This city has always had a particular relationship with rain. When I got here, it was my least favourite thing about it; it ruined the end of jeans and white sneakers. Over the years, I learned to not only tolerate it but to thrive in it. I now love how it blurs everything around it, especially my memories.

I got out of Technicolor, my favourite bar, at midnight, lit a cigarette, and walked the blocks of the suburb for a long time. It felt like hours; I guess it was a pretty long cigarette since it didn’t seem to end.

The rain washed the dread of walking out of me, and New Order pumping in my AirPods made me hover over the streets. Thunder rumbled; I gazed at the sky; it looked so similar to a disco ball when the lightning struck it that I danced my way to a small bar, where I bought a beer and kept walking. Had my friends noted that I had left? Probably not; that was another thing I loved about the city: it made me anonymous. Not that I always wanted to be, but on nights like this it wasn’t a particular issue.

I got to the corner where we used to drink beers, talking of college anecdotes; not mine, of course; I didn’t have that privilege, but I loved that he had. His stories were so funny and infectious; I could swear that I was there with him.

The cigarette was only halfway consumed when I got to the street where he kissed my forehead goodbye after dancing all night. The rain stopped a little to help me see the memory even clearer; I felt his lips near my hazel hair again, and ran away from the spot.

Breathing heavily, I got to a small bar where he once swirled me around the dancing space, emptying me of all of the kisses that I had to give; the jukebox kept playing “Come On, Eileen.”

I had a few shots there, and the colors of the city popped again; the drops of rain became angrier where he and I once sat in the street, laughing for the first time, maybe. I couldn’t remember anymore.

The alcohol had knocked me out of sanity, and I was ready to call him, so I dialed 30067775… six? Three? What number followed? How could I forget that number?

I got so scared that just like the last digit of his number had escaped my mind, everything else would slip as well. So I ran back to where we laughed, where we danced, where the kisses found me, to where I knew he would be sleeping. That would never escape my mind, the address to an apartment where I would probably never set foot again.

The cigarette stayed lit. I sat down on the sidewalk trying to finish the never-ending cigarette; the smoke started to recreate the shape of him, the curve of his upper lip, the little scar on his cheek, the way his teeth showed when he smiled.

My chest was so tight; I was afraid that if I unleashed it, the whole city would flood. Of course, it didn’t. I was the only one soaking wet, maybe from my tears, maybe from the rain.

When the sun started to come out, the last ash from the cigarette fell to the floor. The building manager asked me if I was okay. I told him I was waiting for the sunrise. I looked up to his window, but his guitar was not against it. I looked at the other window, and a cat tree was there. Did he have a cat now?

“Is this Oak 22nd Street?” I asked, estranged from the trees surrounding me.

“No, miss, this is Maple Avenue.”

I gasped; all the air left my lungs. Suddenly, I couldn’t feel the kisses on my forehead anymore. I remembered them, but they were so, so far away, like someone else’s memories.

I walked home, and in every street I had passed, I saw myself, all of the versions of me, different clothes, different hairstyles, different heartbreaks, all walking the same direction. Converging. I turned back and watched them and smiled. I was the only one who didn’t remember his phone number or his address. I was the one who set all of the others free.

“In late August, magic happens, my sweet peach” — that’s what my grandmother used to say whenever she took me to the park. I would feel like I could fly on the rings and the monkey bars while she read Isabel Allende’s books. It wasn’t until I was in my twenties that I realised she was lost in the spell of the books as much as I was lost in the spell of childhood.

“In late August, magic happens.” I thought maybe it was something she had read in one of her magical realism books. But that is the thing with reality — it usually feels like magic inherently lives within it, crumbling the walls of what reality feels like.

On July 15th, my 2005 Corolla decided to completely fuck me over by only starting the engine when it felt like it. If you think that’s inconvenient, you’re understating the situation — it was unbearable. I was stuck in places for hours; I couldn’t leave my house for days, and the heat was making me crankier than usual, which is saying a lot. This had been by far the worst summer I had ever spent, fighting with my old car and fighting my own mind. I felt so alone; even my thoughts were foreign. I could see the realms that my mind created like a movie I wasn’t cast in.

I ran all summer, hoping to boost some serotonin. It kinda worked. I baked cakes and shared them with my neighbours; that helped a little bit more. I texted all of my friends — some lived in Colombia, some in Argentina, and one was in Australia. On August 2nd, the feeling of nothingness and despair had almost completely turned into only an afterthought. The yellow sun was not burning my eyes, but kissing my cheeks. And that was when I started to see him on my usual run. Fireflies burst in my stomach, making me hover through the tracks every time we passed each other. A huge breeze would always accompany him when he ran past me, making time stop for a second, and the sun turned a shade of peach for the rest of the day. I looked forward to the days when we crossed paths, like a child waiting for a slice of cake at a party.

And then August 22nd came. The day was windier but still hot. I hadn’t run in a few days; I had run out of food and needed air, so I took my chances on my Corolla and went to town to buy groceries. I saw a group of friends buying Sangria and felt my heart ache for the friendships that migration had taken from my day-to-day. Lightning struck the sky, and rain poured while I bought crackers, cream cheese, and Coke Zero. I had the urge to go back home, cry, wallow in my loneliness, so I paid and walked to my car fast enough to get only a few drops on my head. When I sat behind the wheel and tried to start the car, the engine failed. I tried and tried until I got so frustrated that my chin quivered and tears filled my eyes. The clouds were like concrete; behind them, so slightly, I found some shades of orange and pink. I resigned, drank my Coke, and ate the cream cheese with crackers, listening to Cigarettes After Sex on my phone.

A big cloud came towards me — I thought I had lost my mind. I cleaned the tears from my eyes to reveal that they were actually fireflies. A sprinkle of golden raindrops showered me, and the most electric rainbow painted the sky above the old building in front of me. The earthy scent of the wet trees lifted me; droplets drummed softly on my Corolla, the fireflies illuminating everything in a warm glow that wrapped around me like a song. I didn’t care to get wet. I walked towards the rays of sunshine; the tears melted into the rain, and a smile spread across my face. I started to turn, trying to collect as many raindrops as I could with my hands, until something stopped me.

The nape of his neck was freshly shaved, revealing a little birthmark that I wanted to kiss instantly. His dark hair, dotted with little specks of golden water, looked disheveled — I knew that hair instinctively. Softly, he turned to keep me from falling, but it was too late; I fell into him when the amber in his eyes glinted in the sun. He recognized me, and his moustache curved up in a shy smile. I hooked my hands around his neck for stability, then felt self-conscious and pulled them away. He didn’t take his hands off my back, though, lifting me to my feet, smiling bigger and brighter.

“Hi,” he said, as if every time we passed each other on the tracks we had entire conversations.

“Hi,” I said, gathering my bearings. The fireflies danced close by, and his ears turned red; so did his cheeks.

In late August, magic happens — I was convinced it was just something my grandma used to say, until I felt the electricity running through his fingertips, up my spine, all the way to my knees.

“I’m Andrew,” he said, looking into my eyes.

“I’m Emma,” I said, unsure of what to say next. Then lightning struck, and the rain became aggressive. He held my hand and took me to the awning of the restaurant next to us.

We both looked at the sky; the rain was torrential, and all of the color was extracted from it. The light from the restaurant glowed warmly behind us; we both smiled — it was like the sky was forcing us inside.

“Emma,” the name rolled so easily off his tongue, like it tasted sweet to him. “Would you like to have something to eat?”

“I would, Andrew,” I said, biting back a smile.

We entered the restaurant and ordered tea, accompanied by poppy seed cake and cookies. The rain became softer, just a little drizzle. Andrew drank his tea with the same elegance with which he ran, and his laugh sounded like it came from his gut. After the rain had thinned to little puddles in the street, he walked me to my car; the damn Corolla turned on, and I laughed sardonically.

