Note dell'autrice: Trovate la traduzione e la spiegazione della storia qui.

That soft warmth spreading on his cheeks through his chest was a terribly familiar sensation. He stopped.

It didn’t matter what he was doing. He needed to chase that feeling, hold it close, analyse it, taste it. It had been such a long time. A small smile curved his lips, knowing. So it was still there, good. It felt relieving. He wasn’t faking it, then, he was really feeling it. At times, he feared that he was making things up, so he always double-checked. Even on his own feelings.

His fingers plucked gently the strings of his guitar and a long-forgotten arpeggio surfaced from his memory; slightly smudged, but it was still there. Just like my feelings… He hummed along with the music, couldn’t remember the lyrics at all but for the chorus. Pathetic.

“Everything is temporary
everything will slide”

She liked that song, didn’t she? He liked it too but was far too shy to tell her that he had learned it to listen to her singing. He pressed the wrong string, the weird sound refusing to mingle with the medley, but kept on playing, his fingers moving on their own accord. He had fucked it up even back then, at the summer party on the beach. He wanted to impress her, stupid shy boy, but could never get his hands on the guitar. Fucking Marco was the best guitar player in their company so of course, he’d play all night long. Leo was handed the instrument only when the bonfire had almost died. And yet, she had stayed there with him, listened, and sung. He had kissed her. She had laughed, then asked him to play some more and curled up next to him, shivering for the sea breeze. If only he hadn’t fucked it up. How strange life was. He felt old, ancient when his mind accompanied him towards those kinds of thoughts. Still, he liked to bask in the memories of what he was and could’ve been “if”. That was the magical word, the formula unlocking the gates of Time. He’d been everything and nothing. He’d been a lover and a liar. A good son and a loyal friend. A hardworking student and a dream-chaser. He’d been in love, which was all of these things at once to the Nth degree. He’d always been in love. He loved too much.

Love. Such a tiny fearless word. It seems harmless until you realise that it’s filled your lungs and mind, slowly choking you to death. He had erased himself for love. He had hurt loving.

“Sunsets, sunrises
Livin' the dream, watchin' the leaves
Changin' the seasons”

He grimaced at the soft blisters that had started forming on his fingertips; he wouldn’t have stopped playing all the same. It didn’t matter, it couldn’t matter. He was finally feeling it again. Bittersweet. Still, he wanted to work on himself first. A tiny voice screamed in his head saying that they had no time for pastel flowers and pretty sun-kissed shop assistants. He half-heartedly agreed with it to cut it out, fastening slightly the strumming pattern. But we could be something...! What IF?

“Life will make you grow,
Dreams will make you cry, cry, cry”

Geez, he really was a dramatic teenager back in the days, liking this kind of songs. The words were finally flowing back to his memory, rolling down his tongue, encapsulating what his heart was feeling. Music is magic of the most fascinating kind. He was flying high, away from it all, away from himself, finally free. He could’ve been a whole different person. He could’ve born a girl. He could’ve loved a boy. He could’ve loved a girl. He would’ve lived again and again in different bodies, different minds, different hearts. It was one of those stupid moments in which he felt that he was part of something bigger. Something mysterious and glorious, and he was just a boy with a guitar and a passion for complicating his own life.

“Some nights I think of you
Relivin' the past, wishin' it'd last
Wishin' and dreamin'”

She wasn’t coming back to him. He didn’t want her to. The game was made. He mentally flipped the bird at the tiny voice. It faded, resentful, cursing him yet again. Nothing new. This one time, he didn’t want things to be complicated. Forgive me, Diana. Is it okay for me to try moving on...?

“I know that ooh, birds fly in different directions
Ooh, I hope to see you again”

He stopped, the last chord still vibrating in the air. Oh boy, was the stupid song right. There was nothing he could do; it had come back for him at last. He couldn’t escape.

He crossed his arms on top of his guitar, resting his chin there. He was fucked. He whispered to himself, almost laughing at the irony of it: “I like that damn florist...”