It occurred to me the other day that she speaks German and she just said it so nonchalantly, like it was the most normal thing. She didn’t have to learn it, yet she did. I want her to come to Istanbul with me, but I know she won’t. It’d be so nice, though. I’d love to be the person she can trust and be comfortable with, do stupid shit with, maybe find some tranquility with. It’d be so nice to wake up with her. We’d just spend the morning in bed, cuddle, tell funny stories, it’s be so cute and wonderful. I know it will likely never happen, yet I can’t stop myself from hoping that it did. Maybe hope really is the last frontier, the only thing left in Pandora’s the box. We can always hope for a better time. Maybe that’s what’s supposed to keep us alive. I think over the years I have lost some of that hope. It’s strange, to find it, in her.

She’s a bit crazy, just the right way, random, haphazard, but also warm and funny and smart. Distracted by everything and everyone, interested in so many things, cute and sort of don’t care sometimes, hilarious and slightly unaware of her surroundings, a force of nature. It’s just good, being close to her. She doesn’t know what she means to me, but I know, and it makes me happy to see her. I don’t want to miss her, and I am quite sure I’ll never even be close to her. It’s good to just look at her, when she’s around, and be happy that I’m there. It’s been a long time I felt like that. It’s been a long time.

Sometimes, we don’t know what are are to the other person. Maybe later we find out. Maybe we don’t. Life is so weird, what you mean to others is never clear, only maybe sometimes in hindsight, in the rear-view mirror. When we get lucky, we get to know. I’m sorry J, I messed up, I now know what I meant to you. It must have been so hard for you. I regret I didn’t, I couldn’t, love you. I’m so sorry.

She was so different than I remember. A grown up woman. Reading glasses, cool new hair (she always used to play with her hair, I loved it always), with a more serious look on her face. Doing a somewhat different job than before. Looked so different. I don’t look different, I don’t even use a different picture, I haven’t really grown up I think. Not really. Nowadays I just understand better how fragile and fallible we all are. Looking at her new picture made me feel like the divide between us has widened, and it made me feel sad. She’s someone else, with someone else. It’s hard to process, this distance, that seemingly suddenly happened out of nowhere. I now regret even more that our paths didn’t join together. I wish I had been there, seeing her change. I would have loved to be there for her throughout these years. I wish she had needed me. I wrote her a short message a few days ago, I saw a talk about sex work and I thought she’d enjoy it. She didn’t respond, though she did read the message. Maybe she forgot to respond. Maybe she doesn’t want to respond. Probably somewhere in between. Felt a bit lonely, but it’s just the way it is.

That I never opened up to anyone as much as I did to you. You know more more than anyone, AP. I miss discussing with you. I really do.

Had this thought listening to Manu Chao’s Clandestino. Maybe this is the point: that I can still think of her. That I can be happy, thinking of her.

In a hotel and anxiety just came, out of nowhere, it’s just here. The classic, heartbeat high up, a bit of shaking, feeling of emptiness. Really sucks. I need to find a way to deal with this thing or it’ll not end well.

So much fucking anxiety. No idea why, where from, what for. But, anxiety. Is it work? So many new things happening. And I am supposed to be so much better. It’s really taking a toll on me.

To care. To actually, care. She is good at sharing, and is accepting of me being away. She talks to me when I wake up and tells me goodbye when I go. I feel like I’ve been on auto mode, but I think maybe I can change. It’s actually good to share things with her. It’s good to hear her being happy — and it’s good to hear when she shares with me her anxieties.

It was something small and inconsequential. Something about skipping a day at the conference, but it broke. I’m so idiotic, I need to stop.

No idea. You seem fragile, smart. Why are you interested in anything I write? Also, you have beautiful legs but I can’t tell you that. Or maybe I could. Nevermind. I like writing you. The long conversations we have remind me of a better time. A long time ago. When I cared. Now I want to cry. One day, we’ll meet. I don’t know what will happen then. Maybe I’ll miss you in the meanwhile. Maybe I’ll give up. I’m also fragile, you know.