47- "¿Hello?"

Rocío spent the night with her friends smoking marijuana, and that night, she never wrote, just as she wouldn’t for the rest of the week. I was like a long-haired secret, a kind of silent kiss behind the curtains. Hidden in her life, she had stopped feeling proud of me; every day we drifted further apart, becoming the only thing we had in common. She no longer showed my photographs to anyone who asked if she had a girlfriend; now it was she who asked others if they had a boyfriend, girlfriend, or any dog that barked at them, or a cat that licked them. Rocío and I saw each other on weekends; from Monday to Friday, I played the role of the naive girlfriend, and on weekends, I played the role of the cheap prostitute, with some extra credits as a special friend from her mom when she called and asked about me. I, of course, was blind and more in love than ever; as expected, she had stopped falling in love.

Nothing was ever enough for her. She made countless mistakes, like putting on shorts when it was cold, taking longer than usual to choose food, or asking the receptionist if he had an ashtray when she had a plastic cup. Every time she looked at me, she drew more and more mistakes with her eyes; she no longer called me “my skinny one,” didn’t ask about my family, didn’t care about my health, or feeding the cat; little by little, I stopped mattering to her. I, of course, believed I was imperfect, felt that everything was my fault, that my way of being was the reason she treated me this way, that I was lucky she loved me enough not to cast me aside for being that strange creature with huge eyes who loved her to death.

The spell had broken; now the magnetic force of those passions we kept hidden beneath our skin, the promises sewn into our lips, was the only thing that kept us together. I opened my laptop and began to write; it was the best way to detach myself from my thoughts, or maybe it was the simplest way to lose myself in them. I never knew if I wrote to exorcise or to give life to all those terrifying worlds that existed in my head.

You talk to me about flying, and I can’t stop crying.

I read and no longer find myself in those letters. I write and don’t recognize you among my metaphors.

The window has never been so unreachable for jumping.

This time, I shut myself in. And I want you to come and take me by the hand.

To take me with you.

I hear you again, imagine you, cry. I no longer know if I cry for you or for myself.

Now I think about the sin you don’t want to acknowledge. And this time I cry for myself.

And I hate you for a while. Until I realize it’s not you.

You still aren’t you.

And that you was never so us. An us that drifts away until it becomes a you all.

You all, strangers, empty.

Those lies that you shape into caresses and that feed the soul that I give up for lost.

That you still hasn’t appeared.

And now I cry for her. And I cry for myself for not being her.

My Skinny One: How could you stay at your friends’ house and spend the whole night without writing to me? Are you crazy? Do you know how you’re torturing my head? No! Of course, you don’t know because you never think of me… you’re never concerned about me. I mean, Ro, is this a relationship? Did you know I’ve had a mini-stroke near my heart because of the pills I take and now I have a horrible greenish bruise on my chest? The cat purrs at night to help me fall asleep! And it’s the only way I manage to sleep while I think about what the hell you’re doing. My girlfriend should be worried about me. How much do we talk daily? Ten minutes? That’s not enough for me; I don’t deserve this, and you know it… I don’t deserve it. Please stay away from me; I beg you, don’t look for me, I don’t want to know anything more about you. If you don’t plan to change that attitude, consider our relationship over, okay? Goodbye.

There it was, my late-night attack of sincerity, five slaps to my romantic lyrics, an S.O.S that screamed how I was losing myself. I could only wait for a rescue, wait for some reaction, but she was busy with other matters while I was submerged in deep sadness. I had a strong need to curl up in bed and hug my pillow; I did so, and I didn’t shed a tear; I didn’t allow myself to cry no matter how much I wanted to. Our relationship was sustained by passion and lived with much pain. “You’ve ended up being a masochist, Mía,” I thought while feeling my heart in my feet. And love… always so overflowing, latent at every moment. I couldn’t say how love felt; it was like a ghost always floating above me, like a magical entity that hugged me, blessed me, and often mocked me. It stayed by my side every day; I could feel it in everything I did, love motivated us, and I guess that made us fortunate within our own misfortune.

After understanding that Rocío would never call, I went to sleep; I needed to get some rest. In a few hours, it would be daytime, and I had an interview at the university radio station. When I woke up the next morning, I had three missed calls from Rocío. She had been calling me since early. Disappointment and jealousy had dulled any feeling that might escape through the gap in my chest. It was like waking up one day and realizing the world is no longer as you left it the night before. The sun streams through the window and filters between the red curtains of your room; a chill finds you still in bed, covered to the head but with your feet peeking out from under the blanket, tickling you with the warmth of the rays on your skin. I decided to get up and make the most of the morning, the day, and whatever came to decorate my loneliness. The phone vibrated in my hand, and the red light began to blink; she was calling me, and for some reason, despite being predisposed not to feel anything, my heart raced.

* Hello - my lower lip trembled.

* Hello - her voice sounded calm like a spring.

* How are you? - we both asked at the same time.

* How are you? - I repeated sweetly.

* Bad, I argued with my dad on the phone last night, that’s why I didn’t write to you - she said with a thread of voice.

Suddenly, the emptiness I had felt in my chest disappeared. Hearing Rocío calmed me in an unbearably sweet way; her tone of sadness in her voice made me realize there hadn’t been a strong enough reason for me to be angry with her. She sounded as happy and relieved to hear me as I was to hear her.

* I’m sorry, skinny, I know I’ve been distant these days, but it’s not what you think; please don’t doubt me.

* What happened with your dad? - I asked uncertainly.

* I regret it - I interrupted her before she could answer what had happened with her parents.

* I’m having a lot of problems with my parents; we’ll talk about that when we see each other - she told me bluntly.

* What about your heart?

* I went to the cardiologist because I got a bruise near my chest, and it was a small hemorrhage from the pill I’m taking.

* A platelet anti-aggregant overdose - she affirmed.

* Yes - I replied, embarrassed.

* When will you go back to the cardiologist?

* Well, I’ve already gone, and she changed my pills.

* I’m sorry; next time something like this happens, let me know, and I’ll accompany you.

* Okay - I replied, concerned.

* Let’s talk when I’m at my place, okay? I’m heading there now - she said subtly; I suspected she had sensed my feeling of desolation. A couple of hours passed, but Ro never wrote; I turned on my laptop and began to write again. I wrote everything I couldn’t tell her and probably would never say. I turned it off when the battery was practically drained, packed it in my backpack, and went to the university.