Chapter Text
Today is Sunday, October 26th, 2025. It’s 6:59 p.m., two days before my possible thesis defense, and I thought of you. I’ve thought of you since those days, not often — maybe in stretches of months, or in periods between weeks or years: when the moon looks brighter than usual, when I see red balloons, when Crunchyroll ads pop up, when I notice the stars, when I see Petri dishes, lab coats, images of Saturn, swings, lakes, certain sunsets, when I sit near people talking about how endless watching One Piece would feel these days, when Spotify adds The Beatles to my queue, when I look at my keychain (a gift from my dad, with a Mexico souvenir hanging from it), when people mention Mexico in general or when I receive earthquake notifications from there, when Ohio memes show up, when I stare at a cup of coffee… when I find myself lying on my bedroom floor finally understanding what I once caused you.
It’s been hard. I was a fucking asshole to you. I didn’t fully understand how much until I turned twenty. I stood in your shoes, and it scares me to think I may never forgive myself. I know you didn’t deserve any of what I did — that I put you in an impossible position, that I took advantage of your affection and your attention. When we talked during the pandemic, I was cruel again. I was seeing someone at the time, and out of nowhere you and I started talking again, and I felt it… maybe I didn’t clearly remember what we had been, but I realized I still loved you (in ways I wasn’t allowed to anymore), that I could have thrown away whatever I had with someone else because of my feelings for you; admitting that scared me more than I could handle at the time. So I was cruel. I pushed you away.
I looked for you again later, maybe out of guilt, until one day you just weren’t there anymore. Should I take that as a sign not to send this? Yes. But I would love to be selfish. A few days ago, I logged into Facebook. I hadn’t been there in a long time; it felt like dusting off an old book. I’m in such a boring class that it somehow made me remember how good the games there used to be, and one thing led to another until I found myself staring at the search bar. I thought about your name during class. I thought about “just taking a look,” as if deep down I didn’t know it was a bad idea — but I’ve never been entirely rational. I typed your name and clicked faster than I’d like to admit; suddenly I remembered the username I once invented. I typed it into the search bar like I was trying to find my thirteen-year-old self before she made a mistake, and an account appeared that I didn’t remember — an account I never closed. I tried logging in, but I couldn’t remember any password or email, and judging by the username, I practically gave up; I made a couple of attempts, told myself “it’s better this way,” and went to sleep.
Until, for some reason, half-dreaming, my brain handed me a half-second clue and, through muscle memory, I got in. And God… my head has never been that silent as when I opened our chat. My mind just shut off. I felt a strange relief, like I had found something that had been lost for years, and two seconds later I burst into tears uncontrollably, unable to stop. It felt like something was slipping away from me (which makes no sense), like I was trying to grab clouds. I read messages, I read chats… chats with Y****, chats with L****, chats with you, and chats with someone I don’t even remember who they are (but I told them about you). I remembered more than I would’ve liked to — which is probably exactly what I deserve. I didn’t read everything that same day; I started with your chat, and I filled with nostalgia, anger at myself, guilt, and grief. I thought about writing to you then, I wished you would magically think of me, until I remembered that supposedly six years have passed, that I’m not sixteen anymore and I should think and act like it.
And I know it’s not possible that anything still exists; I know I only miss the comfort of those days, because even if they were intense and full of pain and lies, you were my home in those moments — a home I accepted I lost because of my own decisions, but one I deeply thank you for having given me. I’m not here to justify what I did; no matter how old I was, it was wrong.
I realized what a disgusting person I was back then (I thought I had an idea until I read everything). Gema, the damage I caused you has no forgiveness; I was a nightmare — not just with you, but with your family, your friends… it’s a guilt I don’t know if I’ll carry until the end of my days. It’s been almost a decade since that first private message you sent me, after I lied saying I lived with my uncles in that group. Lies were the only way I knew how to escape reality, and even through lying I built a fucked-up version of myself. It suffocates me that I still think of you this often. I’m afraid I won’t love the same way again, I’m afraid I won’t mean to someone what I meant to you, because it has felt that way…
A few days ago, if someone had asked me whether anyone truly loved me, I would’ve said no, until I read… and read… and read. Yes, I was loved — deeply loved by you; you even accepted me after I “confessed,” something I had somehow erased from memory… and you were right, we hurt each other. I hate thinking that this could hurt you… that maybe because of that you should leave me exactly where I belong: in the past. That’s the advice I would give a friend nowadays. Years ago I used to wonder if the day we finally left each other behind would feel the same… After that last time, I’m not even sure what I was waiting for, or who — you in another form, or someone else entirely.
