And My Heart, Beat Again

I don’t know if it’s because I’ve been writing our story, because I stirred old diaries back to life, or because I

heard her voice again, so close. But something has been unearthed inside me.

It all began on the day we met again. As if time had folded in on itself, I recognized her figure from afar and my

heart made that familiar leap— the kind I would recognize anywhere. And when she stood before me,

everything ignited: her eyes, her smile, the memory of a happiness I believed long extinguished.

For years, affection had given way to calm, to the quiet comfort of having her in my life without the tremor. But

that day, something unraveled. It was as if the feeling had never truly disappeared— it had simply learned to

breathe underground, waiting for the right moment to rise again.

Perhaps it’s because, after two years of emotional confinement, I’ve begun to feel alive again. Perhaps it’s

because of him, who, without knowing it, helped me open door I had kept closed for far too long. Perhaps my

heart, now without armor, recognized her presence the way one recognizes an old melody.

Whatever the reason, since that day I can’t get her out of my mind. We talk more often now, we share things we

once kept silent. Sometimes she speaks through tears, allowing me to see a fragility that breaks me open and

draws me even closer. And I feel again that instinct to protect her, to be there, to walk beside her.

I know that for her, this is friendship— and perhaps that is how it should be. But inside me, another story has

begun to write itself, as if the ink had never truly dried.

I don’t want to frighten her. I don’t want to lose her. I’ve already lived what happens when love says I love you

and the other can only answer with silence. But I also cannot pretend that I feel nothing.

Perhaps there is no need to say it. Perhaps it is enough to write it, to let it exist— like a confession released into

the wind.

Because in the end, love—this kind of love— doesn’t ask for happy endings or promises. It only asks for space to

exist, even if it must remain unspoken.

And if, after twenty-five years, I still tremble when I see her, it is because some feelings do not age. They simply

wait for the right moment to begin beating again.

Originally written in Catalan.