The cold burned her heart

One of the old pages from my journals

Amara was barely 21. I thought she was the most beautiful woman I had ever encountered, with those big doe eyes staring into my soul, as she gasped underneath me, and her back curved like a bridge in between my white sheets, as her suntanned skin melted in my milk-colored arms.

That morning was maybe the most beautiful of our relationship, and strangely, nothing happened.

That's the thing with journals, you see, you never write down the little things that will actually determine the future events of your life. You write down the little things that make you happy and the little things that make you melancholic and the stupid feeling that no one will ever care about.

I found that old page as I was looking for a very specific story in my old, old journals: the day our relationship went south. That stupid paper fell out fro between the pages of a dusty notebook in which I used to write down thoughts and feelings before I started to make full, well-structured journals.

It amazed me how superficially and childishly I saw Amara at that time.

The perfect curves of her hips, the way that light sometimes hit her irises and made them look like pools of honey, and the way she'd sometimes swear in Greek while I was holding her palms down in the mattress -I had written all of that down on a piece of miserable math paper spilled with coffee, but I didn't manage to write down one word about what we talked about that day, or what she thought about my home, or my dog, or the view out of my window.

Such happy days, and I was condemned to never remember what we used to chat about for hours and hours because I was too lost in the way her dark hair curled in the sheets.

I did note, however, that sometimes she'd scream out ''Peteris'' instead of Pelle, forgetting how much I hated to be called by my full name. And I loved it, that I could make her forget everything but my full name.

I hate my 23 years old self now, not necessarily for being so superficial, but rather for not writing down the boring, uninteresting stuff that happened during those days, thinking they will never stop. I took it all for granted and now, the memory of those days is stained by the curvy cerulean*silhouette of Amara in the frame of my large windows.

''Se agapó'' she'd whisper in greek and I told her I loved her back, and I thought it was important.

Days after, I found the journals I had been looking for. Journals very different from the notes I was taking in our happy days, heavy books written in blue ink and spotted with tears. 

And I asked myself...I asked when did I know we had fallen out.