It’s Wednesday night. The light on my phone announces it’s almost 3am. I’ve spent the last 2 months unable to write, but something clicked in my mind tonight and forced me to write this goodbye letter on a paper already damp from my tears, so here it is:

Here’s to endings, to the ones that hurt, to the ones that never come, to the ones that linger in our skin and refuse to let us go. To the endings that stain our eyes red for weeks or months or years, to the ones that are taken away from us, to the ones that untangle the knots in our throats so we can learn to speak again, and to the ones that we delay so we have an excuse to say goodbye one more time.

Here’s to every ending I imagined so when this one would come it would taste less bitter. But no, this is not the ending I pictured and even thought I saw it coming for a long time, it doesn’t make it hurt less.

The truth is I’m scared. I’m scared of this ending. All my previous endings hurt a bit less because I knew that I was coming back to you. I was coming home.

For a while I’ve been thinking on all the possible lives and realities that existed for me. I imagine them, lined up and I go through every inch and crease of them, and now I can see that any of them is as beautiful and bright as this one. And I have finally learnt that I don’t have to thank any strange being that might have brought me here, but the pretty and warm people I had the pleasure of sharing the best years of my life. You know, love is a town by the beach, and the people that lives there, that inspire you and changes you, always for the better. Those people that slowly and without really knowing how, sneak into your pores and when you realize, they have built a tiny house inside of you, making it weird to picture life before them. The ones that cover and caress, unaware, the ink stains from old diaries that are now, only proof that winter can’t **** you.

I feel like most of the time I’m not able to put into words everything these past 4 years brought me. It’s overwhelming to think how much my life could change so much in such a short time. I started writing my first book thanks to the infinite train journeys going home, and here it grew, nourished and saw the light, bringing me only precious things. I grew. I grew in a way I never thought I would, and I became something that looked quite similar to what I imagined when I wrote and hid notes to my 20-year-old self. I’ve broken my heart and I have healed it, and I’ve had it healed. But mostly, I’ve been happy. I’ve been happier than I thought was the happiest I would ever feel.

To end this letter, I would like to add something I found in one of the many farewell letters I’ve written. It went like this:

“And when it’s all over, we will sit somewhere we’ve never been but somehow feels familiar. Only witnesses will be our bare eyes, flooded. And I will tell you how I can still hear the sea, humbling when I go to bed, and that every time I lay in silence, I will wish I would be laying in silence with you. And I know that there will be many more winter days that somehow feel like summer, but they will for sure feel less warm. And I know that the tree will turn red in spring, and I know that it will no longer bloom for us, but I know that there will come a day when September doesn’t sting. And then you’ll hug me and my head will land perfectly on your chest. Only the beat of your heart will cover the voices screaming this could be the last”

But right now, tiptoeing in a house that will no longer be mine by tomorrow and as I remove the sunflowers from the walls, I cannot feel any sort of pain. How can it hurt to leave a place if the memories attached to it are so precious?
And all I have left to say is thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you. For seeing me, for letting me grow and bloom, for being Suns that always look back.
I love you with all my heart.
Goodbye <3

Es miércoles por la noche. La luz de mi móvil anuncia que son casi las 3. He pasado los 2 últimos meses sin ser capaz de escribir, pero algo se ha activado en mi mente esta noche y me ha obligado a redactar esta carta de despedida sobre un papel que ya está empapado por mis lágrimas, así que aquí está:

Se lo dedico a los finales, a los que duelen, a los que nunca llegan, a los que se agarran a nuestra piel y se niegan a dejarnos ir. A los finales que tintan los ojos de rojo durante semanas o meses o años, a los que nos quitan de nuestras manos, a los que desatan nudos en la garganta para que podamos aprender a hablar de nuevo, y a los que retrasamos para tener una excusa para volver a decirnos adiós una vez más.
Se lo dedico a todos los finales que imaginé para que cuando éste llegara no supiera tan amargo. Pero no, este no es el final que me imaginé y aunque lo vi venir hace mucho tiempo, no por eso hace que arañe un poquito menos.

Y es que tengo miedo. Tengo miedo de este final. Todos mis finales anteriores dolieron un poquito menos porque sabía que volvía a vosotros. Que volvía a casa.