“What?” he asked.

“He starts only on his own timing — there’s no controlling him,” I said, matter-of-factly.

“Yeah, there’s no controlling timing, huh?” he breathed, looking at my lips. I shook my head and dropped my eyes to his lips as well.

The anticipation sat between us. He kissed my cheek and asked me to run with him the next day; I said yes almost like a reflex. My day had taken a turn. When I got home, my friends called; we talked and laughed, and I baked cookies while on the call. The night fell, and the moon showed up. Magic happens in late August, alright — I was now sure of it.

I found the book in Asturias. How would a Venezuelan magic book end up in Asturias, in a library of the farthest town you could imagine? I guess those are the kinds of questions to which fate laughs.

Henry was sleeping when I got home from the airport, so I took a very long shower, the kind where the steam fogs your eyesight; when I looked at myself in the mirror my hair looked copper, it was actually an amber nutty tone, but since I found the book weird things started to happen, my hazel eyes turned darker, my hair turned reddish, my skin was paler and my nails longer.

I felt a little tingle in my fingertips when I rubbed my earlobes; I was sure that Ally and Noah were talking about me in that very moment, so I grabbed the phone to call them, but in that moment a call beat me to it. Ally was calling me.

“Hi baby, why are you calling so late?” It was 11 pm in Bogota, so maybe 5 am in Asturias, and Ally was nothing if not an early morning hater.

“Just thinking about you, Ror. Noah wanted to know if you were jetlagged.” I started applying lotion on my cream-colored body while she talked.

“I don’t think I am, but I guess I’ll find out when I actually try to sleep.” I heard my brother and sister’s tipsy-on-cider laugh and felt my chest ache with how much I already missed them, even though only 20 hours had passed since we had said goodbye. I put on my robe, locked my phone between my ear and shoulder, walked very quietly to my bedroom while they were telling me about their day, laughing very softly so as not to wake Henry up. I took my pajamas and walked outside the bedroom to get dressed with the lights turned on.

I listened to them ramble and fight, like they were very far away; they were, but the phone was right on my ear; it was my attention that was elsewhere. It was hooked on the book that very suddenly slipped between my fingers.

White witches are sacred creatures, meant to be worshiped and beheld. When their powers begin to unfold, there is no room for halfs.

I heard Henry’s footsteps coming into the living room, so I told my siblings goodnight, hung up the phone, and closed my book. But when I looked at the hallway, the lights were turned off. A second later, the lights turned on, and Henry stepped out of the bedroom, his chocolate hair messy from the bed, his bare chest rising and falling with still-sleepy inhales. He walked towards me and kissed my neck.

“You look beautiful,” He said as a statement, but I heard it as if he had discovered something. I hooked a hand at the nape of his neck where his hair curled a little, and inhaled his lemon and wood scent.

“I missed you.” He buried his head in the crook of my neck when I said that, and I clung my nails to his back, trying to latch onto anything of him, maybe if I held tight enough I could keep what felt missing between us.

He separated and studied my hair; I knew he saw the slight color change. He bored into my eyes, but couldn’t quite place what was wrong- what was it? I could see that questioning flying in his mind; he kissed me, languid and softly. That didn’t change while I was gone; the kisses were still gooey like honey and soft like feathers, so it was me who had changed. While our mouths remained together, I fast-forwarded and got ahead of time, him unhooking my robe, carrying me to the bed, whispering chants in my ear while I felt his body on top of mine, but when I opened my eyes, he was tracing my lips with his thumb and looking down at me, gathering his bearings.

I decided to defy my own foreshadowing, so I unhooked my own robe; he did do everything else as I predicted he would. The visions were every so often precise, but most of the time, a slight change could happen. Lying in bed the next morning, I saw him sleep and wished that my premonitions were incorrect, that he would not ask me to get a divorce, that I would not very happily sign it.

I looked for the book and traced my finger through the spine; my grandmother used to say that if you asked this kind of book for an answer while doing that, the page you opened at would answer it.

When their powers begin to unfold, there is no room for halfs.

Lucas and I had been dating for weeks now.

The dates turned into sleepovers, the sleepovers turned into breakfast, that became lunches that transformed into dinners.

I had learned all the ways of his kisses; some were languid and gooey, some were spicy and harsh, and some were fast and mindless. Those were my favourite ones; they usually happened when I left home, with my hair wet from his shower, wearing a hoodie that had a cotton scent, but if I sniffed long enough, I could find the pine-wood smell of Lucas.

On a hot summer night, when we lay awake, he looked at the ceiling while I traced the very few white hairs he had above his ears; he asked me to take a trip to his grandparents’ cottage in the woods. I said yes immediately.

-

So here I was, in my jean skirt and my white oversized T-shirt, watching Lucas unload the bags from his car. With the brightest smile, I thought of taking a picture of how his curls unfolded and framed his face; the sun beamed behind his broad shoulders, so I took my phone and snapped a quick picture.

After we settled our bags in the bedroom and checked that everything was as his grandparents said it would be, Lucas laced his fingers through mine and took a tote bag he had in the trunk of his car; I couldn’t see what was inside of it. He was being secretive; he just said, “Let’s take a walk,” so I followed, holding his hand and his forearm. We walked through trees and weeds; leaves danced between sage, mint, and forest greens that mimic the color of Lucas’s eyes.

When we got to a hidden hill, where we could see everything in the mountains but were hidden enough beneath a chestnut tree, Lucas set a blanket on the floor, two books, two small pillows, and a box of cherries with chocolates. I smiled at him and sat to watch the wooden fences separating the prairies and the horses eating weeds, swinging their tails. Lucas sat next to me, held my hand, and placed a kiss on the inside of it.

“I thought you might like this,” he said. A little ray of sunshine crept between the trees and hit his eyes, making them look olive.

“I love it,” I said, placing a little chaste kiss on his cheek; he blushed, as always, in the same hue of pink. His cheeks became this beautiful peachy shade that made me so, so very proud.

We lay together, looking at the sky through the trees, holding hands, making them dance, intertwining them in different ways absentmindedly for a little while, and then Lucas broke the silence that leaves and birds had filled.

“I used to come here and read my comic books, wishing to talk to someone.” He said forlornly, not looking at me, but I rolled onto my stomach and held his hand between mine while he kept talking. “I’ve never shown this place to anybody.” Now I was the one with the peachy cheeks- “but now it’s yours too.” He looked at me and smiled. I pressed upon his chest, placing my hands where his grey hairs started to show, rubbed my fingers there, and placed a soft kiss; it was subtle; we barely moved, like time had stopped when our mouths clashed together, but when it started to move again it was like it had gained a sort of speed, everything happened so very fast I didn’t realize when he kissed the spot behind my ear, or when I traced my hands on his back gasping for mercy. I regained a sort of consciousness when we were tangled together looking at the sky again, now filled with sweat, the books untouched.

“I’m in love with you, Daisy,” he stated succinctly.

Had I heard him correctly? I was sure I had, but the words took the air out of my lungs; no one had ever stated such a thing to me. The birds and the leaves stopped making sounds; the clouds became foggy; my heart was going to burst out of my chest. I tried to find air, but the oxygen had suddenly vanished. My hands tingled, and I could only hear a far ring in my ears, and far, far away in my mind -I’m in love with you, Daisy- I guess I was as white as a sheet cause Lucas turned to me and helped me sit down, instructing me to breathe in and breathe out.

After my overt panic attack had passed, he looked at me with some sadness in his eyes; I was still bewildered -I’m in love with you, Daisy-, I used to think that love was a matter of luck; some people got to feeling it, and some didn’t. I thought I was a part of the latter group. I read a lot about love, and when the stories were done, I used to think to myself that that emotion was unattainable, but when I looked into the now emerald green eyes of Lucas, my Lucas, I realized: he loves me, and I- I love him.

