Watching so many people run I can’t help but notice a guy who is not protected from the rain. On the contrary, it seems that he seeks to get wet. Why? Even if it is summer it is windy, and it is even cold. People have put on sweatshirts or jackets, but this guy is still in short sleeves, with open arms and a look at the sky.
“What a curious boy,” I think. I’m so absorbed looking at what he’s doing that when I realize I’ve already spilled more than half of my latte.
People keep looking at him with curiosity and suspicion, but it seems that the boy does not care what people think. “Lucky you,” I think. Maybe I should care a little less about what the others think about me.
I’m so into my thoughts that I don’t realize that the boy is staring at me until I look back at him. When I realize that he is watching me, I try to hide inside the house, but I stumble with the ashtray that I had left on the ground and I fall, releasing a scream and feeling ridiculous even though I know that no one has seen my pitiful fall.
I sit on my knees for a moment until, I dare to look again at the balcony to see if the boy is still there, looking in my direction.
He’s gone, he’s nowhere to be seen. On one hand I am glad that he is gone, so there is more chance that he has not seen the way I have gone back to peek, but on the other hand I feel sorry to have lost sight of that guy who has drawn me so much attention.
Resigning myself after appreciating the chances of seeing that boy again or finding him in some way without knowing anything about him, I go back to my world and take the mop to clean the spill of the coffee that has stained the floor of the terrace.
Once all the housework is done, I get in the shower and when I get out I decide what I’m going to do with my day. Today I don’t have to go to the hospital, I don’t have therapies, so I have all the day for myself.
In a way it frightens me; before I would have used that time to self-destruct in some way: self-harm, food restriction, days of fasting, loneliness, sadness, anger and suffering. So were my days before deciding to put an end to all that and start treatment.
Suffering. That was the word I had written on my forehead and engraved on fire in the heart. Now the word that accompanies me is hope. It is written on my forehead, engraved on fire in my heart and represented in the brightness of my eyes.
The morning passes fast. It’s time for lunch and I decide for a pasta salad and a good grilled salmon steak. My mother uses the lunch break from her job to call me and ask me how the morning went, besides doing a little control to know if I have eaten.
Sometimes I am overwhelmed that I’m constantly asked about meals, but other times I appreciate the questions, it makes it harder to give up the temptation to skip some meals.
When I hang up the phone, I start eating the second course without paying the slightest attention because I’m too focused remembering the guy who enjoyed getting all wet in the rain. He was dressed in a grey shirt, jeans that reached his knees and some black sneakers. He had short hair on the sides and longer in the middle. He wore glasses and a rather dense beard that defined his face and made him very masculine.