The morning of October 30th

  
    I was somewhere between asleep and awake when I felt you.
    It was a tiring and long week. I'm not surprised I slept so long and uninterrupted. Nor am I surprised to still be thinking about you.
    Yesterday I hugged our photos for the last time before putting them away in a dark and hidden, but not forgotten, corner. I remembered when you hugged the box you had filled with my letters, and when we convinced each other that one felt what the other one felt.
     Today, I felt you.
    It was wonderful and sadly nostalgic. I was lying on my back with my head slightly tilted to the right. I was somewhere between asleep and awake when I felt you cuddle on top of me. It was already dawn, the light between my curtains sang to me, and I felt the pressure of your cotton face against mine. My cheeks squeezed against yours, and I instinctively lifted my arms to unite you with my warmth.
     I knew it. I felt it. It was you.
     But I stopped with my arms raised. I also knew you weren't here.
    I left them outstretched for I don't know how long, because even though what I wanted most was to hold you, I knew I would only find air, and that your weight would vanish as I tried to catch you.
    I wanted to let your sorrows rest on mine for as long as it was necessary. To be your safe place once again. But my desire has always been stronger than my sense, and these arms that tried to take care of you and only managed to suffocate you, made you run away from me again.
    I embraced everything you left me.
    I opened my eyes. 10:30 am and the sky was gray.
     Did you feel that too?
     I would like to spy you. Search through your notes and your diaries for memories of the morning of this October 30th and know if things are still as we promised each other. I want to go through your room like a ghost on a day when you are not present to search in a rush for signs that, for you, I still exist. That I am not only this reflection in my window, in the only room with light in the building, that hallucinates with your touch and with the idea that you still think of me. That you still feel me.
    Would you have been hugging someone else?
     I want to convince myself that you were. That this morning, you woke up with another body, funny and uninterested, colorless and smiley, with that taste that expires in less than 24 hours and that empty warmth that will never emanate the strength with which I touched you.
     You leaned on their face, not mine.
     But it was me who felt you.
    Good night, we'll feel each other tomorrow.