I felt the panic of letting myself fall leave my body, and jumped right into it, into him, and kissed him. I tasted the cherries and chocolate, I sniffed the pine-wood scent, and bit his lower lip, claiming him as mine. He smiled, but when we separated, he looked confused; he looked lost.

“I’m in love with you, Lucas,” I stated. He was still trying to understand, so I continued, “I think I got overwhelmed.” He softened, so I laced my fingers where they belonged- with his- “Cause I thought love was something made for other people, but now I think that maybe you were made for me”

Lucas’ eyes flickered, and his chest rose with my words; he laid us down, handed me my books, and then opened his. The field in front of us looked crisp, and when the sun started to set, the sky turned the same shade as his cheeks. I wanted to stay with him forever, beneath our chestnut tree, where I discovered that love existed.

Juliet remembers how she turned into a vampire. It was the day she broke up with Sebastian. His last act of… love? To turn her into his own kind.

She also remembers how she felt the morning after the first night of no sleep; after he turned her, there were no more nights of sleep. Only nights lying awake thinking of the joy she used to feel; she now felt nothing at all.

The first morning was the hardest; she waited all day for Sebastian to come back. He never did. Weeks went by, the months passed, and one day she realized she was no longer a 22-year-old waiting for her first love to come back and tell her that he loved her and that he was wrong not to have consumed her completely, that he wanted all of her, all of her now, all of her there, all of her then

One day, she realized that well into her late twenties, she had gone through many beds, many men, and never really felt anything. She had learned that just like the myths tell you, when you turn into a vampire, you create this bond with who turned you, spending a cursed eternity feeling them in your bones.

Seeing their face in every stranger, feeling their hands roaming your body when you’re alone, having them consume your soul, years after the last time you ever saw them.

Juliet wondered if she would never feel anything for anyone ever again; she wondered if he was tattooed so deeply into her skin, would she forever be his? Could she ever be someone else’s?

Maybe it was a matter of taking things into her own hands, going out, and making someone hers.

That seemed rather easy for Sebastian, he made her his so easily, he looked into her soul with his feeline eyes and she felt like a perfect steak, he had learned the chords of her body so well he could play her by heart, so well that learning her own songs was a matter that took her years, she did manage to write a new one all on her own after, but the original was his forever.

She resigned to it. Love just wasn’t made for her. She was a creature to be beheld but never worshipped.

Oh, but poor Juliet dreamed of being worshipped, all day, all night, all the time. Her beauty was such that not being adored was almost a sin.

That was when she met Ethan.

When the light in his eyes and the blackness in hers consumed it all and made both of them fall once again into the abyss, he worshipped her; he adored it all, even the parts that haunted him, even the parts that scared him, even the parts that blinded him; he saw.

Ethan was the first man that Juliet fed from; she learned his songs, learned his chords, played every Led Zeppelin song you could imagine with him.

But she always remembered who taught her those songs; she always saw a glimpse of Seb’s eyes before she finished any with Ethan.

She was consuming him, but he loved it. He was convinced that he could make her his, but what a mistake he had made; Juliet was too hers. Juliet had lost the ability to attach herself to him. That was the price of being a vampire.

She didn’t want to turn Ethan into one, so she walked carefully around the edges, but she knew how easily it was to slip from the ledge and fall into the cliff.

But now Juliet didn’t feel haunted by a vampire; she held the power now, her fangs buried in Ethan’s skin every time he asked her to stay.

She had now fully transitioned.

Breathe in

Breathe out

Repeat

Move your legs forward. Keep your elbows near your chest, head high, body tight, and move forward. Don’t quit; the music is not quitting, why should you? Take a faster pace; let’s go, Josh. You can do this; only one more mile. Come on, man—head high, breathe in, breathe out.

Push through, keep the rhythm and pace of the music. One foot after the other, come on.

-

“Fuck, everything hurts.” I crack my neck standing in the line to enter the club, feeling as tired as I’ve ever felt. I look at my watch: 11 pm. What am I doing up so late?

“Of course everything hurts, man; you ran 20 miles this morning,” Milo says next to me. I’m actually here to keep him company; he loves dancing. I love running; well, actually what I love is the feeling of running, the air hitting my face, the beat of my heart pounding on my chest, the soreness of my muscles pushing through to finish; I love a good physical challenge.

“I did do that,” I say with a smirk. Milo puts his hands on my shoulders and shakes me a little as a congratulatory gesture.

“Well then, you’re perfectly capable of doing some dancing, right?” We kept walking until we’d entered the club, and I gave him a smug nod; there was no way he would hear me now with the music.

The club had high ceilings and lights that flooded the dark room with a bluish glow. My body began to move instinctively; my shoulders relaxed, moving back and forth to the rhythm, chasing the lights that moved from north to south in step with the beat.

Milo gave me beer; he bobbed his head, looking at the crowded room. When he spotted his years-long situationship, Sadie, he bailed on me. I laughed to myself when I saw them dancing together.

I loved being alone on the dance floor, just feeling the music down my body.

Breathe in

Breathe out

Repeat

Dance, shoulders relaxed, head high, eyes closed, dance and feel, feel, feel, feel.

I was in such a trance with the music that I didn’t realise that the floor was flooding; I was suspended on the dance floor, letting my muscles find a rhythm of their own; the music tensed me up and released me, crashing the waves of the beat, once, twice, and a thousand times.

I heard a sweet voice calling my name; how could I blame Milo for bailing on me when I had my own mermaid? I was just not looking for her; she happened to be here.

“Josh?” Luna said with actual amusement in her voice.

“Luna, what are you doing here?” I asked, hoping she’d said she was here cause she knew I needed her.

“Out dancing with the girls.” I hid my disappointment with a nod and told her I’d leave her to it. But when I was walking past her, she took my arm and tugged me, leaving us chest to chest. I put my hand in her lower back just where she has a small birthmark. I smiled and turned her.

Her back to my chest, her hair in my nose, her ear next to my mouth, the flashing lights showered us; she took the beer I had in my hand and drank from it. I gazed while she swallowed, wishing I was the liquid running down her throat.

Time became liquid; was it tomorrow already? I didn’t know; all I knew was she smelled like fresh lemons and tasted like mint and cherries.

When had the entire place gotten filled with water, when did we get submerged in the ocean? When did Luna fully transition into a siren?

I floated with her, watching the lights flicker from blue to purple; I watched her copper hair float, and her eyes crept into me, pulling me towards her like a magnet, unable to resist them. The water on my face, the beat of my heart pounding on my chest, the soreness of my muscles pushing through the music; I loved the physical challenge of dancing with her.

Breathe in

Breathe out

Repeat

I tried to tell myself to keep doing that, but I couldn’t concentrate with her mouth roaming every inch of mine, with her hands tangled in my hair. I couldn’t stop even if I tried; I wasn’t trying anyway. I kissed her like it was the only thing that would help me breathe underwater; I guess I really was eager cause she pulled away and laughed against my lips.

We danced and danced and danced, building momentum and releasing it between gasps and muted moans that faded away with the beat. I watched her bewitch me and prayed for more enchantments.

I’ve heard of the myths, but dancing with a siren is much more dangerous than they’ve written about. I thought that if I wanted to leave, I could, but the thing was… I didn’t want to. I wanted to stay glued to her.

Breathe in

Breathe out

Repeat

The room got little by little less flooded, less loud, but the rhythm never stopped. Not until the sun came out and I woke up next to her, grateful for the kisses she placed on my eyelids, the spells she cast on me, the whispers she chanted “Josh, Josh, Josh”, so easily I was hers.

So easily I danced with a siren.

