A late afternoon like any other. I was there, sitting on the curb, thinking, while the smoke rose slowly. I heard footsteps approaching. Then I felt a touch on my shoulder, accompanied by the voice of my new friend, my coworker, Oliver.
His voice, just like his appearance, was unmistakable: short, skinny, thick hair, and that calm tone… not deep, just tiring to hear.
"You're smoking?" he asked. "Didn't you say you didn't smoke? And especially that princess cigarette."
I just wanted to lose myself in my thoughts, but ignoring him would have been rude.
So I replied:
"Actually, I don't smoke. This thing is just the last memory someone left me."
I said it without any desire to continue the conversation. I stood up without waiting for a reply and started walking. By the way Oliver had come looking for me, it was already time to leave.
As I walked home, a walk of less than thirty minutes, I touched the cigarette pack in my pocket and got lost again in memories. Those cigarettes were not the ones she had left me; they were only the same, same brand, same appearance. Still, for some reason, I felt completely different.
It was like the difference between someone who, after drinking liters of juice, forces himself to drink water because a doctor recommended it, without any desire at all, and someone who has been thirsty for days and finally drinks a glass of cold water.
At home, I still have three cigarettes left in the pack she actually left me, the ones that bring so many memories. Before, although I didn't despise the habit of smoking, I never saw it in a positive light. Now I realize that no matter how negative certain habits may be, when they belong to someone we care about, they become nothing more than unique traits, part of the persona we love.
Maybe it's because, when I think of the taste of her lips, I don't remember smoke, but a slight flavor of cherry. The smell of red fruits, something I would never imagine enjoying, came from her skin, from the lotion she used. Even the rose perfume I always disliked, when it came from her hair, seemed like the most colorful scent that ever existed in this world.
Just remembering these small traits makes my heart beat faster. Maybe it is simply because I am walking, in constant effort… but I know it's not just that.
Unfortunately, when I remember how everything ended, my steps slow down. I feel that a bit of the youthful brightness that still remained in my adult, tired eyes fades.
When I saw the gray gate, I realized I had already arrived home. I put my thoughts aside for a moment just to open the door. I threw everything on the couch and went straight to take a hot shower, to get rid of the dust from the way. Just thinking about it made me want to cough.
As the water fell over me, my thoughts returned to where they were before. Despite my memory problems, there are memories that, even someone like me who tries to forget, end up becoming eternal.
I remember, with strange clarity, our first meeting, still teenagers at school, so pure, clean of any dirt that only years in society can bring. Maybe relationships that arise at that age are naïve; but when they last for decades, they become the purest and truest ones.
I remember being thirteen or fourteen. Because of the difference in the number of students between two classrooms of the same grade, they chose some volunteers to switch classes. I, as someone who always liked new things, ended up offering myself. Although they complained that I talked too much in class, my grades were always at the top, so I was accepted without difficulty.
On the first day in the new class, I thought I would face only a few small changes. Until, after my introduction in front of the class, I saw her. She seemed… different. Not in a negative or positive way, just different. She had a strange personality, but she was lively and full of energy. Maybe my younger self perceived in her a rebellious shine, not the kind that challenges rules, but the kind that simply exists in its own way, without caring about other people's opinions.
During the break, some classmates came to ask me the usual questions: why I had changed classes, what the other classroom was like, things like that. The only exception was her. In her slightly crazy yet sweet way, she and her best friend approached me. I still remember the first question she asked me, completely random, completely… her.
"Do you believe that people who kiss a lot have rosier lips?"
At the time, I was surprised. Not because the subject seemed inappropriate to talk about with a stranger, but also because of the lack of logic in the comparison. But to avoid seeming strange, I simply answered:
"I don't think it makes much difference. Even if the lips get redder at the moment, after a few minutes they go back to normal. I don't think they stay permanently rosier."
That question and my answer might seem irrelevant, something destined to be forgotten. But they became one of my most memorable memories. Not because of the subject itself, nor the strangeness of the situation, but because that was the first link between my life and hers.
It was the moment when our stars, which until then floated without any order in space, found a reason to shine together. As if the light between them could weave, little by little, an emotional story, even if the ending was not sweet like in mythical tales, even if, in the end, great regrets remained.
Even so… I wish she knew, wherever she is, that I never regretted it.
And I will never regret any of the moments we lived together.