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Description
I like to believe we were relatively happy while we could; Walking around the city aimlessly, looking for little things that would make us want to stay, or drinking an iced tea in our favourite pub. The good moments were short, but they were also infinite.
Your despair and my hope never got in the way to break our friendship and that's something I'll be eternally thankful for. Every bad moment and the absence of a happy ending were worth it.

I always knew that what kept you alive were the bits of prose you'd inject yourself at imprudent hours of the night, when your thoughts were more harmful and harder to keep inside. No liquor was strong enough to keep away the dark creatures that came from the deepest corners of your mind to poison, your already rotten, heart. There was nothing but literature, prose. The saddest part is that Shakespeare himself wouldn't have been able to save your life.
I remember the time I pointed it out, you burned all your books. "I don't depend on anyone" you yelled at me. And I knew I had just murdered you.

Truth is you were dependent since the first meal you skipped and the fifth time you cried in front of the mirror. If there was something that could stop you when you set your mind on spilling your guts into your altar of what society baptised as beauty it was lines from Benedetti or some paragraph from "La Casa de los Espíritus". You used to say that you'd live for words, for them you'd make an effort. I tried to convince you on various occasions to write; be it prose, poetry or maybe even an essay. But I never accomplished it, instead you'd just ask me to write you a poem, or a short story. In that way you'd be immortal, you'd live on the pages of a book you swore would make me famous one day, and no one would have to miss you when feeding your soul wasn't enough anymore. I promised you the day I had to keep you alive I would, but until then you'd have to live with your feet on the pavement and not your soul on a sheet of paper.

I was unable to understand your love for hummingbirds until the first time you were interned. When you confessed to me that it killed you to know you'd never be as graceful, light and beautiful as one of them. I looked at you, making an effort not to cry, and with my broken voice I told you you needed no feathers to reflect how beautiful I thought you were. You let out a deep sigh, probably thinking "She'll never understand", and you took the vitamins you were prescribed. That night I stayed with you, you lost consciousness at around 10pm, and before that you complained at least nine times of how dizzy you were feeling. It was in vain when I explained to you that that's what happens when you listen to your destructive thoughts and you don't let yourself digest a single grain of rice. I left in the morning promising myself I wouldn't visit you again until you were conscious and determined to recover. I left you a copy of "The Virgin Suicides" on your night table, knowing that the next time I'd see you you would have read it at least twice. When I saw you again a week later you corrected me saying you were already reading it for the third time.

I knew you were no longer with us two months before they pronounced you dead. You didn't let out bits and pieces of novels and you didn't talk about your hummingbirds anymore. Today I dare say that it wasn't my fault, that there is little a person can do when a loved one decides living isn't a priority, and I'm tired of blaming it on society and it's standards for beauty. I will never understand your reasons and maybe I'm better off that way. I still walk the city streets aimlessly and even though it hurts too much to sit at our table and drink an iced tea, I like to sit in the one that's next to it and drink a cup of coffee. I don't know where your dreams went, I wonder if in your afterlife you were granted the wish of visiting Paris.
Today I only have your memory and the secrets you confessed when you couldn't stop crying and you started to spit out mixed words. You were my role model of how not to live, and of how to dream. Today it's three years since you're gone and I've decided it's time I make justice to that promise I once made to you. I hope this is enough to keep you alive when you're not anymore. My dearest friend, today, you're immortal.

Description
I like to believe we were relatively happy while we could; Walking around the city aimlessly, looking for little things that would make us want to stay, or drinking an iced tea in our favourite pub. The good moments were short, but they were also infinite.
Your despair and my hope never got in the way to break our friendship and that's something I'll be eternally thankful for. Every bad moment and the absence of a happy ending were worth it.

I always knew that what kept you alive were the bits of prose you'd inject yourself at imprudent hours of the night, when your thoughts were more harmful and harder to keep inside. No liquor was strong enough to keep away the dark creatures that came from the deepest corners of your mind to poison, your already rotten, heart. There was nothing but literature, prose. The saddest part is that Shakespeare himself wouldn't have been able to save your life.
I remember the time I pointed it out, you burned all your books. "I don't depend on anyone" you yelled at me. And I knew I had just murdered you.

Truth is you were dependent since the first meal you skipped and the fifth time you cried in front of the mirror. If there was something that could stop you when you set your mind on spilling your guts into your altar of what society baptised as beauty it was lines from Benedetti or some paragraph from "La Casa de los Espíritus". You used to say that you'd live for words, for them you'd make an effort. I tried to convince you on various occasions to write; be it prose, poetry or maybe even an essay. But I never accomplished it, instead you'd just ask me to write you a poem, or a short story. In that way you'd be immortal, you'd live on the pages of a book you swore would make me famous one day, and no one would have to miss you when feeding your soul wasn't enough anymore. I promised you the day I had to keep you alive I would, but until then you'd have to live with your feet on the pavement and not your soul on a sheet of paper.

I was unable to understand your love for hummingbirds until the first time you were interned. When you confessed to me that it killed you to know you'd never be as graceful, light and beautiful as one of them. I looked at you, making an effort not to cry, and with my broken voice I told you you needed no feathers to reflect how beautiful I thought you were. You let out a deep sigh, probably thinking "She'll never understand", and you took the vitamins you were prescribed. That night I stayed with you, you lost consciousness at around 10pm, and before that you complained at least nine times of how dizzy you were feeling. It was in vain when I explained to you that that's what happens when you listen to your destructive thoughts and you don't let yourself digest a single grain of rice. I left in the morning promising myself I wouldn't visit you again until you were conscious and determined to recover. I left you a copy of "The Virgin Suicides" on your night table, knowing that the next time I'd see you you would have read it at least twice. When I saw you again a week later you corrected me saying you were already reading it for the third time.

I knew you were no longer with us two months before they pronounced you dead. You didn't let out bits and pieces of novels and you didn't talk about your hummingbirds anymore. Today I dare say that it wasn't my fault, that there is little a person can do when a loved one decides living isn't a priority, and I'm tired of blaming it on society and it's standards for beauty. I will never understand your reasons and maybe I'm better off that way. I still walk the city streets aimlessly and even though it hurts too much to sit at our table and drink an iced tea, I like to sit in the one that's next to it and drink a cup of coffee. I don't know where your dreams went, I wonder if in your afterlife you were granted the wish of visiting Paris.
Today I only have your memory and the secrets you confessed when you couldn't stop crying and you started to spit out mixed words. You were my role model of how not to live, and of how to dream. Today it's three years since you're gone and I've decided it's time I make justice to that promise I once made to you. I hope this is enough to keep you alive when you're not anymore. My dearest friend, today, you're immortal.