About an unresolved emotional imprint. Written over the last 6 years, in a mix of Portuguese and English.

“6 anos depois” plays.

It was 2015. It was my first day at our school, and a very friendly girl came to talk to me. “Where do you live?”, she asked. I told her, and she said: “I only know one person who lives near you.” I asked if she could introduce us and, at that moment, she didn’t tell me your name, but she took me to the courtyard, where several people were talking around you. These are the memories I have of you—everyone always revolving around you.

I don’t know how we became friends. At some point, you started laughing at my jokes, and we started reading the same books. That day I went to your house on my bike and we watched television until late. When I had a breakdown in Campinas, and you reassured me for life. When you asked me not to go to sleep when it was already two in the morning and you wanted to keep talking on the phone. “Talk about what?”, I asked. “Talk about life”. And from then on, I revolved around you too.

And between 2015 and 2018, something happened. With me. It’s all my fault. Only you and I know everything.

And then it was 2019. It was my birthday, and my cousin gave me a book. It was the first time I read about “us.” Or my conception of “us.” I thought about you a lot. Had you already read that book? Would you think of me? But I lived in São Paulo now. I thought about you less. But I still thought about you. Every time I met someone I liked, I used to think: “who do I prefer? This person or you?”. I was in this new and exciting city, having many experiences, and I used to think of you every now and then. I almost messaged you a few times. But I never did, and when I went back to visit my parents, I didn’t have the courage to ask people about you either. I had no idea how you were, what you wanted to do with your life, how attractive you still were. Back then, I believed in fate. I thought that if we were meant to meet again, we eventually would. But I think the feeling of never seeing you again wasn’t that terrifying. I had a new life and you weren’t in it. Maybe you were important to my story when I was a child, but there were other people I cared about and who cared about me in return.

And then it was 2020. I dreamed about you after so long. I turned 16 and one day I saw you driving in front of my house. You looked in my direction, but we didn’t greet each other. I hated the fact that I had just finished cycling and my hair was all messy. I hated that I still hadn’t gone to the doctor to get my updated glasses prescription, so I couldn’t see your face properly. I hated that we only exchanged glances for 1 second. And I hated that I was hating all those things, because I was 16 and no longer 13, and I hadn’t spoken to you since I left town, and I had had new experiences and I wasn’t supposed to be the same person I was when I moved.

I still had your number in my phone. I’d had it since I left town. Sometimes, I would just check your profile picture. And I checked it again that day I saw you passing in front of my house. But that was it. I didn’t do anything. I just looked at your profile picture.

I felt so much pity for the way I chased after you when I was younger. I was afraid of being crazy; I didn’t like the way I behaved when I thought about you. I hated God for a while. I hated him for putting these feelings in me that clearly weren’t reciprocal, and I hated him for making me humiliate myself when I was younger. I hated being obsessed. I hated the idea of someone being obsessed with me. You were in my thoughts since I was 13 and I couldn’t do anything about it. It was so unfair that I had to go through that. What was so special about you, anyway? I was so young.

I felt so much shame. I just wanted to talk to you after this long time, explain myself and talk about life, like we used to do when we were children. I knew I would behave because I was older now. I sent a message asking to meet. I almost threw my phone out the window out of pure shame. There was no way out. Finally, after almost 3 years of blocking you, I returned to my young self’s addictions.

You replied. You said you’d love to meet and we set a date. I finally found you. You were exactly the same person I remembered. I was so arrogant telling you about my life. I thought you would think my life was exciting and would want to get to know me better. I thought I was so mature and over our past. But you were different. You had matured. You were the one who stayed and, despite that, you managed to become an even more extraordinary person. So smart. I was the one living in São Paulo, and yet you are one of the smartest people I’ve ever met. You watched adult films, read classic books, and were tuning into politics. I was still such a child. You had abandoned religion when we were 12, and it took me 16 years to do that. You had already traveled the whole world and I had only moved to the capital. You wanted to study Law and would be moving to São Paulo in October of the following year.

You invited me over to your place, and I went. You showed me a song on your phone with lyrics you thought were beautiful. I leaned my body against yours while looking at the words, pretending to reach for the drink I had left a few inches away. You looked at me with surprise, as if you didn’t believe I was brave enough to break the barrier of silence. I don’t remember the lyrics you showed me.

You would never give me a chance. There are many things beyond me and you. But there is an invisible string that connects me to you, and you feel it too. You also gave me a nudge, and you called me by my full name. After that night, I didn’t see you again.

I heard news of you through the years, as much as possible. My mother was reluctant at first, but then she forgot to keep her guard up. She would run into yours at the supermarket. I couldn’t find you on the internet because you have no digital footprint. I never saw you or your mother driving by again. Then your parents moved, and not even my mother had anything left to tell me. You survived in my memory, intact as a child. Not you, but my feelings. Did you ever exist?

But two weeks ago I met you again during one of my trips to São Paulo. Six years later.

I am another person. You are another person too.

You know some things about me. I don’t know much about you, but I’m learning. You don’t drink. You tell me about some personal obstacles you’ve faced. You seem to have a lot of love for your career. It seems like you’re not dating anyone.

“You’re not saying anything,” you tell me. Forgive me. I don’t have much energy and I don’t want to say the wrong things. I drink my vodka very fast, but the waiter doesn’t come for me to order another — I want to numb the world, but it doesn’t cooperate. You repeat that you don’t resent me. In fact, you don’t resent me, because a lack of resentment is all you feel for me. You don’t mind that the restaurant is closing, and neither do I. You invite me to your house again, and again I go.

You are calm and lead life with positivity. I am explosive and feel things with great intensity. I ask you your favorite book, and you answer Pride and Prejudice. You read Tudo é rio, The Idiot, Anna Karenina, and you are reading Wuthering Heights. Your favorite singer is Halsey. I am moved by The Stream of Life. I read A Natureza da Mordida, Todos nós adorávamos caubóis, One Hundred Years of Solitude, and The Book of Disquiet. I listen to MPB.

I think a little piece of our souls are still the same. To this day, by my bed, I have a quote I highlighted for you in 2018, from Wuthering Heights. In 2018 I already knew our souls were a bit alike, but only I know that. I recommend the book my cousin gave me. You say you haven’t read it, but you buy it the next day. I wonder if you’ll think of me when you read it, but later you tell me you aren’t able to finish it.

I think I’ll never see you again. I hope I never see you again, because I don’t know how to exist near you. But I would love to see you again. I want our meetings every few years to get rid of the formalities of strangers. I want to understand this string that has been pulling me toward you since I was a child. In the meantime, we live our lives.