All That I Need Is That Crazy Feeling

The Past Is Just The Past.

I rested my back against your front door, and then let it all come back to me. I felt the tears as they started rolling down my cheeks, and made my way towards the stairs. Your best friend had been right. It had been me who had walked out on you, over six years ago. It had hurt, it had hurt so much. You had gotten rid of a piece of us without even asking, without even a glimpse at what the future could have been.

I remember that day as if it were yesterday. I remember how ecstatic I had been, and how difficult it felt trying to hold down the euphoria I'd been feeling since you'd told me the previous night. I had been with my manager all day, discussing my upcoming tour around the country, while you were holding meetings for your third album- or so you had told me. I remember arriving home, and seeing you there, sitting on the couch, your hands held between your knees, your face cast-down. I rushed towards you, sitting on the coffee table, asking what was wrong. You only kept repeating, "please, forgive me". I was scared shitless, thinking that something had gone wrong, something had happened to you. And it had. I remember kissing your tears, wrapping my arms around you and letting you sob on my shoulder, while I kept on worrying inside my head about what must have happened. And then you said it. At first I thought it had been an accident. But then you said you had done it. Without even telling me first. It felt as if someone had thrown a bucket of freezing water over my head. It felt like a slap. I let go of you. I remember I pushed back and stared at you. You kept repeating, "please, forgive me", but I couldn't even look you in the face. I remember the taste of my own tears. They felt bitter and salty and sour on my dry tongue. You started talking in a rush, holding my arms, trying to explain yourself in between sobs. But I had none of it. I remember getting up from the couch and walking towards the door, my body heaving, then saying, "I'll call your best friend for you", and everything else is a haze. I must have called your sister too to let her know you weren't fine, because I remember her voice screaming at me. I only know one of my friends picked me up from our street and took me away, to the mountains. He drank with me for days and helped me write all those heartbreak songs. I remember getting infinite calls and having him filter them for me. Every time I heard him saying "they are taking time away from the world and each other, it's their private life and they'd prefer it if their affairs stayed that way", I cried. I wanted to call you so much those first few weeks, those first few months. But then I remembered what you did and I could only feel like hating you. Every time one of our friends called, I received a talking to. From my best friend, especially. But I didn't care. I was so sure I could never forgive you. I just needed to focus on myself and perhaps then I would stop seeing your tear-stained face begging me to stay every time I went to bed. But I couldn't. In the end I simply got used to not having you. To seeing your weeping face every night before I fell asleep. To feeling the hurt and pain and pouring it all out into my songs.

The first time we saw each other again was almost a year later, at a press event. I remember feeling so nervous, knowing I would see you, that I dragged my best friend along as my date just to make sure there would be someone there to have my back. I remember the exact moment I saw you, your arm linked through your brother's. You looked gorgeous in red, and for a moment I even wondered if your colour choice had something to do with getting back at me, because you knew perfectly well what seeing you wearing red did to me. I remember your brother walking towards me, I remember how sincere his embrace was- we'd literally been brothers for four years, and I missed him so much. I remember you hugging her, my best friend, my sister, and hearing your sweet voice saying, "aw, I missed you", and how much it hurt that those words were not directed at me, and instead for me you only had a simple "hi" while looking at the ground. I remember how fucking hard I had to fight not to put my hand to your face, caress your cheek, force you to meet my eyes. The fact that you hadn't tried to contact me in all the time passed hadn't escaped me- it proved to me you knew your actions had been wrong. And instead of redeeming yourself in my eyes, it made me hurt even more.

