There’s this part of me…that just can’t think: “everything’s gonna be okay.” Maybe it’s because when too much hurt gets stuck in your heart, you try to stop it somehow. But it doesn’t work, not always anyway.
That same part worries that the words I write won’t sound right to whoever’s reading them. A fear that’s even stronger for these particular words. I don’t know if they’re enough—maybe because I don’t struggle much to find them, they’re just there, I just need to find the strength to put them somewhere other than my heart.
I don’t really give a damn who wins or loses some futsal championship, women’s at that. But I wanted it with every fiber, with every piece of heart I had left—that this one, at least this one, would be a happy ending story.
For you, for both of you. You’re two different people but then you often become just one thought, and that same thought takes different roads, but it’s always a happy thought. For you I use full names and nothing else, because names matter, they tell our stories, without the weight of family or past that we don’t deserve credit or blame for.
I wanted it with every breath I held—wanted it to be a happy ending, wanted that second goal to tell a different story with the ending I would’ve written and already thought I could tell. But maybe hope, that’s for a different moment or different people. Like those on the other side, the ones who cheat and win. Those with more luck than face, those over there. But in the end I’d rather stay over here, waiting for the happy ending. Maybe it never comes but I won’t give up on dreams. I won’t do that.
I wouldn’t want to be them, not even if it means winning more.
I would’ve loved to see you happy, about something. Watch you then get lost in life’s wind that blows hard and carries you away. Leaving behind though a piece of history that ties you to this beach and this sea. You were like that appointment with that TV series you follow. You like the two favorite characters, the ones whose stories you want to know. Watching you play was like that.
I have a problem with “things that go away,” kind of like Nathalia who insists on using a phone that I don’t understand how the battery still makes it work. Going away is making room for new things, but it’s also not knowing what to throw away, because even the bad memories are part of us. I would’ve liked more time to know who you are, why you are what I see and why you don’t let everyone see it. For the women you are, for what you’re trying to become, for the scars on your legs and the ones you can’t see on your heart. I would’ve wanted to learn what sound your laughter makes, not just the taste of tears.
I’ll never get used to the idea that you’re like footprints in the sand, that the waves of a sports season will wash you away, but that’s how it’ll be. That you might become like those boxes we never open after the umpteenth move.
Love you. M.