Desde hace un tiempo he pensado en todas las posibles vidas y realidades que existían para mí. Las imagino en fila y repaso con detenimiento cada pliegue y milímetro de ellas, y me he dado cuenta de que ninguna es mínimamente tan bonita y brillante como esta. Y por fin he aprendido que no tengo que agradecérselo a cualquier ente extraño que me haya podido traer hasta aquí, si no a la gente tan bonita y cálida con la que he tenido el placer de compartir los mejores años de mi vida. Ya sabéis, el amor es un pueblo junto al mar. Y la gente que lo habita, que te inspira y que te cambia, siempre a mejor. Esas personas que poco a poco y sin saber como, se cuelan por los poros y cuando te das cuenta, han construido su casita dentro de ti, haciendo que sea raro imaginar cómo era la vida antes de conocerles. Que cubren y acarician, sin saberlo, las manchas de tinta de viejos diarios que ahora solo son prueba de que el frio no puede matarte.

Siento que a veces no soy capaz de verbalizar todo lo que me han traído estos últimos 4 años. Me abruma pensar en cómo ha podido cambiar tanto mi vida en tan poco tiempo. Pude empezar a escribir mi primer libro gracias a los infinitos viajes de tren volviendo a casa, y aquí creció, se nutrió y vio la luz, trayéndome solo cosas bonitas. Crecí. Crecí como nunca pensé que lo haría, y me convertí en algo muy parecido a lo que me imaginé cuando escribía y escondía cartas a mi yo de 20 años. Me he roto el corazón y me lo he curado, y me lo han curado. Pero sobre todo, he sido feliz, he sido más feliz de lo que pensaba que era lo más feliz que me sentiría nunca.

Para terminar, quería añadir algo que he encontrado en una de las tantas cartas de despedida que he escrito. Decía así:

“Y cuando todo acabe, nos sentaremos en algún lugar en el que nunca hemos estado pero que de algún modo nos resulta familiar. Los únicos testigos serán nuestros ojos, desnudos y encharcados. Y yo te contaré cómo aun puedo escuchar el mar, murmurando cuando me voy a dormir, y que cada vez que me tumbe en silencio, desearé estar tumbada en silencio contigo. Y sé que habrá muchos más días de invierno que de algún modo parecen de verano pero que seguro que ya no serán tan cálidos. Y sé que el árbol de la entrada se volverá rojo en primavera y sé que ya no florecerá para nosotros, pero también sé que llegará un momento en el que septiembre no nos escueza.
Entonces me abrazarás y mi cabeza caerá perfectamente sobre tu pecho. Sólo el latido de tu corazón podrá tapar las voces que me gritan que éste abrazo podría ser el último.”

Pero ahora, caminando de puntillas en una casa que mañana ya no será la mía y mientras descuelgo los girasoles de la pared, no puedo sentir dolor, ¿como puede doler dejar algo si los recuerdos ligados a ello son tan bonitos?
Y solo me queda decir gracias. Gracias, gracias, gracias. Por verme, por dejarme crecer y florecer, por ser Soles que siempre devuelven la mirada.
Os quiero más que a mi vida.
Hasta siempre <3

Lately,
my mind has been writing
white words on white paper.
I’ve been singing lullabies to the void,
standing where the truths you
left unspoken go to die.

And I stay up all night, pondering
if this is the place I’ve always lived in.
If  I have to accept this is the place
I’ve written my name on a red mailbox,
even though dust is the only thing inside,
where I wake up and water the daisies
in a garden invaded by wild forget-me-not's.


Maybe this is my hometown,
maybe I’m just meant to be
the lonely character that spies
at their neighbors through the lens
of worn-out binoculars wondering
how it must feel like
to be seen.

I'll starve to my death
till you can play piano on my ribs
so you can like what you feel.

I'll take sips of bleach
till you want to run your tongue through my teeth
so you can like what you taste.

I'll cut holes on my cheeks
till they turn the colour of my lips
so you can like what you see.

I'll slide my hands down my throat
till I tear off my vocal chords
so you can like what you hear.

I'll make a fool of myself
make my mum feel nothing but shame
call myself a different name
so you can like me.

I always
Talk too much.
Laugh too much.
Feel too much.
Hurt too much.

Evidence that I’m addicted with betrayal:

-I became friends with the reason
my best friend cried in bathroom stalls for months.

-I told the secrets he whispered
sealed under drunken pinkie promises.

-I write hurtful poems
to the only person who will read them.

But how do I choose who to betray,
my friends
or
myself.

I know you won’t read this
and I know you won’t care
but I will tell you what it was like.

It was blurry.
it was slow
but time was running fast.
It was dusty feet
and dusty souls.
It was feeling nothing
and then all at once.
It was hating you
to drown the urge of hugging you.
It was writing a poem
and post it
wishing you will relate to it.

But who cares,
you don’t.