“Corner”, Chef Sebastian yells as he goes around to the oven to bake the cookies, but not any cookies- the most prestigious cookies in the whole city, or at least that’s what the latest article in the Food & Wine magazine said, filling the bakery with new customers ready to taste the salted caramel with pecan nut cookies. I am – very proudly – in charge of the caramel.

You see, making a caramel is a delicate art in and of itself; it’s a very easy thing to fuck up, but when done incorrectly, it’s the secret to my favourite desserts; it’s the glue that keeps your tasting buds coming back for a hit in every bite.

A caramel can’t be undone, like most things in life. Once the sugar is set on the stove, you either have to commit and make the perfect thing or quit before you burn the pot. I treat a lot of things in my life like I treat caramel, either with extreme patience and attention or don’t bother to set them on the stove of my mind, cause once you realize that you can study and learn that at 170° you have the perfect caramel, its not until you’ve burn a dozen pots and ruined 50 reciped that you understand that making it, its mostly a feeling, you learn to read the amber tones and smell the sugary scents so that you can’t be decived by it’s apparent sweetness. You enter with some ingredients, and what comes out is a whole new thing; the ingredients commit to a relationship where the outcome is indulgent and decadent.

Aaaaand I can talk all the talk, but here I am burning a new pot.

“Fuck me,” I mutter to myself as I see the smoke emerging from my station, so I run, yelling “behind,” making my way to the sink where I toss the pot in water, and look at the vapor that the water becomes once it touches the burning hot pot. I hide my face between my hands and screw my eyes shut, trying to gather my bearings.

Chef Sebastian comes behind me with his salt-and-pepper hair, green eyes, and decades of experience. Working at his pastry shop is the single greatest honor a baker could dream of, and I’ve been fucking it all up, so I try to say something like “I’m sorry” or “It won’t happen again”, but when I open my mouth, nothing comes out, so I just shake my head. He asks me to leave the kitchen, signaling the exit. I take my apron off, filled with rage against myself.

I feel the anxiety run through my head, the tingling in my hands, the heart beats so strong I’m certain that they’ll make a hole in my chef coat, I feel so claustrophobic, that when I get to the back of the little patio behind the pastry shop, the air is so crisp and fresh it feels like the first breath of air I’ve ever taken.

My mind runs wild, with thoughts of burning cookies, nights I’ve spent crying in my bed, the endless bottles of vodka I’ve drunk trying to find myself at the bottom, and fuck fuck fuck the thoughts of David, everywhere, here picking me up, in my bed, taking my clothes off, tasting a nice bowl of pasta I made, laughing mostly laughing. I put my hands against my eyes, as if blackness will make the panic go away, but it doesn’t go away, so I get my cigarettes out of my pocket and light one, hands still shaking.

Chef Sebastian comes out and asks me for a cigarette. He lights it so calmly and takes one, two inhales before he talks, looking at the orange sunset sky.

“I think you’re a great baker, Veronica.” I nod with a lump in my throat. “You need to get out of that head of yours; it’s playing games with you”. He was right. After I broke up with David – well, breakup might be an overstatement – since I stopped seeing David, I had lost all of my focus; I couldn’t stop seeing him everywhere, feeling him all day, like he was haunting me. I kept wondering if I haunted him too, if he also wished he’d kissed me deeper that last night.

I had lost track of time since that night, and I hadn’t realised until this moment that it had been a whole year since that.

“I’m gonna focus, Chef. I’ll get back on my track,” I said, trying to convince the two of us of it. He nodded and finished his cigarette before he went inside. He turned to me and said: “Take 5 more minutes and get back to that caramel.” I nodded. Goddamnit, that fucking caramel was going to be the death of me.

-

“I thought that we could go to that new place downtown?” Vanessa asked me while she put on some lipstick in the mirror by my apartment entrance. I looked absent-mindedly at the photo on my fridge, me smiling with a cone of ice cream in my hand, and my red sweater. “Yuuhuuu, Vee?” Vanessa snapped me out of it.

“Yes, the place next to the fancy restaurant, I heard you”

“You sure you want to go out tonight? You look zoned out. We can go out dancing tomorrow,” she put the lipstick on the table beneath the mirror. I walked there and picked the lipstick up, put some blush on my cheeks, and put both things back where they belonged in my makeup bag while I talked. “I’m sure; I need to have some fun tonight”

“Uhhh, are we looking for a link-up tonight? Vanessa wiggled her eyebrows up and down and winked at me. We met at college like a hundred years ago when we were freshmen, studying business administration – that was definitely not for me – so I dropped out to study culinary arts. Ten years have gone by, and that is still my second-best decision in life; the first one was choosing Vanessa as my best friend. We were both chronically single; she because her beauty was so ethereal with her black hair and her green eyes that she was used to keeping her dating pool open, and me because I… am actually not quite sure why, I guess, because I’m in love with the idea of love, so the real thing feels unattainable.

“I think so, yeah,” I said, not too convinced, but certain I didn’t want to spend the night alone.

“Yeez, at least pretend to be excited”

“Sorry, I had a hard day at work,” I said, opening the door and calling for the elevator.

“Well, woman, forget about burnt pastries and tart lemons. Let´s spice the evening up.” That got a laugh out of me.

We took a ride share and arrived downtown, where she took us to a big club. Music rumbled to the streets, people entered, and the neon lights of the inside let me peek at the graffiti walls that led to the dance floor. Vanessa came back with bracelets, and I looked at the names on the wristbands: “asylum”.

“How did you hear of this place?”

“My boss is handling the account, this one and the restaurant next to it.” I turned my head to where she pointed: a beautiful restaurant; wooden tables and golden lamps showcased the dining room, “Pantry archive”. It looked like the kind of place where you’d have the best crème brûlée of your life; off in the back, a cook walked outside to have a cigarette. I smiled a little at the shared understanding of the little moment between preparations. I nodded at Vanessa, who kept telling me about the business plan her boss had crafted and that she was chosen to be part of the task force to implement such plans in the bar and restaurant, while we walked inside. The music suddenly muted her voice, and I could only hear the minimal techno that blasted from the speakers.

The music made my head stop spinning; I concentrated only on the movements of my body and the strobing lights showering me with infinite colors while I hovered on the dance floor, drink in hand, completely mesmerized by the melodic sounds of what I felt were waves crashing back and forth. I levitated as the waves became more and more rhythmic; I lost track of time- had I been dancing 15 minutes? An hour, maybe 2?

The heat of the dance made my cheeks and lips redder; the drinks made my skin paler, my eyes greener and glossier; my consciousness drifted away. I could see myself dancing, my black soft curls bouncing on my back, and the little prism of light shining through the shattered pieces of my heart, so broken and so pretty in the dim light.

I saw the cook of the restaurant enter the dance floor, and we made eye contact. I shot him a glare, up and down, scanning every part of him. I could see no prism of light through his chest; he was whole. I smiled at that and looked for someone who had a shattered chest like mine. But he was quicker, showed up next to me with a canned beer.

“I’m Chris,” he shouted next to my ear; the music made it sound soft, like a whisper.

“Veronica,” I offered my hand. He shook it, steady, strong, but somehow gently. “You cook in the restaurant next door, don’t you?”

“Are you stalking me?” he said, grinning. I rolled my eyes and opened the beer.

“I’m also a cook-“ I took a big gulp of the can. “Pastry chef, to be specific”

“Huuh, fellow cook. I see,” we cheered to that. And the talking was done; the claps and waves of the music made us forget about time and space- had we danced for an hour or five? Who knew? I saw Vanessa leave to take a call, and a message entered my cell – “Had to take off, have fun with curly guy.” I laughed and could not help but now notice the soft curls that fell on his face, a little wet with sweat, framing his soft nose and thick eyebrows.