From then on everything got complicated. The next time we met was at Roi's wedding. We both attended without plus ones, and he had the decency not to sit us side by side even though I knew he was dying to. You drank quite a bit with your best friend while I nursed my own drinks sitting alone by the table, watching as everyone else danced. I remember when your best friend walked up to me and asked me to dance, and how we revisited that wonderful week back at the academy, almost six years earlier, with that horrible performance where we imagined we were at the Latin Grammies... I will never forget what I felt when the next song started and I heard its first chord. I could recognise our song anywhere, the song that told our story, the song that brought us to the Top Five at the ESC, the song that would mark my lifetime forever. And I will never forget what I felt when I looked up and met your eyes for the first time in twenty months. I don't know how it happened, if it was the drinks or one of our best friends meddling, or maybe both, but I remember I ended up in front of you, admiring how your gown hung perfectly to your every curve, mesmerised by its navy blue colour, the same colour you had always worn when we sang for the stars and for ourselves and for everyone else through their televisions. I tried to search your eyes but you immediately looked down, your golden and brown locks hiding your face from me. I remember how you hesitated before wrapping your arms around my neck, and how I instantly wrapped mine around your waist, holding your body tightly against mine. I remember how wonderful it felt to have your face buried in my neck, to breathe in the scent of your hair- vanilla and apples, always vanilla and apples. I remember how time seemed to stop. We were probably the only two people on the dance floor. We were subtly swaying. You were holding tight to the lapel on my suit jacket, and I kept squeezing your waist so there was not a breath of air separating our bodies. It was when the song was starting to reach the ascending "oh"s, those we did in crescendo, that I felt your body shaking. You were sobbing into my neck, and I didn't know what to do. I traced small circles with my fingers on the small of your back, and I had to level my breathing because the contact with your bare skin was almost too much for me. I kissed the top of your head, and held you there, my lips against your hair, your mouth breathing into the hollow of my neck, both our arms clinging to each other. And then the song ended, and our friends' reggaeton (or was it trap?) hit started sounding. It was as if we had been under a spell that had suddenly been broken. You pushed away from me, as if I burned, and ran away from the dance floor. And I was left there, alone, feeling the dampness your tears and saliva had left on the right side of my neck, my vision, despite the water welling up in them, not blurry enough as to prevent me from seeing the look of hurt and pain on your face before you ran away.

We avoided each other like the plague, then. I met up with your brother from time to time- he'd always been such a good critic of my demo versions, and he brought along his little boy and girl, who still called me "uncle", even though they no longer had to. He treated me with such care- everyone did, actually. Every time I was here in Barcelona I'd meet up with some of our friends, and they always avoided any mention of you. It was as if we didn't share friends, and I wasn't sure if I should be grateful or annoyed by that. My friends however kept me updated on you. Just small mentions in conversation, they'd read you were immersed in your new album, they'd heard you were preparing for tour...

Then it happened. Approximately three and a half years after that horrible day when I'd walked out. I was sharing an apartment with a couple of the guys, and I remember their faces as they walked in, asking me to sit down, and then those five words: "She's going out with someone". It felt as if I'd been slapped, but I tried to act nonchalant, even though I knew perfectly well who "she" was, and could only manage a strained, "Oh?". I should have been prepared; I hadn't expected you to remain celibate for the rest of your life- I myself had had a number of one-night stands and expected the same from you. But, knowing that you'd found someone worthy of spending more than one night with you? That was different. For the rest of the day I tried not to look at the tabloids, but I couldn't help it. I learnt how happy you were with "Pau, who shares her love and passion for music", and how excited you both were about your new tour. When the evening rolled in, my friends tried to drag me out for drinks, but I feigned tiredness. My best friend surveyed me over her glasses and I knew she was aware that I was faking it, but she said nothing and left. I sat on the couch for a long time, obsessing over that stupid magazine they had brought. I started having a crisis, and instead of going for the pills, I decided that I'd had enough. My body wanted to crawl into bed with a glass of water and a couple of benzodiazepines in my system, but my mind was stronger than that. For so long I had avoided all the places where I knew I had a chance of bumping into you. I had to switch our frequently-visited bars, change favourite restaurants, even my morning running routine and the gym where I went to yoga class. But tonight I wanted to find you.