoping that the group inside wouldn’t think less of her for going out with such a character.

“Can you believe that?” Imelda turned to Santi and spoke. “I mean, if I looked like her, I wouldn’t settle for that.”

“She’s got her needs,” Lennon replied with an eye roll, her words piquing Frankie’s interest. “Least that’s what she told me. I think she knows it’s not gonna lead to anything. Girl just wants some dick.”

Frankie cleared his throat, drawing stares from both Lennon and Santi.

“Thirsty?” Santi teased, earning a punch to the arm.

“Quit it,” Imelda scolded her boyfriend. “Frankie’s allowed to have a crush. Hell, I have a crush.”

“I don’t—“ Frankie began to deny the claim but became too flustered with all the eyes on him. “Men and women can be friends.”

“Until they fuck,” Benny retorted with a smirk.

With that, Frankie stood to walk back to his bedroom where his daughter was fast asleep, desperate to be left alone by not only his jealousy but his friends that seemed to be able to read him like a book.

Though he tried to rid the image of her in that daringly short dress, his eyes taking more of her body than he’d ever been shown to him before, he couldn’t shake it. She looked so good. And who was getting the privilege of admiring her tonight? Some douchebag who didn’t even walk up to the door to greet her.

It wasn’t fair, and yet he knew that be it this guy or the next, he’d have to witness his friend—this unexpected beauty who looked like she came straight out of the seventies rock scene, who also had a sense of humor and a similar trauma-derived pessimistic outlook on life—go out and get her “needs” met.

He was confident that he could meet all of her needs and more if he could only just work up the nerve to make a fucking move. But the friendship was too valuable at this point to risk over something as unsteady as romance. He cherished their friendship, the ease in which they could talk about all the shit going on deep down that felt too mushy to talk about with Pope or Benny or Will or Lennon. He couldn’t risk losing her. He wouldn’t risk it.

“So,” Dylan smiled, albeit nervously, as she watched her date stuff his mouth ungracefully at the restaurant she had to pick out given that he hadn’t planned anything. “You been living here long?”

“Nah,” he shook his head and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “You?”

“For a while,” she replied, feeling her appetite fade as he continued to feast as though he hadn’t been fed in weeks. “You know, you seemed different when you asked me out. Wasn’t really expecting…this.”

“Expecting what?” he snapped defensively.

“You’re just…different than I thought you were gonna be,” she shrugged.

“I’m a tattoo-artist, not a knight in shining armor.” Dylan chuckled, not at the poor attempt at humor, but at his audacity. Resting her napkin on the table, she stood and grabbed her purse. “You’re really going?” he asked, more insulted than he was concerned about her.

“Yeah,” she replied indifferently, pulling her phone out and dialing Lennon’s number as she walked out of the restaurant. After reaching her voicemail, Dylan sighed, a throbbing ache emerging in her head. She tried Frankie next and thankfully, it went through.

“Hey, everything good?”

“No,” she sighed, not realizing she was so close to tears until she heard the voice of the one man she’d grown to trust. “Can someone come get me? Or—what bar are you guys at? I’m downtown, I could just walk.”

“We’re at Red’s, where are you?” he asked over the noise in the background.

“Uh—“ She turned around to read the sign of the Mexican restaurant she was standing in front of. “I’m at The Cantina, sound familiar?”

“Yeah,” he replied. “You’re just about a block away. I’ll walk over and get you.”

“No—“

“Too bad, already outside.”

When Frankie spotted her, he felt a smile creep onto his face. She was holding a cigarette to her lips, her eyes scanning around the street before landing on Frankie as he waved at her down the sidewalk.

“Didn’t know you smoked cigarettes,” he spoke as the pair met halfway.

“I don’t,” she replied, ashing her cigarette out on the trash can before throwing it away. “Only on rare occasions. Like going on a date with a total fucking weirdo.”

“Yeah, how was that?” he asked, his hands tucked in his pockets as they turned around and walked back towards the bar.

“He was gross. And boring. And an asshole at the very end,” she replied in a chuckle. “Should’ve listened to you guys and just stayed at home.”

Frankie shrugged, his smile returning. “You never would’ve known if you hadn’t gone.”

“I’m just so fucking—“ she sighed, shaking her head as she caught herself from over-sharing. “It’s just hard being lonely all the time. Was hoping for maybe one night of—whatever.” She sucked in a sharp breath as they arrived at the bar. “Doesn’t matter now.”

Frankie had to physically clench his jaw to stop himself from letting everything spill out then and there, choosing instead to watch her as she walked in and caused their entire table to light up. He wondered if she knew what spell she cast on everyone. If she did, she carried the knowledge humbly, earning his heart even more.

