38- Like invisible feelings

\- I know Anastasia, but your emotions are hidden in the depths of your soul and in those depths Melisa feels confused. Some people feel more than others, when you lose the loved object it is normal for there to be a leak of emotions so strong that you end up losing a part of your own identity. - The doctor spoke with unbearable sweetness while I was feeling smaller and smaller. And “the lost object” became the most ridiculous noun pronoun I had ever heard. Would it bother Paola to read me? How would she feel seeing that I had scrupulously searched her life to immortalize her in all my poems? Exhumed and embalmed, her memory floated in my writings. Would it bore her or would she feel moved to read me? Neither of the two options made me feel comfortable. Maybe, after all, I was still looking for Paola's love through writing. Maybe the doctor was right. But I refused to accept it. Writing made me happy and was one of the few activities that made me happy without Paola being involved, as well as dancing, painting, or dressing in real silk, traveling and breathing the cool breeze while the sun warmed my shoulders, always naked wearing some light dress or a blouse of fine fabric. Those big dreams full of glory that are accompanied by small and tiny pleasures; Paola was always the reason for my big dreams, but the small pleasures were only mine and were full of happiness. Every time I felt like my heart was breaking I would look for those dreams of the past and go listen to music, but music also healed my soul because it was one of my most basic needs. Writing and listening to music, bathing and listening to music, sometimes I simply found music in the sound of water breaking against my skin, even walking and listening to music. If I could smile and dance every second I would do it and in that natural happiness life becomes lighter. Paola's happiness was always bordered on my happiness. How many times did she try to make me happy? I barely went through the past looking for signs of Paola, signs of affection that would show her in the task of making me smile. However, I couldn't find what I was looking for. She always told me that when she loved, she became a thoughtful woman, but I was always the thoughtful woman. A gesture, a detail, I didn't find anything romantic, more than a passion that in excess killed all romance. Maybe she only devoted herself to the task of allowing me to make her happy, and I knew that while I loved her, she filled me with fortune. But that thought didn't console me. What if Paola had truly never loved me honestly, nor tried to make me happy? No gesture, no detail towards me. I really couldn't find anything. The thought filled me with bitterness and suddenly my mood changed, I felt disappointment envelop my heart. And at the same time, a certain knowledge that love is selfless sacrifice made me know that even if it were so and Paola had not loved me, she let me love her and for that I felt gratitude and also understanding.

\- For now you have two tasks: the first is that you don't write to Paola anymore. And that you separate yourself from her in your daily life. The second is to start replacing your libido from yourself to Melisa.

\- And if I feel the need to write to her, what do I do?

\- Do something you like – She smiled at me. There was no double meaning in her smile, I smiled back.

\- Seriously – I told her sternly – I can't focus my mind on anything else when I want to write – I explained to her in a pleading tone – What could I do?

\- Every time you want to write to Paola and you're with Mel, try to make love to her.

\- That's absurd – I said impetuously – I won't be able to do it.

\- Try it.

\- My mind will be somewhere else.

\- Your body will get used to her by displacing your energy. Live in the present.

\- I don't write about Paola so that she can read me, nor so that she can fall in love with me, I write about her, to make sure that later, when I'm 30, 40 or 50 years old, I can remember what I felt when I loved her.

\- I understand, but you keep her in mind by writing to her, and that doesn't help you. You're forbidden to write to her, okay? - She looked at me with joy and confidence - it's your task - she said - Next week we will talk directly about your relationship with Melisa, okay?

\- Thank you very much, doctor - I said politely, getting up from my chair and walking to the door.

\- Goodbye - I looked at her languidly and hugged her with my gaze.

\- Goodbye Anastasia, and change that look of sad eyes. Girl with sad eyes.

As I stepped out of the office, I felt a mix of relief and apprehension. Anastasia's words echoed in my mind, a constant reminder of the challenge ahead. The idea of cutting ties with Paola was daunting, but I understood the necessity. My heart felt heavy with the memories I had tied to her, but I knew that holding on too tightly would only prevent me from moving forward. 

I glanced at my phone, contemplating the impulse to message Paola. Instead, I took a deep breath and turned my focus to Melisa. I had to shift my attention, to allow my feelings for her to grow without the shadow of my past lingering over us. 

That evening, as I sat with Melisa, I found myself lost in her laughter, the way her eyes sparkled when she spoke. Still, the urge to reach out to Paola tugged at me, an itch I couldn't quite scratch. I remembered Anastasia’s advice: redirect my energy. 

“Hey,” I said, breaking the comfortable silence that enveloped us. “Can we… I don’t know, watch a movie or something?”

“Sure! What do you have in mind?” Melisa replied, her enthusiasm infectious.

As we settled into the couch, I felt a flicker of warmth—an unfamiliar sensation that perhaps, just perhaps, I could allow myself to feel something real with her. I reminded myself to live in the present, to embrace what was right in front of me. 

The movie played on, but my thoughts drifted. I tried to focus on Melisa, her smile, the way she leaned into me. Every time my mind wandered back to Paola, I refocused, reminding myself of Anastasia’s challenge. 

Later that night, as I lay in bed, the battle continued. My heart ached with nostalgia, but I knew I had to push through. I took out my journal and began to write—not to Paola, but about my feelings, my struggles, my hopes for the future. It was a start, a way to process everything without reaching out to the past.

Tomorrow was a new day, and I would take it one moment at a time.