We were one dancing. Later that night we were one in my bed; his amber eyes shone beneath his sweaty curls; his curls are this shade of caramel; they are copper almost amber, so are his eyes, but a bit more honey.

I noticed how they bounced between honey and brûlée; mesmerized by this caramel shade-man, I knew in my guts, in my bones, in my lower belly that my life had changed. I think he also knows, by how he smiles while looking through my forest eyes, smiling so devilish and kissing me so smoothly, tracing every inch of my neck with his teeth, like I was the sweetest thing he had ever tasted.

Time stood still as I sat above him, looking down, pressing my forehead to his, inhaling him, lingering in the forever moment that existed beneath us. Just two ingredients, but somehow I knew we had turned the stove on; we were melting into each other; we were a récipe waiting to be baked.

As I said, caramel is going to be the death of me.

I’ve always preferred facts over opinions

Opinions are just perceptions, sometimes wrong ones.

Whereas facts are the only things that hold together reality. More importantly, my reality. So there was no surprise that when I met Juliet, my factual, wired brain ignored all of the bad omens and warnings.

Until I met her, I thought that love was a set of chemicals that the brain released, a mere response to the dopamine rush of her captivating eyes and her flower scent.

The more withdrawal of spending a day without seeing her, the more I questioned if I was going insane. Sure, I could go on and tell you how my serotonin levels hit the underworld the second she left my apartment, or I could tell you how much I loved the oxytocin release whenever I heard her laughter, but why, why do I feel this way?

That must be between only her and God. She must know for sure, how could I be under such a spell and she not be aware of it?

Now the deepest question… My world not only collided when I realized that I was in love with her, despite my best efforts, but I must add, how could she possibly be a vampire?

In hindsight, Juliet was never really hiding her vampiric nature: pale skin, black eyes, and a leather jacket that last one is not really vampiric but sure as hell looks mystical on her.

Sure, you’re never really expecting to meet one until they are right in front of you, and the unusual things about them become clear, yet I choose to ignore them, at least I believe I did. The coldness in her hand, I choose to ignore that every time she passes them through my back.

The fact that she only shows up at my doorstep at night, I also choose to ignore that every time she appears, and very willingly let her in like a recurring dream in front of my door, jumping back into my bed, and every time she leaves, I stay the next day thinking about her, trying to decode how easy she comes and goes.

Now I know, it has always just been her nature; she’s not running from me, she’s just running.

Juliet, it’s the scariest of creatures, so warm between my arms, so cold if I hold her too tight. I thought I was hallucinating when I started to see the signs.

She always makes sure to be very gentle with me, and with my heart, always leaving enough blood in my body for my heart to stay beating despite the fact that whenever she leaves, a big chunk of me leaves with her.

Isn’t that what love is? The conscious action to not let the other person’s heart break. Also, a fact, a heartbreak can feel like a heart attack, quite literally, it feels like your heart is breaking, so I’m grateful to Juliet for being tender with mine.

I like to think that when she feeds off me, she carries me with me all day, maybe all week, so she’s thinking of me as much as I am thinking of her. But maybe if she did, she’d be here with me all day, and we would be two useless individuals, only living to love each other. That’s not practical, so it’s almost better that she leaves right before the sun starts to come up, leaving me only to the dream of how she would look with her hair plastered against my pillow.

Whether she is or why she is a vampire feels almost inconsequential to the real quandary: why am I in love with someone who leaves me, and makes me quiver when I hear the ding of my phone announcing her texts? Shouldn’t love feel easier, less frightening?

Well, not in my experience, in my experience, love feels like a boat in the middle of a sea storm, as the water drowns me, and I am only mesmerized by the beautiful foam in the waves. If I’m in love, my amygdala grows so small that I could see the sun and choose to stay on the side of the rain to feel the lightning strike me over and over and over again.

So paradoxically, she saved me from going insane. The only logical possibility for me to be in love with her is a mythical one, of course, she had to be a vampire with mystical and magical qualities to brake my factual walls one by one, to disable my truth, she being a vampire is the only explanition to why I can no longer see the sun without hating it for hurting her, why I want her to take all my blood despise if that hurts me.

Upon many reviews and verifying plausible scenarios, I must surrender to the ultimate and irrevocable fact, I’ve been chosen to love her and only love her, to vow and protect her from the reality that is not kind with mystical creatures such as her, to be as kind to her seemingly not beating heart, and maybe if I’m lucky, bring it back to life.

You may think I’ve gone mental, and maybe I have, but have you ever met a vampire?

Have you ever fallen into their eyes, their black hair, and their seduction tactics? I must assure you, if you even thought about it… You haven’t, cause when you meet one, the feeling goes beyond your spine, it hits your knees like a baseball bat, and holds your heart hostage, probably never to return completely back into your chest.

So, have you ever met a vampire?

Oliver,

I’ve been at the beach house for a week now, and I haven’t seen you. Are our summers no longer intertwined? Back in 2016, when I came to the house for the first time, you were on the pier. I was such an outgoing teen that I sat down and claimed you as my best friend the moment that I saw you splashing your feet in the water.

You were just sitting there thinking. I love that about you, Oliver. How can you spend time just looking at the sky, thinking, while I read a book or fill out a Sudoku, or whatever.

It’s been 10 summers since that afternoon, 1 since the last one we spent together here. I got so sad when I saw the blue house with all of the blinds closed. Being here without you, Oliver, has made this beach an underwhelming experience; the ocean feels colder, the sun’s less warm, and the sand is rougher on my feet.

9 summers together feel so vastly insufficient. Who will pick daisies with me in the fields in the morning before we make it to the shore, who will set a fire on a cold summer night, who will sneak into my room to look at the stars through my window? I never needed the stars; your eyes were always brighter for me.

I’ve been reminiscing a lot on our pier… I thought about our first very clumsy kiss when I was 17. I had no idea that I craved you so much. Your soft lips were so tender; you kept your eyes closed even after we separated.

The next summer, you came back at 18, 6’0 tall, with a girlfriend in the city. I didn’t realize until last summer how devastated I was that those soft lips were someone else’s. I am now always devastated that your lips were never mine to keep.

Why did it take me so many years to realize that only 3 months a year were borderline cruel compared to all the seasons of you, Oliver?

I want to see you in a winter coat, kiss you in the spring, cuddle in the fall, and skinny dip together in the summer, all of it. Make up new seasons and invent new ways to love you. But we are fragmented and compartmentalized to just 90 days, oh, but so sweet 90 days.

Before you, Oliver, I was like the sea, untamed and chaotic, and when I met you, it was like being completed by the sky, where I could sometimes draw the line where we met, but ever so often disappearing into each other on the horizon.

Funny thing how love both makes you unaware and perceptive all at the same time, altogether and also not at all.

Yours always,

Maya.

What is closure?

A last conversation? A last emotion? A last thought?

If it’s any of those, I’ve never had any sense of closure ever in my life. I am a natural runner, so much so that I made it a personal and also a physical trait of mine.

The first time I ran, it wasn’t really my choice; my parents moved from my hometown to one that felt so different I thought I had left the country, but I actually didn’t leave the country until I was 18, yeah, I was also running then.

By the ripe age of 25, I had lived in 8 cities, 4 countries, and endless apartments. I had also created a very reliable mechanism to avoid getting caught in anything. I can squeeze myself out of pretty much any situation by sprinting to the furthest place I can find.

People may think that this is easy… well, it was, you’ll see, you can outrun pretty much anything. I found it very easy to keep a pace that allows me to marathon my way into new situations.

Remember, I said you can outrun pretty much anything… yeah, there is one thing you can’t outrun, ghosts.

Now, don’t get skeptical. I’m talking about the ghosts of the mind, the kind that are alive in every street you pass, and you can hear their laughter like it’s the first time you’ve heard it.

