Autoficción y profecías

  January. An empty page, Twilight -like. Vampires. A trip to hell, to all the things we didn’t talk about. A trip to awkward silences. February 15: 341 minutes of Stubborn Love on loop. February 25: Numb. Tired of carrying it all. Alone while you hold me with dead arms. So lost in my head, spiraling into myself. I killed the love. It’s over. 7 p.m. Danish classes. Exhausted. Feelings in the freezer. Friends holding the pieces together, cooking for me hand-in-hand, day after day. The shy smile, the funny joke. The sun is out. A run. 5K. A pastry. A podcast. Women building culture, sharing knowledge. 7K. Taking extra shifts. Working in the stockroom. Working in a school. Patchwork of jobs: shifts and gaps. Full-time hours, part-time pay. Broken rhythm, weekends on a Tuesday morning. 9-hour shifts on Sundays. Crying myself to sleep. No prospects. Nightmares, dreams of you coming back and saying yes. A seller. A substitute. A wasted master’s degree. Avoiding eye contact. Going to...

The sweet spot, the second before everything explodes. The bright lights, the echo of other voices, the rain hitting the glass, messing around, led by the wind. The silence. The heartbeat racing. The taste of something rotten at the back of the tongue, sliding down the throat. The obvious. What everyone sees. What certain eyes can never see. What certain eyes are blind to, just looking at something else. Always something else. A wound. The blood. The mess. Something that feels like home. Jazz notes. A hand gripping the hair at the back of a neck. The slow poisoning. The quiet whispers of what cannot be said out loud. Another defeat. Muddy boots. Slow pace. Quick pace. The darkness observing it all. Thousands of lights following the beat. A gleam in someone’s eyes. The truth. A lie. Walking for days. Crossing back and forth, between the sea and the imagined land. The borders that some observe with hatred, unsure if they ever meant something. Just a line to be crossed. Again and again, d...

I can get a hint of what is going on through the white curtain. The glass of the store window vibrates whenever someone opens or closes the door of the little shop. Voices, conversations covered by gentle music, softs “thank you’s”, and then the bell ringing when the clients leave. Nothing for a while. It is a slow Sunday afternoon, and the days are getting shorter and colder way faster than I ever thought they would before moving to this country. The bell rings again, and someone gets in. From my position, I cannot see them locking eyes, the clients walking around the store, but I can feel their gazes seeking each other. The pace of their steps is telling a story. Second. No. Third date. They haven’t slept together yet. But her hands cannot keep off him for longer, I sense she’s grabbing that thick book with a yellow cover as a strategy to stop herself from running to his arms. A couple of cockroaches are sipping tea in the front cover. She stares at him. Smiles at him. I cannot s...

  Me veo siempre desde fuera. Sentada en la cama, con las manos entrelazadas y la mirada fija en un punto absurdo, irrelevante cómo a veces me parece que es mi vida, sobre todo cuando los días son largos y no puedo parar de pensar una y otra vez en todas las veces que no me elegí. Me veo con una sonrisa ausente, mientras celebran a mi alrededor victorias que yo sigo considerando batallas perdidas, sigo sin entender cuál es el mérito. No. No es cierto. Si hay batalla, y lucha, y ha habido sangre y mordiscos y lágrimas y rabia. ¿Y si soy valquiria? Y por eso tuve que cruzarme el mundo, no sentarme al sol en un octubre tibio, no acurrucarme en el nido de la vida que me vino dada, no conducir con un atardecer naranja en una tarde de enero con una camisa de algodón y un jersey esperando en el asiento del copiloto, no, eso ya no. Sólo frío, y noche, y lucha, y batalla y la sensación de irse a la cama con todas las heridas abiertas, palpitando la sangre en mis entrañas y feliz. Feliz de v...

Creo que en Lago ya no me amabas, que ya no te parecía gracioso que siempre tuviera hambre de ti. Que mirarte a los ojos y decirte en voz alta que me moría por recorrerte palmo a palmo con mis manos no era tu estilo, que nunca lo había sido. Creo que me acuerdo. No lo creo, recuerdo nítido el frío susurrándome en la nuca, los pelos de punta, las manos entre los muslos para sentir calor. Siempre tengo tanto calor y tan poquito con el que abrazarme el cuerpo, siempre las manos frías y las tripas hirviendo. Pensaba en la cena en el vino. Pensaba en que de todos los vinos del mundo el único vino que me gusta es el vino blanco, afrutado, pero no dulce, ni seco, algo como el agua de coco con menta, aunque nunca he probado el agua de coco con menta y en realidad no me gusta beber mientras como. Pensaba en porque alguien que me quiere me llevaría a un sitio de vinos, si no me gusta el vino. Pensaba en la conversación de la mesa de al lado, esas tres mujeres navegando entre risas un menú ...

  She weighed her love in kilograms. The ones she lost or gained depending on how much love she had to beg outside. She was hiding in the crags of her many times broken little heart, looking at the numbers on the scale, and waiting patiently for her new adventure. She unconsciously punished herself by fasting. She would hear her intestines roaring, and she would repeat to herself: guilt, guilt, guilt, chaining the syllables and turning it into a prayer. She was convinced that in the lightness of her flesh, in making her fragility visible to everyone, she would find a way to fly away from that dark sensation that was latching onto her throat. She remembered that the lust that was consuming her every day never touched his body; she just gave him a glimpse of it, and that was enough to scare him for life. She told herself over and over again that her body was not deserving of the warmth and that she would never be touched with the passion she expected. She saw herself in front of th...