Carta-Ficción #541.

I never wanted to be someone else. It felt ok when I walked in my shoes, it made sense when I looked in the mirror and found my eyes.

This is not a deep psychological analysis of sorts. All I know is this: I read words, saw things and they all meant everything, sure, but they only did because I was the one reading them. That’s the reason I can think of of why I ever took interest in anything. Things had to have something to do with me. But that’s what it is like for most too.

But now I’ve met you and now I’ve seen you with her, I know something has changed. Permanently so. I’m obsessed with what you could be talking about, with the photographs she takes of you, with the connection that might exist between your smile and the fact you guys are holding hands.

It’s not exactly fair, is it?

I won’t let you look at me anymore. I’ve noticed…it’s just that something about your stare makes me particularly weak, something about your eyes makes me particularly drunk. And she’s so sweet. As sweet as honey and she smiles a lot. Maybe that’s what you love.

Can you love?

I’m struck with the sensation that love belongs to us, defective ones. I see loving as a flaw so no one like you, no one so perfect, could ever be found doing it. It makes no sense, that I love you so much and you still can’t feel it. I can’t look in the mirror anymore because I can’t accept that the image I get does not belong with you.

You should forget my name, erase my number altogether. You see us as friends and I hurt. Hold me tight one last time, make an attempt to find some love in the worst part of yourself… then try to bathe me all over it. I’ll simply be her, smile and all. No critical look, no judging eyes full of expectations.