The kind that makes you dread meeting anybody else cause you just know deep deep in your bones it was a once in a lifetime thing, it was a blessing and a curse to meet them.

The kind of ghost that makes you wish you had never crossed paths, but at the same time gives you hope that chemistry is a real thing, an unavoidable thing.

The kind of ghost that, with a phone call, you could reach and actually, maybe bring them back to life.

I ran from the last city I lived in, trying to outrun my ghost, but as luck would have it, he sat right next to me on the plane. He sleeps with me, keeping me company in the lonely nights when I want to be crying out his name.

I ran away to avoid every street I had walked with him before, and now I find myself imagining walking the new streets holding his hand. And once again, every street in the city is his.

As I said, there is no outrunning them. I’ve been doomed and condemned to drown myself in every bottle of wine, hoping to find him at the bottom. But I can only find myself wishing to fall asleep so that in the dream I could feel his lips on mine again.

I spent years trying to bleach the stains he left in my soul, but it’s like he rewired the chemistry of my brain, engraving his scent in my nostrils, and now I can’t remember how coffee smelled the day before I met him.

It’s like there was only him, ever. I was brought to life when the electricity of his eyes set my heart on fire; that was the first day of my life, apparently.

I reconstruct my life little by little, but I can’t outrun him.

Or…

I don’t want to, at least running, I still have something to run from, and not something to run to.

I woke up.

I woke up next to him.

I woke up next to Nico.

What the fuck is wrong with me? I was drunk… Not alcohol drunk, but drunk on him. Why on earth would he say that he remembers everything about me? Oh, he knew what he was doing. That’s such a Nico thing. He just knows exactly what to say to make me flustered.

I don’t think he knew how much I waited for this to happen. How many nights I went to bed with only him on my mind. God, I sound like Daisy. I should give her a call, see how that second date went.

I should also get dressed and get out of here before I get my heart broken or worse, get forced to ask “What did this mean?”

I’m so scared, I’m terrified, Nico and I could never just be a hook up, we could never not be each other’s end game, it was just a lot easier if we were a friendship end game, I would see him get married to a nice girl and I would probably stumble into horrible dates forever longing to laugh with someone as I laugh with sweet Nico.

He looks so peaceful sleeping like that, his back is so pretty, filled with freckles, I’ve seen them before, but never quite noticed the constellations they form on him. My finger runs slightly through them, barely getting to him. I just hover my finger, but he moves a little, so my fingertips trace them, and I freeze. He turns his head to me and smiles without fully opening his eyes.

With his head on the pillow, he passed his arm around my waist, and I once again froze. I removed my hand from his back.

“No, leave it.” It sounded so sweet, that’s a brand new Nico there.

He’s always been very sweet, but this tenderness is so unexpected; he’s usually much more teasing and quite honestly annoying. That’s why we work so well, we give each other a hard but very fun time.

And boy was last night fun. Also, it was like we were meant to do that, we found a rhythm so perfect so fast, like we synced into each other, the second he carried me to his bed.

I kept drawing little constellations on his back, he just drifted away and closed his eyes, stroking my upper thigh so slightly, like slowly passing through pages of a book.

We both fell back asleep, and then the Sunday morning became hotter around 11 am, so we agreed on him getting bagels, while I made some scrambled eggs with bacon.

This is the coolest part about this whole thing: I feel like I belong in this kitchen, I also belong in his bed, but I mostly belong in his arms. Now, should I ask what last night meant?

Nope. I will not get into that now. I will make coffee, add eggs, and bacon, and is that unsalted butter? Yup, probably a sign to make him a cake, yes, bananas, he’s getting some banana bread, lucky boy.

All of the worries leave my body as soon as I crack the eggs into the batter, preheat the oven, and start whisking. He has all of the ingredients I need. I could do this recipe with my eyes closed, so I have everything ready and in the oven before I hear his keys in the lock.

He gives me a little peck on the forehead as he sets the table with the food, some cream cheese, the bagels, and the coffee. We sit down to have a slow Sunday together, right on cue, when we are finishing eating, the oven dings.

“Hmm, so what smells sweet wasn’t only your hair, baby?” That pet name made my legs go a little weak.

“I made banana bread,” I said as I took it out of the oven and served it.

He sliced a piece for both of us, cut a little with a fork, and blew the heat off it. When I thought he was going to eat it, he brought it to my mouth. I guess my eyes went wide with confusion because he laughed.

“Don’t you want to taste it? You took time making it, you should have the first bite.”

“But… I made it for you. I want to know if you like it.”

“I already know I like it, Layla.”

“And how do you know that, Nicholas?”

He laughed at that and took the fork to his mouth, closing his eyes and taking in all of the flavors, nodding as he found the traces of cinnamon, nutmeg, and vanilla.

“Hmm, told you I’d like it, tastes like you.”

I think I blush because he coughs and says, clarifying:

“I mean, your perfume is cinnamon’s, I really like… cinnamon.”

“Cinnamon, huh?”

He moans while eating some more cake and making a sound that is now way too familiar for reasons other than my baking. That thought makes me blush, so I take a bite, and then I lean in, sit on his lap, and kiss his perfect lips. I guess he wasn’t expecting it because his eyes opened wide, and then he melted into it. When we separate, I get the confidence to do it. Now seems as good a time as any, so I go for it, I throw the question out there:

“Nico, what does this mean?” He hugs me and buries his head in the crook of my neck and smells me, thinking, so I also sniff his hair; he smells like pinewood trees, I like that an alarming amount.

“Nothing,” he keeps his head there, and continues.

“I think this was always bound to happen. I think we’re best friends in every universe. I’m just glad that in this one, we also get to fall in love.”

“Fall in love?” The words linger a little heavy; I’m really scared of them. I’ve never felt them, and I fear I might feel them with Nico.

“I meant what I said last night, I think I’ve known for a while now that I’m falling for you, Layla.”

I’m speechless, I can’t get the words out, I think I feel like falling in love with him too, but-

“Don’t worry, baby, I’ll fall first and catch you when you get here.”

“What’s the point anyway?” I ask over the phone as if I’m being forced to walk inside.

“Exposure therapy?” asks Layla on the other end of the phone. Over the phone, I could hear Nico eating something, so I cut the conversation short to let them hang out without having to micromanage my fear of dating on the phone.

“I guess, look, I’ll go into the restaurant now, I’ll call you back later.”

“Good luck, girl,” said Layla. “Good luck, girlie,” said Nico. I just laugh at the love birds and hang up the phone.

When I entered the restaurant, there was Lucas, sitting, wearing a White shirt with his chocolate curls very messy over his glasses. I looked so different than what I thought he might like. But then again, I haven’t dated in years, what do I know? It took me almost two years to get over Alex; just being fine after that killer heartbreak felt like a win to me. Why did I have to get back out there… maybe even get hurt again by a boy who would rather date a “clean girl”? That’s just not me, I’m a lot more of a chill girl, white shirt, baggy jeans, and messy soft curls. Ugh, why am I even thinking about what his type is? It’s just a second date, and I don’t know… I’m going over the branches. I should just go to the table, before he sees me, yes, I should do that, let me just… fuck, he saw me. I wave while walking there, and of course, he stands up and pulls my chair for me to sit, damn it, he’s not only gorgeous, but he´s also a gentleman, but I already knew that, he was so charming on our first date, he gave the chastest kiss at the end of it and I have been thinking about it for the last week, and it frightens me, so fucking much, i want to run, I can’t be catching feelings, I just can’t this was supposed to just be a way to get my groove back, I’m not supposed to daydream about what kind of cookies the guy likes and bake them for him.

How would he look eating my chai latte cookies? I bet he would look adorable eating them while coding something on his laptop. Of course, he’s an engineer; he’s just the perfect nerdy, cute guy, isn’t he?

