This morning, when I finally got to be alone again, my new apartment felt cold. I thought to myself, how strange that feeling was, as on inside, I seem more and more like that. Wasn’t I supposed to feel nothing?
All of a sudden, I went back in my mind to my first year of college, to the warmest spring I was ever given to live by now, three months of sweet heart beats and scent of lilacs.
I then tried to remember his e-mail address, as we kept writing to each other long after our spring together. The room started to get warmer as I found myself typing my thoughts down, writing him a letter from a fifteen years distance:
“Do you remember how everything started, of our hands together? Do you remember our bench in Herastrau and how we felt our love was since forever? Do you remember the book we both read and the love poems we thought were written for us? Do you remember the turquoise ring and the ceramic angel? Do you smell lilacs and think of me, too? Do you still cry because you’re happy? Do you remember my eyes as I remember yours? Do you?
You were my purest love, and I am sorry.”
And the e-mail was sent. I thought that, even though the story was so far that seemed from another life, the words were written for myself, too, and by saying sorry, to find a way to forgive myself, my wondering shoes and need of being free (Back then, I didn’t know freedom can be also experienced in two).
There were the smallest chances for his old goofy e-mail address to still exist, even smaller for him to reply to me. But then, he did:
“HI. THANKS. I AM WRITING FROM WORK AS I DON’T WANT MY WIFE AND TWO KIDS TO READ IT. I AM NOT THE PERSON YOU MET ANYMORE, LIFE IS A LESSON AND I DON’T THINK OF THE PAST. I AM GLAD YOU TRAVEL. GOOD-BYE”
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