Life is so strange, or perhaps so perfect—at this point in history where it would be more than perfect to meet, and yet here we are: you in your world, me in mine, a pair of fools… or is it just me?

Memories and time have merged into nostalgia and distance. Imperfect moments of our time come to my mind, yet filled with magic, complicity, and love. And in your mind? Today, in your reality, what does your soul carry? Only the beautiful, only the meaningful fragments of that time?

For many years I asked a million questions to your ghost, to what was left after the silence and a farewell without a date. And I confess—I held on to your gaze, that sweet gaze, never bitter no matter the circumstances. I held on to what we lived, because if I think of what could have been but never was, I might reignite a flame that once burned me.

“Wait,” I told you so many times, as your image faded into the passing of time. I wanted to tell you I was transforming, that now you would surely be proud of me.

At some point, someone rescued me without my asking, and the universe conspired so I could fly far, step out of the haze, and find my own light after being buried in my ashes.

I wish I could tell you all the things left unsaid—we could even sit down with a liter of coffee, or why not, tequila…

Is this a date?