“So, the horn guy sucked?” Lennon asked, drunk and obnoxious but still as pretty and put together as ever.

“Yeah,” Dylan chuckled and sat on one of the barstools at the table, Frankie coming up to stand beside her, close enough for her to feel the warmth radiating from his body. “S’okay. Wasn’t that cute anyways.”

“Hey, m’gonna go get another beer. You want anything?” Frankie asked with a tap of his hand against Dylan’s hand. Dylan’s lips parted as her breath hitched, her eyes quickly meeting his.

“Uh—yeah, sure. Beer’s good.” She composed herself as quickly as she panicked, offering him a smile and a nod before turning back to the table while he walked off. But no matter how hard she tried not to watch him as he walked away, her eyes kept wandering back to him as he stood at the bar. She watched as a petite little brunette that hardly looked old enough to drink walked up to him and batted her long eyelashes, smiling and giggling at everything he said.

“Oh,” Santi sang, pulling the rest of the table’s attention to Frankie and the girl. “She went up to him, too.”

“Think our boy is finally gonna get lucky tonight.” Will lifted his beer up. “To the end of his sour fucking mood.”

“Cheers,” they table sounded, besides Dylan, that is. She found herself too busy clenching her jaw at the thought of Frankie with someone else, her eyes locked on the scratches in the wood of the tabletop rather than her group.

“Hey, I’m gonna go to the restroom,” Dylan whispered into her sister’s ear.

“Want me to come?” she offered, but Dylan earnestly shook her head.

“No, I just need a minute.” Lennon’s eyes grew sympathetic, a frown forming in her face as she cupped her older sister's cheek.

“I’m sorry, babe,” she cooed.

“S’okay,” Dylan managed, forcing a sad smile onto her face, her eyes brimming with tears. “Be right back.”

“What happened? Choked?” Santi teased as Frankie came back to the table with two beers in hand.

“No, she was just way too young. Not into that.” Frankie set Dylan’s beer down in front of her empty seat before looking around. “Where’d Dylan run off to?”

Lennon waved him to come over and he obliged, leaning his ear over so that she could speak.

“She saw you with the sorority sister. Ran off to the bathroom.” Frankie looked at her confused, his brows furrowed with concern.

“What—“

“Frankie, you’re not an idiot,” Lennon drunkenly slurred before being handed a glass of water by Cassandra. Frankie’s expression didn’t budge, forcing her to sigh dramatically. “Or maybe you are. She wants you, dummy. And we all know you want her, so…go fucking get her.”

Frankie nodded, a look a determination mixed with anxiety taking the place of confusion as he swerved through the crowded bar to the bathrooms. As he arrived in the dark hallway lit by a singular neon beer sign, Dylan stepped out and bumped into him.

“Oh—oh. Hey,” she sniffled, her eyes reluctantly meeting his.

“You’re crying,” he noted.

“Yeah.” She nodded.

“Why?” he asked, his fingers twitching at his side as he fought the urge to reach up and wipe the remainder of tears off her cheek.

“Something silly,” she shrugged.

“Was it—“ He interrupted himself, unsure of what the right thing to say was. “I’m…I have this crush on you, Dylan…and, god, this is awkward—I don’t know what to do here.”

Dylan looked like a deer in headlights as she stared up at him, listening to him very choppily detail his feelings for her.

“Just trying to say, I guess, if you feel the same…you should tell me,” he continued, his eyes frantic as they studied every inch of her face.

“Are you drunk?” she asked after a beat of silence.

“No,” he shook his head. “Are you?”

“No.”

Dylan’s head was spinning as Frankie’s hands made contact with her hips, walking her backwards back into the private stall with his lips crushed against hers. He only left her to shut and lock the door behind him, but as soon as he turned around he was right back on her, holding her frame tight to his as he crowded her back against the sink.

“I’ve wanted this so long,” Dylan confessed in a hitched gasp when Frankie’s fingers slipped beneath the hem of her dress. “Fuck, I can’t believe this is happening.”

“Me neither,” he sighed out against her pulse before sucking a mark onto it. “Fuck, you have no idea.”

Frankie’s fingers slid over the lace of Dylan’s thong, up and down, up and down, until he slipped beneath the fabric to feel her slick on his fingertips.

“Shit,” she gasped, her brows stitched together as she looked down between their bodies, watching his forearm flex as he circled her clit. “Frankie, fuck. It’s so good.”

Her praise pulled a soft moan from his lips, his head pulling away from her neck to watch her as he slid his fingers lower and curled them inside of her. Dylan’s eyelids fluttered closed, her pouty red-stained lips forming a perfect circle as he targeted that soft spot deep inside that she could never reach with her own fingers.

