Freya met Marco one day after coming home from school. He was in the main square of a park, playing lazy notes in his red guitar. His fingers ran through the frets of the instrument like a lifelong traveler, never missing a beat. An unkempt stubble made him at least three years older than Freya, but something in his melancholic and deep air made her heart race. Maybe it was his artistic sensibilities in a world where human reason counters all, or his indifference towards it; in short, he was an enigma she was hungry and thirsty for.
She stood next to him without realizing it, according to what she said. She pressed her hand against her chest to try and calm down, to draw strength from a mysterious resolve.
That young man, the embodiment of mystery, looked fearlessly at her eyes, becoming the one who took the first step towards building a bridge from one heart to another. He told her his name and asked hers; he was marveled with it, surprising Freya by demonstrating the knowledge of its Wagnerian origins.
The attention span she had for him would make all of her teachers jealous; there wasn’t a single world, inflection, gesture or body language that went by unnoticed for her. Her curiosity and interest that time were heartwarming, just like the topics they touched upon: music, feelings, art. Freya swore there was never any silence when talking with him.
Three months, two weeks and a dozen sunsets went by before she could bare her heart in a letter that would no longer be anonymous. She spent the previous night digging up memories to find the words that would certainly fall short to describe the fire in her heart. Could you imagine her despair when Marco refused to read them?
“Don’t take it the wrong way.” he told her whilst noticing her eyes becoming moist. “I don’t need to open this envelope to know what you want to tell me. I can feel the words trying to break free from the paper.”
His thumbs caressed the envelope.
“I’ve been in love with women for so long! I’ve come to know them very well as a result.”
Marco caressed her cheek and placed a kiss on the other. Freya did not know what made her sling his arms immediately around his neck. It could have been his confidence, or the romantic declarations only a midnight poet could make.
He smelt of the forwardness she’d come to love. His body felt like an embodiment of warmth for his powerful words. Freya sank her face on the shoulder of her Romeo in the way a kitten nestles over its mate. Her following words were kind yet unnecessary; for her, however, they became a release.
“Thank you.”
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