My Afterglow Moment: Falling in Love to the Tune of Pop Punk

The moment I drove by the San Antonio Greyhound Station and screamed their name as they boarded, I realized I had found true love to the strumming guitar of Pierce the Veil’s “Kissing in Cars.” 

Written by Noah Keany

Illustrated by Mayuri Srivaths

Blasting music through shoddy car speakers is one of those creature comforts that seems to outline moments in my life. Often, when something important happens for me, I remember the exact music playing out of my car speakers when it occurred. 

When I came to Austin almost 2 years ago, the sound of “You Oughta Know” and “Black Hole Sun” played from my mom’s ‘90s alt-rock mix as our car passed by non-descript towns while the feeling of dread sank in about moving away from home.

When I first joined a real swim team in seventh grade, I remember my Dad playing good kid, m.A.A.d city while we drove to practice and I felt the overwhelming inadequacy puppeting every thought running through my head.

My memories, while set to the backdrop of music that I love and instrumental to my upbringing, are also associated with this feeling of atychiphobia, the overwhelming fear of failure.

These feelings are a matter of perspective though.

I often characterize my life through this lens of intense anxiety of loss and failure rather than hope for the best. My beliefs, my dreams, my outlook, my relationships were, for most of my life, built off the foundation of this feeling.

When I started talking to my current partner, they introduced me to Pierce the Veil. They knew every word of every song and the stories behind them all. While it was a new sound for me to embrace and let in, it somehow felt easy.

Admittedly, I had tried listening to PTV once before and it didn’t click for me. I didn’t dislike their sound, but I felt like a visitor in a world of music that was not mine and I did not fully understand. But, as I’ve realized, perspective matters.

Now listening to A Flair For The Dramatic and Jaws of Life means something entirely different than it did when I first tried to. Instead of trying to connect to a random artist that I’d heard about in the broader cultural conversation, I was falling in love with someone in a different language. 

Before our second date, I had started to fall in love with Jaws of Life and, even moreso, Selfish Machines. These pop-punk songs were gut-wrenching, but also packed such a punchy rage. It was different from what I normally would listen to, not in content, but in that tonal passion. It was characterized by an open fervor, rather than the reserved, melodramatic anxiety of my typical listening rotation.

When they came to San Antonio for our date, this day would shape the new light in which I would see the world I’m growing into versus the world I grew up in.

We rented an Airbnb downtown and spent the day exploring the city. Up until this point, San Antonio was a city that was lifeless and concrete. It was a place to be trapped. I wanted nothing more than to be somewhere else with my family, somewhere that clicked.

With my partner, the city felt alive. Walking the Riverwalk under the unforgiving Texas sun wasn’t something to trudge through. Driving through the messy, unfinished highways wasn’t frustrating and exhausting. It was all perfect and because I had my person by my side.

I remember falling asleep with them in my arms, one AirPod in listening to Selfish Machines as the final track “Kissing in Cars” played. As my eyes began to shutter, their head resting gracefully on my chest, I heard the words, “If you kiss me goodnight / I’ll know, everything is alright.” As I held onto them tight, I kissed their forehead and I knew everything would be alright.

As my eyes flashed around in my deep sleep, I recollected these moments of anxiety, the failure I remembered fearing but never occurring. These moments were then recontextualized. The fear dissipated and I remembered that when I joined a swim team or moved away from home, I survived and am happier than ever. I’m allowed to be happy and feel satisfied because as PTV says, “There’s no, no such thing as too young” to feel sure of yourself. 

When I dropped my partner off at the Greyhound Bus Station, the goodbye did not feel final. It did not feel like I had to worry. Before them, I would have psyched myself out and said something stupid with the feeling that there was “No second chances.” The old me would’ve given up and dug a hole of self-doubt. They make me not worry because I know they, “...were always the one / I’ll repeat again – the one.”

At nineteen, it’s difficult to be so sure of anything. In fact, I don’t think I had been truly sure of anything other than the idea that, “...the future’s / Just a few heartbeats away from disaster.” Now, within a new framework and eight months with the love of my life, even when the future haunts me, I know, “there’s faith in love.”