So there we were, resting after dinner around the campfire, when suddenly the fire looked different than on other nights; and that’s putting it mildly.


The flames weren’t just flickering; they were swirling, twisting, and dancing together in these wild, interlaced ribbons of electric blue, vivid pink, and fiery orange, shooting up from the logs like arms reaching for the sky, escaping the woodpile like they had someplace important to be.

I blinked a few times, thinking maybe I was just tired… but then the fire did what I can only describe as a shimmy. A full shimmy.

I whispered, “Is it… dancing?”

My friends, wide-eyed and speechless, just nodded very slowly, like they were afraid sudden movement would spook it.

We sat there watching the fire, the smoke, and the soft, harmonic hum the logs were making; almost like they were warming up for a concert.

We all silently agreed to sit very quietly and let the universe do whatever it was doing.

Let’s just say… the night got interesting, and that fire clearly had opinions to share.

The park glowed like a Van Gogh painting brought to life. Every tree wore a jacket of leaves in yellow and orange, shimmering under a sun that seemed to smile just for the two of us. The air was still, carrying only the soft rustle of leaves falling in slow motion, each one a quiet reminder of the season.

You walked by my side, your steps sinking gently into the thick carpet of yellow, orange, and brown. The ground was soft, alive with color and sound, like the faint crunch beneath your shoes, and the whisper of a breeze through the branches.

There was no rush, no noise, just the rhythm of your steps and your soft laughter carried by the wind. A few rays of sunlight broke through the canopy, landing on your face, lighting your smile and the strands of your hair. I caught myself smiling without knowing why — maybe because everything in that moment was exactly as it should be.

It wasn’t cold. It wasn’t warm. It was perfect; the kind of balance only autumn understands, a pause between endings and beginnings. The world felt clean, renewed, and the air was pure.

When we reached the pond at the end of the path, I looked at you and said nothing. I didn’t have to. The silence in that moment was full of love, of peace, of the quiet happiness that only a walk in the park can give.

The city wakes like a lazy cat stretching in gold.


Buildings yawn into the sky, their glass eyes dripping sunlight.


You step out, and the pavement smiles back, warm, melting a little under your shoes.

The air tastes like oranges, static, and a peel of daydreams.


Someone laughs in slow motion; pigeons do pirouettes held by invisible strings.


Every window is a mirror, and every mirror shows a different you, 
one humming, one spinning, one already halfway down the stairs, chasing the morning.

Traffic lights wink in rhythm, inviting you to wander here and there,


the world swaying to some tune only you seem to hear.


Somewhere between the beat and your heartbeat, you beep and boop your way along.

Coffee smells like adventure, like postcards and sunshine.


Fragrances drift from doorways, whispering come in, stay a while, live a little.


The streetlights, shy in daylight, wear halos like sleepy stars who forgot to go home.

You’re walking, yet you feel you may be floating, no, gliding, 


each step leaving ripples of sound, like sand softly echoing on itself.


They feel like tiny sparks, sunbursts chasing at your heels, trying to keep up.

And just when you think the moment can’t get brighter,


the sun leans in, peeks around a cloud, and
 kisses your face with the warmth of a mother,


like a friend you didn’t know you missed.


It whispers something you can’t quite understand,

can’t quite catch, 
but you smile anyway,


because whatever it was,


it felt like home.

[English below]

A veces el alma se rompe en silencio.

Te miro y entiendo que ya no estás, aunque sigas aquí.

Tu risa suena lejana, tu mirada busca algo que no soy.

Dame tu vida, aunque sea por un instante, para entender en qué momento la perdí.

No sé en qué punto dejamos de encontrarnos, ni cuándo empezó esta distancia que ya no se mide en días, sino en miradas vacías.

Me doy cuenta de que no fue el mundo el que cambió… fui yo quien dejó de ser suficiente para ti.

Y ahora esta casa, que un día fue refugio, se ha vuelto un eco de lo que fuimos.

Dos almas bajo el mismo techo: una que aún ama, y otra que solo quiere escapar.

Sometimes the soul breaks in silence.

I look at you and understand that you are no longer here, even though you are still here.

Your laughter sounds distant, your gaze searches for something I am not.

Give me your life, even for a moment, to understand when I lost it.

I don't know at what point we stopped meeting, or when this distance began, no longer measured in days, but in empty glances.

I realize that it wasn't the world that changed... it was I who stopped being enough for you.

And now this house, which was once a refuge, has become an echo of what we once were.

Two souls under the same roof: one who still loves, and another who just wants to escape.

I have, for the sake of clarity (though clarity is precisely what continues to elude me), begun keeping a list , no, not a list, that implies completion , a ledger of every conversation that might have meant something. Every glance. Every pause too long or too short.

Because surely meaning must hide in ratios: the seconds she lingered before saying my name versus the average time in which one says any name. There must be a pattern. There must be.

Yesterday, I rechecked my old notebooks, the ones from before we met. I thought perhaps I could triangulate who I was then, before her laughter started echoing in the kitchen tiles. There’s something about the sound there , the acoustics, yes, but also the way it reverberates longer than it should, as though even the walls are reluctant to let her go.

I counted the echoes once. Seven. Always seven. Except on Sundays, when it’s six. I haven’t found the cause. Maybe humidity. Maybe sorrow.

Lately, I’ve been breaking things down , not destroying, but dividing. Every recollection into smaller elements: tone, phrasing, breath, light. I separate the gesture from the word, the word from the silence that followed it. If I can understand the parts, perhaps the whole will reveal itself. But the pieces multiply faster than I can name them, and I lose track of which belonged to which moment.

