Foolishness

In recent years, I always find myself looking for you on my birthday. I know you’re not here, I know you won’t be, and yet a part of me insists on waiting for you, as if there were still a chance that your image might cross my path. I catch myself scanning faces in the crowd, afraid of finding you and, at the same time, longing with all my soul for it to happen.

I don’t know why I persist. I know you’re not here, that you never were, and yet the question keeps echoing inside me: what would have happened if…?

Today I promise myself this will be the last time I leave the door ajar for you, the last time I search for signs or stumble upon you in the most unlikely corners of my memory. Because I finally understand there was never a real chance of finding you: we inhabit different universes.

Me, with my stubborn illusions.
And you… you, simply being you.