“Baby,” he moaned, shaking his head in reverence as he watched her high crest, her chest heaving as he kept working her up and up and up. “You’re so beautiful. Fuck.”

“Frankie,” she warned, peeling her eyes open so that she was meeting his stare. “Frankie, oh my god.”

He nodded, a smile growing on his face as she started to squeeze his fingers.

“That’s it, querida,” he hummed, watching her as she fell over the edge with a silent cry. “Fuck, that’s it. So fucking beautiful when you cum, baby.”

“God,” she sighed, resting her head on his collarbone as she grabbed his wrist to halt his movements. “Too much.”

Frankie smiled and slipped his fingers out of her, bringing them up to his mouth and sucking them clean.

“Shit,” Dylan felt an aftershock of pleasure as she watched him hum at her taste. Before she could say anything else or offer to return the favor, a loud banging sounded on the door, making her jump. “Fuck, guess we should hurry up.”

“Yeah,” he nodded, shuffling over to wash his hands while Dylan adjusted herself in the mirror. “So…”

“I know,” she chuckled. “Let’s just…take it day by day? Doesn’t have to be anything…serious, you know?”

“Okay,” he agreed, though truthfully, he’d agree to anything she proposed. As long as he got to kiss her again. “Day by day. Nothing serious. Sounds…good.”

“Good.”

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Metaphors, baby, Metaphors!

The title itself is a metaphor and a core one at that. The term Meet Me in the Hallway purposefully mirrors the saying Meet Me in the Middle. This song has an intense tinge of a plea — specifics, the plea to reconnect and resolve unfinished business, to find a compromise. But, one party is always hurting more than the other. Per usual though, let's go a bit deeper. A hallway is a temporary, empty place to be stuck in. It's used to reach a destination but is never the destination itself. This is such a key detail in the perspective of the song. It's torturous, to be stuck in this limbo, never reaching the point he longs for, always being pushed back down on this hallway floor. It's a form of stagnancy, and one can easily spiral if left to their own devices in such circumstances.

There's another metaphor at work, a pretty big and overarching one — comparing love to addiction. I definitely think Meet Me in the Hallway is about love, but, more so, the loss of it. As many have vocalized one time or many, love can feel like a drug. Enveloped in the moment, it can make one see the world differently, and maybe it can even take your pain away. But, so easily, one can become reliant, and dependent, finding themselves immersed in the withdrawal pains when it's snatched away from them all at once. Essentially, that's what this song encompasses and illustrates — the withdrawal. Partnered with the bargaining, standing in the metaphorical space between closeness and distance. Trying to find a way to meet halfway physically and emotionally in a desperate effort to take the pain away. He needs them, and can't live without them, even as they mutilate him.

A last thing to mention is not really a metaphor, but more a running theme across his works that is always going to be prevalent — miscommunication. There's a significant struggle with lack of communication, now also highlighting bad coping mechanisms. Both, as one comes to see, find themselves in recurrence of this debut album of his.

Lyric Pull Apart

[INTRO] Two, three, four...

Something so decadent to the ear, but simultaneously so devastating to the gut. I love how this song — and the debut album — starts off with a hushed counting off. Starting with a hushed tone gives an intimacy to it, something so intriguing, as this opener chronicles a loss of intimacy.

[VERSE 1] Meet Me in the Hallway Meet Me in the Hallway I just left your bedroom Give me some morphine Is there any more to do?

Meet Me in the Hallway: Again, this is a rearrangement of the plea to meet me in the middle. Stopped at this first line to digest, but this is only the first in many moments of begging to work it out, interwoven with many pleas of wanting to get better and get better — but still finding oneself stuck in the hallway, stuck in the in-between, with no direction as to where to head to get to the destination at the end. A small detail I feel like people always miss is how his vocals echo, solidifying that particular image of him down and out. Sitting out in the hallway, back up against the wall, maybe with the head tilted back too — pleading in withdrawal.

Meet Me in the Hallway / I just left your bedroom: Just like the hallway is a metaphor, the bedroom is one as well. Take the setting and turn it into poetics. The bedroom is considered an intimate space, yes? The speaker's walked out, there's been a separation of intimacy, and is on his way out into the cold, but isn't all the way out. Remember, the hallway is an in-between space, always a method to the destination but never the destination itself. He's stuck in this agonizing leeway, and maybe he keeps returning back to them on his own or they keep convincing him, even with the knowledge that this addiction is detrimental to him on all levels.