Leave a comment

When I get to the table, and he bends to give another very chaste kiss on my cheek, he snaps me out of my mental car wheels, and he scents intoxicates me, is so good I think I black out.

The date goes fine, it’s not great.., I can feel how cold I’m being; it’s not on purpose, I just don’t find it easy to make conversation, but he’s being a trooper carrying it on his shoulders.

“So then, Miguel O’hara Spider-Man tells Miles that he’s an anomaly and that the Peter Parker in his universe should be alive”, he explains. I nod, taking my water to my lips, as he slips his card to the waiter to pay for dinner.

“And what did Gwen do?”

“I won’t spoil it for you. We can check it out sometime, if you’d like.” Oh boy, would I like it. I would, very much so in fact, but I can’t bring myself to say that, so I just nod smiling, I think he understands, cause he smiles back.

He didn’t want dessert at the restaurant; he said he knew a spot, so we were just walking the sidewalk. It was kinda wet for the rain, it wasn’t really cold, he kept talking about more movies I should check out after we watched “Into the Spider-Verse”, and we established that we had to check out “Entergalactic.”

I liked that we had to do things; the conversation was softer, less uncomfortable. There was a rapport between us, like we had finally discovered a language that had been lost, and it was finally available and ours.

We got to an ice cream shop, it was small, Italian, homey.

“What flavors do you like, Daisy?”

“Hmmm, I don’t know, nutty… Which ones do you like?”

“I like the Hazelnut one.”

“Hazelnut sounds fine.”

“How about I get you hazelnut, and I get almond, so we can share.” I really liked the idea of sharing ice cream with him, our spoons dancing around the cones, softly, almost touching but not quite; it was intimate, it was sweet. I nodded, and he asked for the cones.

We walked outside with our ice creams, he shared his with me, and I did the same with him. We stood next to a lamp post, eating and sharing, and watching the clouds that moved around the moon every so often, covering her. He looked down at me, my eyes, then my lips, then my hair. I opened my mouth very softly, inviting him for something other than a little peck.

When he bent a bit more, putting his hand on my jaw without breaking eye contact, his ice cone fell. I tried to keep the tension, but I looked down and burst out laughing. Still, with a hand on my jaw, he asked me.

“It fell on my shoe, didn’t it?” There was so much humor in his words, but also such a foxy look in his eyes, I just nodded, laughing.

He shook his head, making his curls bounce above his glasses, laughing, he got closer to my lips and kissed me.

We stayed glued to each other for a while as the world stopped for us, the cars didn’t move, the clouds stayed put, the raindrops paused their way to the floor as we felt each other so softly.

I separated from the kiss ‘cause I wanted to look at his eyes, and he hummed while he got his bearings, smiling, smitten. We both looked at his shoe and laughed.

“You want to share?” I asked, offering my half-eaten ice cream.

“I wouldn’t want to impose.”

“Well, Lucas, you should’ve thought of that before dropping your ice cream on your shoe,” I said, flirting, teasing him a little.

He scooped a little of my ice cream and took it to his mouth. I followed the whole Trail with my eyes.

“You’re very charming, you know that?” I gasped, shocked at the statement.

“I am not charming.”

“Yes, your blissful unawareness about it, it’s what makes it so special, Daisy.” he kissed me again, hugging me, more confident, tasting like hazelnuts.

My nails have always been very long; it’s a genetic thing, my grandmother’s have always been the same. I come from a long line of women with witchy, sharp nails, always painted red, always ready to claw into things.

When I was just a child, I would listen to sad songs with my grandmother. I didn’t quite understand the aesthetic of being sad. The older I got, the more I saw the sadness behind the choice of songs, behind the poems she wrote, and the beers she drank.

I thought I would cut the cycle, but then I met him.

Hair so black, eyes so deep, humor so dark. It’s been many years since I last tasted him, but if I close my eyes, I can still taste the smoke in his kisses.

As I said before, I didn’t quite understand how someone would be so sad, apparently so uncalled for; it was just a part of her existence, being sad a remnant of the past. I thought it was almost performative, just for the kicks of it, until I had my very first cigarette without him, hoping he would come back. Of course, he never did.

Don’t get me wrong, I was the one who left, but he didn’t chase after me, he didn’t wonder if I felt alone in my bed, or if I needed one last hug, he just accepted that I was no longer in his life.

Did he think it was easy? Did he wonder how I was on a rainy day? Were my nails forever scarred on his back? Was I a permanent reminder in his life? Reminder of what, anyway?

For me, he was a reminder of life itself. How could I ever exist without him drawing the lines where I started and finished all at once, with no margin for error? He never drew me outside the lines, as he knew me by heart; even the first time he saw me, he knew where I would start, and he knew where I ended.

I knew too. I could read his face with just a glance, make him laugh without thinking twice, and make him upset about not looking at him as long as he’d like. Now I wish I had looked longer.

Now, I listen to Pink Floyd songs hoping to feel the nostalgia consume me, I smoke, trying to recreate his shape, drink, and dream of calling him. Maybe he picks up… maybe I’ll invent a way to go back in time, kiss him deeper, and bury my head in his chest so deep that I’ll engrave myself into his heart and lungs, and every time he breathes, forever he can only smell my perfume.

I want to forever feel the pain that he was to my heart, cause it felt like living whenever he looked at me and saw me, all of me, even with my clothes on. How impractical to wish for him at every shooting star and to blow his name at every candle.

I know this pain won’t last forever, and boy, do I savor it every time I feel it, crying out his name louder and louder, waiting for him to come… and get me, but only I come to get myself.

Did I just leave so easily? What were sharp nails useful for if not to claw myself into him before leaving? Of course I left marks, of course I shattered everything surrounding me before, of course my nails left marks everywhere before I got tired.

I now understand what long nails are useful for. I now understand why nostalgia is an addictive feeling; it gets you hooked, you can’t get out, you can’t escape it, you can either consume it or be consumed by it.

I consume it, and let myself burn with the feeling, until it runs its course through me, and I can no longer see his face. I will miss seeing his face everywhere I go, doing anything I do, cause every day a little birthmark of him disappears from my mind, but before it does, I make sure to worship it.

Beers come, and beers go in the bar; someone tackles someone else; my friends are way too loud, so I plan my Irish goodbye. I will go grab a beer, drink it at the bar very fast, and leave. I just want to sleep. Yup, that sounds like the perfect exit for tonight.

When I got to the bar to ask for a beer, I sat looking at the door, dreaming about walking out, but then he came in, looking as pretty as ever. Milo, freshly shaved, white t-shirt, black messy hair, I tried to play it cool. Last time we saw each other, we kinda agreed on not talking anymore, that hurt, it hurt bad. I love Milo, he’s my best friend, he’s just a serial lover boy, and I… I don’t think I’m cut out to love. He really wanted to catch me, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to be caught, so I guess it’s better if we stay away from each other for a while, maybe for good. Fuck, just thinking about that makes my heart shrink to the size of a peanut.

I looked away, but there was no avoiding him; his eyes grew so big you’d think he saw a shooting star. I asked the bartender for two beers. What was the harm? We’ll say hi, chit chat, and then I’ll go to bed.

Milo got there so fast, he practically jogged to me.

“Hi”, he said, his voice hushed, almost like he was asking permission to talk to me. I just smiled and handed him the beer. He held it and drank a little, looked at me, so pleading with those hazel eyes.

Maybe two hours had gone by between beers and laughs. We played pool, darts, and now we were sharing a cigarette on the street. We didn’t really talk; we just enjoyed each other’s company. He took a long puff of his cigarette. I stood there looking at his pretty hair. He exhaled the smoke. I wanted to be that cigarette so bad. I tilted my head and smirked.

“How’ve you been, Milo?” My voice was low.

