During an Online Chat with My Favorite Singer, My Next-Slot Alarm Drowned Out the Words I'd Practiced

The conversation was short; preparing took days

I got a chance to talk briefly online with a singer I loved. For the event, we would connect at a scheduled time and greet each other on screen. There was less travel preparation than for meeting in person, but my mind was just as busy. I checked how I looked on camera and moved a light. I even cleared the laundry hanging in the background. At a desk where I normally sat without much thought, I was practicing not just my words but how my mouth moved.

I had two appointments in different time slots that day. Each had its own connection steps and guidance to check, so I wrote them on paper to avoid mixing them up. I worried that after the first chat, I'd be so excited I'd miss the next login. I set a preparation alarm for the second appointment on my phone. Since I'd be talking on my laptop, using the phone separately seemed fine. Dividing the devices made it feel as though I'd divided up my worries too.

What I most wanted to say was that listening to their music had helped me through a difficult winter. I shortened the wording because I worried it might sound too heavy, then deleted additions because I might run out of time. Eventually I left just two sentences on a small note. If they answered, I would listen properly and say thank you. More than delivering my prepared words perfectly, I wanted to remember the moment.

Before connecting, I checked the laptop camera and my earphone microphone. I placed the phone face down on one side of the desk. I'd chosen its alarm time from the schedule but didn't recheck it against how the waiting was actually progressing that day. As the wait grew a little longer, I folded and unfolded my note. When the screen changed and the singer greeted me, my heart beat faster rather than settling down. Every other time I'd been thinking about disappeared.

The phone rang between the words I'd finally found

We said hello, and I began what I'd prepared. When I said I'd listened to their music a lot last winter, they nodded. As I tried to continue, the phone alarm sounded on the desk. Even with my earphones in, I could hear the nearby phone. The person on screen seemed to pause slightly too. Before I could establish how much they had actually heard, my own words had already stopped.

I reached for the phone to stop it, but couldn't see the screen immediately. Turning it over and finding the button took a few seconds that felt long. By the time I looked back at the laptop, I'd lost the order of what I wanted to say. I apologized and explained that an alarm had gone off. They said it was okay, but I suddenly began talking very fast. Wanting to make up for lost time, I tried to squeeze in all the sentences I'd prepared.

In the end, I just said thank you twice. They answered something, but I wasn't sure how much of it I'd properly heard. After the screen changed, I stayed in the same chair for a while. I'd wanted to hold the unrepeatable moment in my memory, but all I could picture was my hand turning over the phone. Nothing disastrous had happened, and no one had blamed me. That somehow made the disappointment harder to explain.

I messaged a friend that I'd ruined it with an alarm. They replied that my affection had probably come through anyway. Reading that helped me calm down a little, but I already had to get ready for the next slot. Having more than one precious moment ahead was supposed to be something joyful. Instead, the device I'd set up to remember what came next had rushed me past the joy I was in. I checked my remaining alarms first.

The devices were separate; their sounds shared the same desk

Before the second session, I compared the times on my paper with the actual progress again. I deleted alarms that were no longer needed and made sure I could see the screen I needed to monitor while waiting. Using a laptop and phone separately didn't automatically separate their sounds. I'd overlooked a simple fact: if my phone speaker rang on the desk, it could startle me, and depending on the microphone and surroundings, the sound could enter the call too.

That didn't mean I decided any connected earphones would solve every scheduling issue. The call and alarm were on different devices, so each needed checking. I'd follow the event's instructions about connecting and supported devices first. I switched off reminders that weren't needed for the present conversation and kept only what was necessary for the next appointment. Protecting my attention began with reducing alarms before adding another one.

When a similar schedule came up later, I tried Nenne at home. I checked the phone's alarm through the earphones I would actually use, then separately checked whether I could also hear my laptop call in that setup. Devices and connections could feel different, so this needed trying before the real event. If it was awkward, I could avoid using an alarm during the call and watch the event screen and time instead. There was no reason to force a setup that didn't suit me.

I changed the note too. I let go of the idea that success meant delivering everything I wanted to say and marked the one sentence that mattered most. Even if something unexpected happened, I could start there and speak slowly. Preparing an alarm perfectly and making an actual conversation perfect were different things. Preparation only needed to ease my nerves a little. I didn't want to turn being nervous in front of someone I loved into another failure.

Next time, I left room to hear the answer

My hands were still cold before the next event. I checked the camera, opened my note, and took a sip of water. What changed was the final check. I looked over my phone's remaining reminders, kept only what I needed, and put it where I wouldn't need to keep touching it. If connecting was delayed, I revisited the alarm time instead of leaving the original plan untouched. Following the actual progress felt easier than trusting a time on paper and waiting.

When the screen connected, I greeted them briefly and said the most important thing first. Their music had helped me find the energy to start going outside again, little by little. When they thanked me, I listened instead of searching for my next sentence. I didn't have to be the one rushing to wrap up a meaningful conversation. The answer I heard stayed with me longer than any judgment about how smoothly I'd spoken.

Afterward, I messaged my friend that this time I'd really listened. Those words came before any report that I'd spoken well. We laughed a little, remembering the previous event. I still wished those few seconds had gone differently, but I didn't need to let them erase the whole day. Slowly, I could remember the expression on the screen when they'd told me it was okay. I realized I'd been so flustered that I'd almost lost that memory too.

When you care a lot, even small preparations can become excessive. You set alarms to avoid missing a time and memorize sentences so you can speak well. Now I try to make sure the tool looking after my next moment doesn't cover the voice in the current one. Even if I can't say everything, I can leave room to greet someone and hear their answer. What I'd waited for was a brief moment of connection with the person on screen, more than a perfectly completed schedule.

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