There's some hidden detail just in the way it's phrased. I just left your bedroom gives some backstory. They were recently together and intimate, maybe an unwritten this will be the last time we do this (but they said that the last time, and the time before that). Inserting an emotional distance, but concurrently physical. And, back to bouncing off the bedroom metaphor, the relationship could be in such a place where the speaker feels like a stranger, like he's no longer welcome. Lost intimacy.

I just left your bedroom, this specification of "yours", as it's not his or theirs together. Again, lost intimacy. Marking the bedroom as the other party's in turn sets the other one's rules in place. The speaker has no sense of control, which can serve as a double meaning. No control in the relationship, but, at the same time, losing control of the self. The hallway is something more neutral, less intimate, a stark contrast to the bedroom — and that's where the speaker's been thrown.

Give me some morphine: Morphine is not only a pain medication, but it's also extremely addictive. Could this be him begging for it as the only close substitute to come close to the effect this person's love has/had on him? The love that's been ripped away? Here, and written in the undertone of the song's beginning to end, is a sense of hopelessness. This person's love is a drug to him, so he's bringing in another addictive drug to try and supplement. And, like much incorporated in this song, it's injected with metaphor — a simple one, more broadened, trying to search for the supplement to ease the pain. A supplement to the other who left him in urgency for something to take the pain away. It suggests that the speaker has fallen into a state of desperation, seeking any form of escape from the agony, even if unhealthy and just as destructive.

Is there any more to do?: Hopelessness! This song chronicles a moment of anguish, grasping at straws to try and salvage the intimacy and relationship, not wanting to lose the one who's taking the pain away. Even with the knowledge it might not be healthy, and even with the knowledge it's only a temporary solution. He's become dependent. And finds himself in the weakest state.

[CHORUS] Just let me know, I'll be at the door, at the door Hoping you'll come around Just let me know, I'll be on the floor, on the floor Maybe we'll work it out I gotta get better, gotta get better I gotta get better, gotta get better I gotta get better, gotta get better And maybe we'll work it out

Just let me know, I'll be at the door, at the door / Hoping you'll come around: I see this chorus as a surrender, a fall from grace on the hallway floor. The chorus' repetition captures this essence, I believe. He's ready to take the person back whenever they are willing. He's right at the door — trying to get closer to the past intimacy of the bedroom — ready to try and work it out, to try and meet in the middle, and push down the pain they've caused him. But will it ever really be forgotten? And he's hoping, even whilst drowning in hopelessness. It's on the other person to come around, for maybe he has run dry, exhausted. Stuck in the silence, the waiting.

Just let me know, I'll be on the floor, on the floor / Maybe we'll work it out: He's on the hallway floor, as all of his guards and dignity have fallen limp. Not putting up any fights to the withdrawal and pain, but rather letting himself succumb to the emotion. Surrendering himself to an addictive love, even if it's destined to harm him in the end. And he's saying maybe we'll work it out. Hoping, maybe, very tentative and insecure in his diction — like he's been in this same spot of desperation before. He's experienced the come down from the high too many times. Yet, a small part of him will still go back. He'll still fall to his knees if the other party welcomes him back in. Again, still a small part of him that tries to hope amid the hopelessness.

The lines before these and the two here now mirror each other, and there's an intention to that. When one's in despair, spiraling within yourself, you can repeat oneself over and over to try and communicate the tortured spot one's in. Repeating the same point again and again, even if phrased a little differently.

I gotta get better, gotta get better [x3]: What was that about repetition? It could be just for rhythmic purposes, granted, but it feels like it's something told to himself, repeating it like a mantra. A mantra that reflects both a personal struggle to heal and a stronghold on the aspiration to improve the situation with the other party. And it's sung in almost a yell, and very self-chastising. He's placing himself at fault, this confession into how he feels — and, because of the urgency the repetition evokes, it could be something that's been plaguing him, weighing him down to the floor. Maybe he knows he's not been handling things well, like one would with a drug addiction, and needs to get better to work it out. Even if it's not a guarantee. And, once more, the repetition, in this section and in other moments of the song, pushes forward the feelings of hopelessness, desperation, and even submissiveness.

[VERSE 2] I walked the streets all day Running with the thieves 'Cause you left me in the hallway (Give me some more) Just take the pain away

I walked the streets all day / Running with the thieves: These lyrics continue along the path of melancholy and introspection, and the sense of solitude is further painted. The speaker is wandering hopelessly, searching for something to replicate his drug — much like how substance abusers spend their days walking the streets looking for more. Then. Any saying that includes "running with the..." implies associating oneself with a group of people without necessarily identifying within it. A thief is someone who seeks something they don't possess. In this song, he's waiting desperately for someone who isn't returning back to him, so he feels the connection to the thieves — he seeks something he no longer possesses.

