Two strangers turned lovers. Two lovers turned strangers. Every night she spent with him, she woke up at 3 am, kissed his back quietly, and wondered if this was going to be the last night.
She hugged him tight, apologized for making him a character of her self-published daily novel, and dreamed about the next chapter. Would it be drama, comedy, tragedy, or tragicomedy?
It happened last night, or maybe a few nights before. Every second feels like a dagger punctuating her breaths, incising delicately her lungs. The tears have crystallized her eyes. She wanders the paved streets dropping her crystal-like tears throughout the civilized city looking for her lost lover, just like La Llorona, or “The crying woman,” looked for her children.
It’s dark. It’s 3 am. Everybody sleeps when she spreads her pain all over the city, only the children of darkness and the streets feel it. She’s scared of them; she cannot bother to feel their pain. She’s the only one living with a broken spine. No, she’s not. The disciples of light make her think that.
The open highway standing in front of her is tempting like Rocky Road ice cream, and scary like the human susceptibility to betray. No one is waiting at the bus stop with her. The rain drops mix with her crystals. She feels alive, wet, sticky, existentially lost, and sane.
The mental illnesses have faded away along with the herds of citizens. She’s not a stranger to herself anymore. Now, she’s her lover. It’s 3 am, she doesn’t want to wake up. She doesn’t want to wonder when will the last night be.