We just had a call and I wanted to write down my feelings and thoughts.
It felt like there was something in the air, pauses between sentences,
something wistful. I don’t remember having had this before. I wonder if
everything is OK with you. If there is something I can do for you.
Maybe you were just exhausted, these weeks must have
been a lot.
You have been distant lately. I wonder what I could do differently to help. Maybe there are a lot of things on your mind. You didn’t ask me any questions during our call. You seem to have been lost in your thoughts, in what’s around you. I wish you’d open up and let me know. Of what’s bothering you, what’s weighing on you. I feel like I cannot ask that right now. You need to tell me that yourself.
When talking, you told me about the Christmas market you went to, with the stalls that only had interesting things, and some high-end stalls that had very interesting craftsmen’s things. It reminded me of us, in Buenos Aires, shopping on the open street, at a market. You being impatient with me. I was probably quite annoying, taking my time looking through things. It was hard, I wanted to be someone you’d enjoy being with, but ended up further frustrating you. I remember this moment, me hesitating about buying a belt, and you snapping at me, to just buy it. It was a bit surreal, a bit surprising. I wish I could have told you then how much I care for you, how much you mean to me.
I feel like love is in all these moments. Moments of stress, and moments of care. I always try to think of you gently, kindly. I’m sorry if it doesn’t always feel like it. I know you have always forgiven me. In fact, that’s one of the strangest, most uplifting, most beautiful part of being with you. I love you.