There's also an air of reminiscence to Liam Sparkes' quote in Another Man, speaking of tattooing Harry's butterfly:

"The butterfly on his torso is based on an old French prison tattoo inspired by Papillon. Traditionally, it would mean the wearer is a thief — something to do with the double meaning of 'Je vole', which translates as both 'I steal' and 'I fly'." — Liam Sparkes

This can bring in some more theorization of symbolism, as butterflies can represent someone's yearning for freedom or metamorphosis. He's been trapped in this metaphorical prison, in the hallway setting, for so long that he dreams of running with the thieves as a sense of freedom. Even if that freedom is self-destructive, it would still be freedom from this hopelessness and melancholia. Then, the illusion of metamorphosis, where he thinks these bad coping mechanisms will give him the feeling of open wings, but he's just shot down instead. The dichotomy and this could be a stretch, I fear, but I like sharing anyhow.

Running with the thieves could indicate he's let himself get carried away by things around him, to take his mind off the pain, engulfing himself in self-destructive things. Almost like he's fallen into the dramatic justifying thoughts: What's the point of anything if this love is lost? If the one I love won't let me in, might as well throw my entire self away. With this withdrawal of losing intimacy and connection with the other person, there's a lack of meaning to anything he does. So why not go and run about? Indulge himself in a self-induced ticking time bomb?

'Cause you left me in the hallway (Give me some more) / Just take the pain away: He points the finger to the other person as the cause of his agonizing isolation in the hallway, as they've neglected him in the limbo, for he has no indication of where they stand. He's been left somewhere in the middle of an unfinished relationship, hoping for more. Hoping for the person to take his pain away. And, through all this, I feel there's an indication that he's the only one holding out hope anymore. He blames his irresponsible actions from the lines before on the fact that he's been, again, left in the hallway, framing anything he does destructively as a cause-and-effect phenomenon. Again, the hallway is such a temporary and empty place to be, a way to get to the destination but never the destination itself. If one's standing endlessly in the hallway, especially in a moment of stagnancy with no direction out, you're nowhere meaningful — and that can be torturous.

I love how Give me some more plays off the earlier Give me some morphine, which can be both an emphasis and a branch off, diving deeper into the desperation. Screaming into the echos of the hallway "Give me more!". More effort from the other person, some more hope or signals that would make him believe they're working towards making things better too. And maybe this will take his pain away. Even if that soothing is superficial, he's desperate for something to take it away.

[CHORUS] Just let me know, I'll be at the door, at the door Hoping you'll come around Just let me know, I'll be on the floor, on the floor Maybe we'll work it out I gotta get better, gotta get better I gotta get better, gotta get better I gotta get better, gotta get better And maybe we'll work it out

The chorus returns, with the spiraling repetition and aching. We have the metaphors of the hallway, the bedroom, but what about the door? Each piece of the setting listeners have been placed in holds such symbolism to it. The door could be a metaphor for entering back into the relationship, for the door is what separates the bedroom (intimacy) and the hallway (isolation). He's waiting for their permission for him to open the door and enter the room — circling back to how the speaker's the only one who still wants this companionship. He's the one having the desires, this desperation, a need — but the other person is failing to even meet him in the middle, to meet him in the hallway, even as he's now collapsed on the floor, overtaken by the pains of his withdrawal and melancholy.

[OUTRO] We don't talk about it It's something we don't do 'Cause once you go without it Nothing else will do

We don't talk about it / It's something we don't do: Here we go again, this man and his communication issues. I've said it before, and will probably say it a million more as it's inevitable to come up —struggle with communication is such a common theme across HS1, across his discography entirely. The two of them don't talk about their issues — maybe they're scared that if they start talking about it, it'll be like tugging on a loose thread, only a matter of time before they both unravel. There's a fear of loss, and a fear of having to grieve the companionship, as the love has grown — say it with me now — addictive.

'Cause once you go without it / Nothing else will do: Once he's had a taste of what this person could be for him, how they can take the edge off, he feels that anything and anyone that follows will pale in comparison. Drugs, such as morphine, are so highly addicting that people often feel like they can't live without it and nothing else is as good — after they've felt that surge in their body, or the relief, even if it was illusionary.

Within the confines of Meet Me in the Hallway, in its somber after-hours feel, themes and conceptualizations were set up to be returned to throughout the debut album. This song also has a lot to do with the self, which is fitting to lift the opener of a debut and reintroduction. But this relationship with the self isn't healthy all the time, and I think it's beautiful that we do explore darker themes often in his work. Writing songs can be a form of catharsis, and we are the gifted to be able to hear it, and maybe find our own release.