through my eyes (eng)

Athos

I remember her as if my eyes were looking at her right now. And she will always remain a wound that I will never be able to heal. I could stand here and talk about her for hours. Of her hair, red like a sunset, wavy like the sea, and eyes as blue as the latter—a blue that made you afraid you might drown in it. The freckles that rested on her cheeks like constellations, and that drifted down her shoulders, only to mix with the just as numerous scars carrying the history of a past she was never able to face. I still dream of those eyes sometimes at night. They seemed so empty, hiding so much suffering that at times I wondered how she could endure it. She told me about her life once, and then I understood the darkness that those eyes conveyed. Trying to help her was useless, because light hurts when you are only used to the dark. If they asked me to describe her, I wouldn't paint her as a joyful, extroverted, or sweet person. She didn't like to be touched, and I don't think I ever saw her smile. I saw her cry, though. Many times, too many times, for something I wasn't able to understand, for something she wasn't able to tell. Yet, ironically, she wasn't a dark person. Putting these pieces together, one might think she exuded sadness, fear, or despair, but it wasn't like that. Maybe she knew how to mask it well. Maybe she had run out of energy for fear or sadness. Eritrea, that is her name. She was cold, cold as ice. Sharp words and a frightening mind, almost as much as her gaze. But none of this stopped me from falling in love with her. I met her by chance, I fell in love by an irony of fate, and I lost her out of vanity—and I will never forgive myself for it. I never wanted to be the cause of her pain, but I am quite sure that for a period of time, I became it. Not for long, though; she carried burdens much greater than that of love. And maybe that was what saved her from the oblivion she had been balancing on since the first time I set my eyes on her. And today, just like back then, I think of her with love, I regret her with nostalgia, and I speak of her with pride—for being able to stand by her side, for managing, even if only for a brief moment, to know what lay beneath all that darkness. And she was simply magnificent