At 5:28 p.m., Joaquín Sabina sings, “because a house without you is an office”… it was playing while I was working…

Something happens inside my body: I smile, I feel like crying, I stretch, I look at the clock, I throw myself on the bed, I move between the sheets, I turn around, I unravel, I become something that stops being here and is there.

And you were writing to me while this was happening, because I saw your messages and I responded attentively.

I read your message with my heart racing.

And the song played:

“And when you come back, there’s a party in the kitchen, and dances without an orchestra and bouquets of roses with thorns, but two is not the same as one plus one, and on Monday at breakfast coffee, the cold war returns, and to the sky of your mouth the purgatory and to the bedroom the daily bread, and the kisses I give poison me…”

“And yet, when I sleep without you, I dream of you…”

And I cling to my phone in the darkness of the room as if it were a very thin thread, crossing the ocean from my ear to yours, getting tangled around the feet of P., Sabina, and all the others at that concert…

I stretch out on the bed and read the message again, and I only know that you have remained recorded and tangible on my phone.

This day stays recorded in my mind, all of this will stay recorded, like pieces that fit perfectly into the gaps that exist to build truths that break down distances, recorded like your name will always remain in my heart.