a phenomenon in which your lived experience seems oddly inconsequential once you put it down on paper
»5|1|14
i'm not yours, but i'm yours. you're not mine, but you're mine.
we are not for each other. no, we're not for each other. but we're for each other. certainly i'm here for you. but i will not always be. you're not here for me. not as i wish you would. but i hope you could.
»4|1|14
a broken heart is truly like a puzzle. not only because it is difficult to comprehend; it is, literally, a puzzle. it's like a puzzle you've built once before. or rather, you have the image on the box to guide you. but you have all the pieces before you, and you don't understand how on earth they could've ever been together. you really don't feel like getting to work on it, maybe you should just keep it that way and set your mind to other things. but it's no use, some day you will have to get it done. awfully painful job. hard to do, too. the worst part of it all is when you find you have missing pieces. you'll never find them again, of course, and the puzzle will never be once more complete.
«3|1|14
The painting stood in front of us. In front of everyone, actually. August had painted it. It was not time yet to admire him or his skills; not ever, in fact. So this was it. Mendoza. I went through and into the painting and then I actually was there, in the actual Mendoza. I was there a long time. Then I went back. August waited for me. It just made sense that he was leaving his living painting behind before he left. To Mendoza, of course. He would miss me. “I remember”, he said, “I remember when my brother brought his girlfriends home. He would kiss them in front of me. Like this.” Before I realised, I was of course in his arms and being kissed. “August”, I mumbled. I felt annoyed. Now he was taking me in his arms, before he left. “August”, I repeated. I felt anguished. If he had only shown his feelings before... “August”, I begged. I felt pleased. He kissed me, he liked me, just as I liked him. “August”, I whispered urgently. I felt awkward. Our friends were watching. Just that. Watching. Not uttering a word, not making a sound, not moving an inch. As if they were our own special cardboard friends. August let go of me. That was just it. We would miss each other.
«3|1|14
Well, where were we going? I can't remember, or maybe I never knew. The old car seemed to be moving at a fast rate, but if you looked out the window, you'd see it really had only moved a few metres. She sat to my right. She had a pen in her hand. She took my hand and hers, and she wrote in both of them; “you and me,” and she read it aloud as she wrote... “best friends...” I repeated anxiously, “...best friends...”, and she wrote the final word, “forever.”, she said. “...forever...”, I said in a hush, amazed. Her tone had born no feeling at all, she had spoken dragging her words monotonously, and then she turned to watch ahead of her. But I, my eyes were almost in tears, though they didn't feel the least wet. My heart, yes it beat fast, fast, fast. Friends again! How could that be? Best friends once more? I didn't even think about the boyfriend that had set us apart. No. He didn't exist. Didn't cross my mind once.
»22|7|15
Habían tenido una guerra de barro. Obvio, el sí estuvo. Obvio, fui a pellizcarle y a reclamarle por qué nadie me llamó. Mis lágrimas me cegaron la vista y no vi nada más. Estaba harta de que todo sucediera sin mí. Lo próximo que sé es que estaba tirada en el piso, con un cuchillo a mi alcance, y su figura se recortaba contra el sol. Él dijo que no era culpable de nada de lo que me pasaba, pero por alguna razón seguía coleccionando cicatrices de mis pellizcones en su brazo. Le hice saber que yo lo sabía. Lo sabía, y le pedí perdón. Pero no era suficiente para mí, porque también sabía que había cometido actos tan injustos contra él, que nada podía borrarlos de nuestras mentes o nuestros corazones. Tendría que vivir para siempre siendo consciente de todo el mal que le hice a esta sola persona. Me frustré. El cubierto de cocina seguía a mi lado, pero luego estuvo en mi mano y luego su punta estuvo cortando mi piel, en un intento de atravesármelo por el corazón. Igual... no pude. Él nunca habría creído que yo fuese capaz de hacerlo. Yo, en un momento, sí.
Unas manos tomaron mi cara y acercaron mis labios... eran sus manos... y eran sus labios. Entre un beso mojado por lágrimas, de a poco volví a sentir eso... que tu corazón se hincha de felicidad, de paz, de... amor. Sólo eso nos unía, nuestros labios, pero eso era todo lo que habíamos necesitado para que nuestros corazones estuvieran unidos también. Sin embargo, él tuvo que aclararme algo: “Estamos enamorados, no juntos.”
Eso estaba... muy bien. Reí del alivio. Estaba muy bien. Era todo lo que estábamos dispuestos a dar. Él me confesó que estaba enamorado. Dios sabe cuánto soñé con esas palabras. Yo aporté mi parte al acuerdo al resignarme a no poder llamarlo mi novio. O llamarlo en absoluto. Permitir que él me buscara cuando me necesite. En un momento surgieron mis dudas, en cuanto a cuántas libertades se podía tomar, porque después de todo, no estábamos juntos. Ni necesité que él me tomara la mano para ahuyentar todas esas incertidumbres ridículas. Confiaba plenamente en él. El seguiría jugando con sus amigas, y seguiría olvidándose de mí, y seguiría yendo a lugares a los que yo no puedo ir. No quiere decir que no me duela, pero quiere decir que yo ya no le iba a recriminar por eso. Porque el me quería a mí. Él estaba enamorado de mí, y nunca va a sentir algo ni remotamente igual con otra persona, y pobre de él, eso es justo lo que quiso hacerme entender, desde hace tres años, y yo no le creí- que me ama. No sólo eso. Sino que a nadie más.
Lo próximo que recuerdo es andar en bicicleta de la mano, cada uno en la suya, debajo de árboles otoñales con hojas teñidas de rojo y amarillo. Pero obviamente, eso ya no era creíble como todo lo anterior, porque yo no sé andar en bicicleta. Luego de darme cuenta, le dirigí una última mirada, y desperté.