He took the cigarette and took another puff. “I’m good, Sadie.” He didn’t look at me. I could feel the weight of his words. I just smiled with contempt.

“What are you doing out so late anyway? No midnight scrapbooking tonight?” He teased me; he knows I hate being out so late. It started to rain very faintly. We could stay in the small space under the awning without getting wet.

“Ha ha, I figured if I didn’t accept the invite tonight, my friends would kick me out of the group chat.” He laughed at that, and I felt really proud to hear his laugh again.

For a moment, it was just us, looking at the small raindrops through the lamppost in front of us.

“I really missed you, Sadie.” He didn’t turn to see me; he just kept smoking…so did I.

“I went to that place that you like the other day.” I said, trying not to get into our drifting relationship.

“The one on 6th?”

“Yeah… the donuts were really good.”

“You should’ve called me, there’s a new place uptown with better sweet treats.”

“Yeah, I should’ve,” I said, almost to myself. He picked up on that and turned to face me.

He’s so tall, so delicate. I hate to see the angst on his face as he searches for a glimpse of hope in mine. I want to give it to him. I just love him so much, but I can’t hurt him any more than I already have.

“Why didn’t you?” He’s aching, trying to keep his words composed, but I can feel the crack at the end of his sentence.

“Milo, don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Just, don’t.” I try to keep it casual, but there’s so much love between us that it’s impossible not to break a little saying that. He dropped his shoulders and exhaled deeply, shook his head while tossing the cigarette, and turned his back to me.

I held his bicep very softly. He turned to face me again and put his hand on top of mine, caressing it. I took my hand back fast, and he looked as defeated as I’ve ever seen him.

“What do you want, Sadie?” Low, sad, hurting.

“Nothing.”

“Right, very on brand for you.” The irony isn’t lost on me, so I just look at him, swallowing my emotions. I try to say something, but nothing really comes out. I just searched for his eyes.

“I think about you all the time.” I shake my head no when he says that, pleading with my eyes to drop it, while we can still stay friends.

“Stop,” I say dryly.

“You know, Sadie, sometimes I wish I had never met you.”

That one did it. The tears started to form in my eyes, the lump in my throat, the burning desire to run.

“Whenever I have Mexican food, whenever I hear a fucking guitar. Sadie, I fucking breathe and I think about you. And it hurts so bad, I hate it.”

“Milo, stop it.” This one comes out like a beg. The rain gets harder, and he just stands there, looking at me getting soaked.

“All I want is to go back in time and forget that I ever met you. But I can’t unknow you. I will never not know you. Even if we never see each other again, you live in me, Sadie.”

“Stop,” I whisper.

I’m crying. Crying because of how much he loves me, and how much I want to love him back. I just stare at him, needing him to stop talking. He looks at me, hoping to hear something back, but I don’t give in. So he takes a step back, and for the first time, he leaves, running away from the conversation. I watch him go, wiping his tears as I wipe mine.

It’s late, 11 maybe 12 pm, I don’t recall, time really does fly when you have fun, I always have fun with Layla, she also has fun with me, I know she does, she cackles sometimes at my jokes, and I make a lot of them; usually in hopes of hearing that cute cackle of hers. I’m rambling, I guess… she broke up a week ago with Aaron, so she needed the pick-me-up of some quality friend time. I didn’t like him for Layla. He didn’t notice her nails when she had just come from the salon, or that she probably had a rough week when she smelled like brownies on Fridays, he just ate the brownies, never asked why she was baking, she loves to, yes, but when she does it at night, it’s because she’s stressed out.

I, on the other hand, broke up with Carly last week cause the chemistry just wasn’t there; she was great, but she was not great for me. I didn’t want to waste her time, so we ended things amicably.

Layla came back with a bag full of chips. After the sugar rush of a whole ice cream bucket, I needed the salt. She sat down very close so we could share the chips, and I grabbed one from her hands. She shot me a deadly look, and I ate the stolen chip, staring at her, smirking a little. “Hey, that was mine,” she said.

“Snooze you lose, honey”, I said, laughing a little. “Don’t honey me, Nicolas.”

“Don’t Nicolas me, Layla.”

“What are you gonna do, Nico, eat the whole bag?”

I took the bag from her hands and held it up with my arms. She’s petite, 5’2 to my 5’9, with my arms up, she didn’t have a chance to get it, so I ate chip by chip as fast as I could. Layla started to climb the couch and my body like a tree to get the bag, so I put my free arm around her, the bag fell, and we just stood there, eye to eye, my arm in her waist, her hand on my arm, our noses way too close, I had to let her down, but I didn’t want to. So, I just said, “You win, I won’t, Honey, you.”

“Yeah, great win, the chips are all over the floor,” she said, smiling.

“Like you have to clean it up,” I said, smirking. She let go of me and relaxed a bit.

“I’ll help you clean—”

“Nah, I got it.”

She sat on the floor as I went to the kitchen, looking for a broom, came back with it, and started to clean. She ate a few of the ones that stayed in the bag.

“You didn’t like him, did you?”

“Huuh?

“Aaron, you were not fond of him.”

“Uhhm, he’s a nice guy.”

“But?”

I just stared at the floor, pretending to clean. I said, “No but. Honey,” trying to steer the conversation toward the honey part and not talk about Aaron. I didn’t want to talk about how unfit he was for her; it felt bad to see her not being loved as she deserved.

“I see what you’re doing.” She said.

“Oh yeah, and what’s that?” she just hummed and smirked, looking at me. I couldn’t resist the eye contact; it was too much.

“Fine, I was not a fan”, she gasped, exaggerating, saying “Nooooo”, then deadpanned at me.

“Whaaat?” I said, laughing a bit self-consciously, “Nothing… just, what didn’t you like about him?”

I thought about it for a second; what didn’t I like about the guy? He was nice, normal, but what was so… unbearable? Maybe that was it, the reason why I didn’t like it was a bit unbearable.

“He didn’t see you”, she looked at me with her head crooked, curious, searching for my face, trying to understand. She didn’t say anything, just waiting for context, so I had to elaborate.

“He never asked you why you made brownies at night.” She ate a chip from the bag, very slowly, looking through her mind for what that meant. I set the broom on the wall with the chips that I cleaned, and sat down next to her, set my face on the sofa to look at her, her soft green eyes, her delicate nose, her brown hair, she just kept looking at me, waiting for me to elaborate some more.

“You only bake at night if you’re upset, Layla.”

“And how would you know that?” She pressed her head on the couch next to mine, looking at me, she was piercing into my soul. I liked it.

“I know you, Hon—”

“Stop it, Nico,” she said, hitting me softly on the chest. I grabbed her hand, and I didn’t let go of it until I said, “I mean it, I remember everything about you.”

“Is that so?” Her smirk was playful and beautiful.

“It is so, I even remember things that never happened.” In that moment, there was no going back; it was out there, and the joking was now slightly flirtatious. She touched my forehead with the back of her hand, laughing, she said: “Are you having a stroke?”

I laughed softly and shook my head no.

“I remember how you tasted against my lips,” she opened her mouth to that and suck some air; something shifted.

“We’ve never kissed, Nico.” She laughed at her own words.

“Then maybe we should.” I scooched a bit closer to her, she didn’t move, she didn’t go, she stayed, she kept the tensión and sat with it, sat with me.

“Maybe…” Layla said almost to herself.

“I love that memory.”

I closed the distance a little more, so did she; it was almost like we were magnets to each other, no gap, we were just one, kissing, breathing each other, tasting, and nipping and remembering, remembering the moment we were living.

“This is a bad idea,” Layla said to herself. I separated from her and stood up, giving her a way out. She climbed me like a tree once again, but not playing this time, I held her, and she crossed her legs around my torso. We kissed again.

“I want to remember this, too, Nico.”

— C.A

.