When she left, she said it wasn’t about me, which of course means it was, though possibly in the way that gravity is about the apple , a constant force unchosen by either party. Still, I wrote it down: Not about you. I circled it seventeen times. That should make it true, or at least symmetrical.

It’s funny , or rather, it should be funny , how much time one can spend arranging memories by weight, like stones. Some sink faster than others. Some refuse to drown.

I keep thinking if I could chart everything , the sequence of words, the slope of her handwriting, the moment the air first changed its tone , I’d find the exact second life slipped from living to remembering.

But every night, as I go over the data, the columns, the charts, I end up where I began: staring at the empty margin, wondering what to label it.

Because that’s where she still exists. In the margin. Between what was said and what might have been meant.

It’s quiet now.

Too quiet.

And yet, in the stillness, I still hear you. Your laughter, your stories, they rise up from somewhere inside me, like echoes that will never fade. They’re not just memories. They are part of me, stitched into who I am.

I don’t need to ask why you left. I knew, even before the end came, as someone close to me had often reminded me. We had lived the story together, and I could see its closing lines long before I was ready to read them.

You were the shape of my world. And when you went, a lot of things seemed to collapse, as if some dreams had no foundation without you holding them steady. For a long time, I thought your leaving had taken them all away.

But now I see: what you gave me was never gone. The stories you told, the way you taught me to look at the world, the warmth you carried into every room, all of it lives on. In me. Through me.

I thought I was grieving you.
But what I’m really mourning is the part of me that still reaches for you, expecting you to answer; longing, even now, to hear your laughter break the silence.

And maybe that’s the truth: you didn’t vanish. You became the silence that carries your voice. You became the life inside my life.

Lyrics:

No need to tell me,

What's going on your mind.

I know the story,

We wrote it long ago.

I hear your laughter,

And it fills my room.

I hear your stories,

They're part of my life.

Where did you go?

And left all things like this.

Why did you go?

And killed all my dreams.

No need to tell me,

The secrets on your mind.

I know the story,

We dreamed it long ago.

I hear your laughter,

It echoes in my heart.

I feel your stories,

They live inside my life.

Where did you go?

And left all things like this.

Why did you go?

And killed all my dreams.

Mine, not yours.

Grab it, stash it, stack it high,

No reason, no season, just a hungry eye.

Mine, not yours.

Plates collapse, pockets roar,

They don’t mean harm, but they take it all,

Like it’s law, like I grab more.

Mine, not yours.

With hands full, scoop the loot,

Olives, crumbs, the last sip too.

Innocent chaos, nothing left for you.

Mine, not yours. Mine, not yours.

No sharing, no caring, no pause, no thought,

Every spoon, every drop, gotta have the lot.

The table is a battlefield, the spoils are the proof,

Leave the wreckage smiling, pockets stuffed with proof.

Mine, not yours.

See the reach, see the claw,

Take it fast, break the law.

Mine, not yours.

Not greedy, not evil, just blind to the core,

An anthem of appetite, always grabbing more.

Mine, not yours. Mine, not yours.

The chant of the clueless, the gospel of hands,

The buffet apocalypse, the hunger that stands.

Mine in the morning, mine in the night,

Mine when it’s plenty, mine when it’s tight.

Mine, not yours.

Mine, by default.

Mine, without cause.

Mine, not yours.

The road stretched far ahead quiet and unhurried. At first it seemed endless, as though time itself had folded into repetition. The surface carried a strange shimmer, chromatic stones shifting in hue with the angle of light, sometimes dull, sometimes radiant, never quite the same. A fleeting look might dismiss it as monotony, yet in stillness you could see that there was movement everywhere: shadows sliding, colors shifting, the play of light offering transient forms and subtle changes.

So it is with life. We walk forward, often certain that each step mirrors the last, that days blur together. But if we pause and look more carefully, we find change unfolding in subtle tones, a conversation remembered, a kindness offered, a moment of stillness we hadn’t known we needed. The road may be long, but beneath its seeming sameness, it is quietly transforming, and so are we.

When everything around and within is in harmony, peace settles like a perfect garden, tucked between whispering trees, beside a still lake, where the fire crackles low and the air carries nothing but calm.

Nestled right at the edge of the lake, between towering cliffs and soft, rolling hills dotted with vineyards, lie old, picturesque towns that feel timeless and calm. Small boats drift slowly along the shore, rocking gently with the lake’s quiet rhythm.

Here, the water never rushes or foam. It simply is, still, deep, like it is listening and telling a soft story.

When I finally got to visit, the lake was just as I had hoped, quiet and patient. It mirrored the sky without a word, held the breeze close, and welcomed me like an old friend. And after a long day, it gifted the most beautiful sunsets, bright and red, glowing warmly, like the embrace of my family gathered close.

Being there felt like stepping into a world where time slows down, where every ripple, every gentle sway of the boats, speaks of comfort and belonging.

Spending time with my family feels just like that lake, calm and steady, full of quiet moments that speak louder than words. It’s the softness of laughter that skips across the surface like smooth stones, the warmth that settles deep like sunlight lingering on the shore, and the steady glow of love, bright and constant, like those sunsets painting the sky.

And when life gets loud and chaotic, I remember that lake. I remember that peace isn’t about running away, but about coming back, again and again, to where love is steady, waiting quietly for you.