I’m grateful you ran from me, the way I never managed to run from you, how since that day sin whispers at the back of my neck what I am, what you made me learn I am. My first mistake was that you felt like home — my home, a place I belonged; that day I realized I would always want that promise to remain standing.
— “Could we still see each other? In Ohio.”
— “I’d still like to see you.”
— “When?”
— “I’m going to the USA in December.”
I had never seen a blue line so short.
Close and far, like always. Today even farther, for my sake, for yours. I haven’t escaped — not completely; it took me ten years to write this, to accept it, because saying it out loud makes it real, that I still regret it, that I failed the person I least should have failed, that your memory is permanent salt in a wound I don’t know if it can still close or if it’s necrotic tissue consuming me entirely. I still remember your full name, your favorite planets, the memory of your father, the circular windows in that room they built for you, the red balloon, the swings, Saturn, the moon, the necklace, the bouquet of flowers, the letters, poems, drawings, paintings… chess… when I left, when you came back, when I heard you say, “Even after all these years, I never felt like we ended.”
That day I got angry; I answered like it was obvious that “I didn’t feel the same,” as if I wouldn’t have paid anything to go back, as if I wouldn’t even now (I know it’s wrong). It embarrasses me — a lot — but that’s how it is, I guess that’s how these things are… senseless. Woman to woman, after losing you I regretted it; I asked God to have mercy on me, to take away whatever was wrong with me, to make me like men. We would laugh at that now if you knew how that turned out. At the end of the tunnel — years, months, days, hours, minutes, seconds, nanoseconds… my promise still stands. If you want to see me, you can see me; if one day you want to talk to me, you can; if one day you want me to listen, I will.
No matter how much I deny it, no matter how much I try to ignore it, you are part of me, like that time I told you it felt like finding a gemstone inside a cave. You shaped me from the second I met you; you are a web of red thread wrapped around my arms, chest, and legs — you suffocate me without even being present.
And I wish — I truly wish — I could apologize to you in person, because if I ever get to look into your eyes close enough to count your eyelashes, I would tell you I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m truly sorry, so deeply sorry, a million times sorry. I’m sorry.
I feel like I’m a flaw in other people’s lives, out of place. I read your apologies in that chat: you saying you had hurt me and that you regretted it; you sounded desperate. Whatever happened there, I just want you to know you didn’t hurt me. I’m sorry for my silence back then, sorry for the lies, for the days I disappeared, for the times I used you, for the tears you cried because of me, for the pain I caused you, sorry for the lack of attention, sorry for arguing to defend my lies, sorry for surrounding you the way I did, sorry for dragging this to third parties — your friends and family — sorry for the lack of peace, sorry for my decisions, sorry for writing this, sorry for using the vulnerability you once gave me against you, sorry for spending hours searching for photos to convince you I was someone I never was and never will be, sorry for never keeping any of those promises, sorry for never being able to invite you for coffee… I’m sorry this is all I can do.
Because if that red thread theory exists, yours is tied to your current partner, but I think without realizing it I tied mine to some tree in the past, on that planet. I wish you would forgive me, because I never managed to forgive myself. Since that day I don’t think I deserve anything more, and I hate myself for that. I wish you could look at me and hear this. But this is where I ask myself if it’s normal to miss someone ten years later. How is that even possible…? Do you ever think of me? Or did you forget me already?
A selfish part of me would love for you to remember me, but another part hopes you erased me like I never existed, because I hurt you, because I marked you, because even among cat signatures, birds, roses, blue eyes that never existed and a rusted shell casing, maybe I’m still floating somewhere… just like you float among red and white petals, between the moon and the sun, between flowers and fireflies, between gemstones and gray hearts, used paintbrushes, aged oil paints, Beatles songs (again), Coca-Cola bottles, torn erasers, empty hair dye boxes, rivers outside Mexico, your city’s slang, convention ads, earthquake notifications, brown eyes, scars like desert waves or scratched CDs, leafless trees, and the eternal emptiness of my voicemail inbox. I will look at the space from here — the space where we only coexist — until maybe one day our bodies meet again… and if not in this life, I hope it’s in the stars.
I’m not proud, I’m ashamed, I’m guilty, and I can’t help but think I’m behaving like my mother (someone who has made many mistakes), but this is all I can do with what I have… “I’m sorry,” “I regret it,” and “forgive me” are very short words for the emotional hemorrhage I feel writing this shit, but it’s the most honest thing I’ve ever written… If life ever crosses our paths again, I would speak about this honestly, because I’m not trying to look good or bad. Right now, this just is what it is… whatever it is.
It’s the truth. 8:37 p.m.