17/4/25 El susurro de la lluvia

Lately, I’ve been really busy and tired. Each day was full, and I barely had a moment to pause. Tonight, finally, things have quieted down before midnight. I left all my electronic devices downstairs to charge, out of sight.

In my bedroom, the time reads 00:41. I had originally planned to keep editing the piece titled Farewell, My Second Homeland, or perhaps continue working on another one, My Breasts that breathe with me.

I am not using Spotify, also I don’t want to be pulled away again by the easy grip of social media. It’s just me here, and an old notebook that’s been with me for ten years, patiently waiting for my thoughts to land.

The light in the room is dim and gentle—I’ve draped a silk scarf over the lamp to soften it even more. Outside, the sound of rain taps quietly against the night.

March 7th—that was the last day I saw him.

I don’t want to go into the details of our story. It was a brief romance, but at the time, it felt genuine and beautiful. I truly believe that we truly liked each other, and that we both longed for a kind of connection that was meaningful.

I especially remember his eyes—sincere and bright, always with a touch of dark humor and playful mischief. There was something warm, kind, and honest about him—a soft, healthy energy that felt grounding. Time with him felt natural and easy—warm, playful, romantic, sincere, and full of laughter.

I could feel how calmly and honestly he expressed himself—quiet, but open with his inner thoughts. We talked about the kind of intimacy we longed for, and where we each were in our lives. One day, at a ping-pong pizza bar, we spoke candidly. We had both passed the phase of fleeting flings and surface-level encounters. If the next relationship were to come, we both hoped it would be something steady—something to walk through slowly, together. Something gentle and enduring.

Orbits of Connection

He once shared a beautiful metaphor with me: that each person’s life moves along a circular path, and throughout our journey, we meet many people. Some cross our path for a brief moment before continuing on their own. And if we’re lucky, some stay alongside us for a very long time—maybe even until the end.

Yes—some people appear only briefly in our lives. A fleeting romance, a companion on a trip, even a stranger with whom we share a meaningful conversation. These moments, however short, can echo through us for a long time.

There are also relationships that seem close on the surface, yet remain parallel underneath—moving side by side for a while without ever truly touching. They may look like intimacy, but at their core, they remain distant.

Then there are those passing intersections that fade so seamlessly once they end, it’s as if they never existed—dissolving like mist, as weightless as a dream.

And then, for the lucky ones, life brings a long companion—maybe it’s a deep, enduring romance, maybe a lifelong friend, or a kindred spirit whose soul seems to mirror our own. With these people, we share the rises and falls of life. We grow, together.

That metaphor reminded me of something I learned during my Vipassana retreat—an experiential understanding of impermanence. In Vipassana, we are taught to observe the arising and passing of all sensations, emotions, and thoughts, moment by moment. Everything changes—anicca—and clinging to what is fleeting only brings suffering. This truth, while simple, sinks in through silent observation: nothing lasts, and peace comes when we stop resisting that truth.

Some people are simply meant to be passing figures in our lives, entering briefly and then leaving again—and that’s not necessarily a bad thing. Cherishing each encounter without clinging to permanence allows us to be more present, more deeply rooted in the now.

And yet, this connection came to an end rather quickly. One day, after he went on a trip, a conversation between us made me realize that we might not be able to reach a kind of balance that would allow both of us to feel comfortable and seen.

I’ve always believed that each person lives within their own reality, their own emotional landscape. In building intimacy, we’re asked to meet each other halfway—to understand the other’s world while also gently revealing our own.

So when my expression was dismissed as “annoying” or “complaining”—reduced to something one-dimensional—I felt disappointed.

What surprised me, though, was how differently I responded this time. Yes, I felt hurt. But by the third day, something had settled inside me. I realized: Oh… this isn’t what I want.

And just like that, something in me let go—quietly, calmly. The interest faded. There was no resentment, no anger. Just a quiet acceptance.

The past version of me would’ve clung to the hope of being understood. I would’ve tried to talk it through, to fix it, to make it work.

I would’ve believed in perseverance—always thinking, maybe just try a little harder, one more time.

I would’ve wondered, with genuine curiosity, Why did he say that? Why did he act that way?

But none of that happened.

Now, I choose to express my thoughts and emotions sincerely—whether it’s joy, affection, wonder, sadness, or doubt, I offer them freely. But if we can’t truly meet in the middle, I no longer chase understanding or crave validation.

I am vulnerable—but I choose to be. Not because I’m weak, not because I don’t know better. But because if I’m going to connect with someone I care about, I want it to be as my full, honest self—not some softened or edited version designed to be more acceptable.

I remember a conversation I had with a few girlfriends. We talked about how dating and relationships are like data collection. You’re not necessarily aiming for a fixed outcome—you’re learning. It’s a process that teaches you what you need, what you want, what you’re capable of giving, and where your boundaries are.

And if the person in front of me isn’t someone who’s meant to walk the long road with me—

está bien, de verdad.

I can see how much I’ve changed and healed over the years. I know I’m on a path of understanding and accepting myself. And yet, sometimes I still feel confused—has all this inner work, all this effort to heal myself… really been enough?

Has everything I’ve done truly helped me let go of past wounds and embrace a newer, healthier way of loving?

I’ve been trying hard, but why is it that the things I thought I had already released still find their way back to me—quietly, unexpectedly, in the form of a dream or a heavy feeling I can’t name?

Why do fear and insecurity so often arrive hand-in-hand with love?

I shared all of this with my dear friend Nara:

“This week I had a therapy session,” I told her. “And I cried—a lot. It was as if a drawer of childhood memories had suddenly flung open and spilled out all at once. I felt overwhelmed. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to fully digest all those painful experiences. I don’t know if I can truly become healthy. Most of the time, I feel like I’m on the way. But sometimes, I’m so afraid—afraid that the ‘toxic seeds’ once planted in me have already taken deep root and lived inside me for years. I want to grow into someone healthier. I want to love, and be loved—gently, safely. But why do these fears still exist, even as I try to practice love differently?”

She listened, and then said:

“I completely understand what you're feeling—truly. I know these emotions come and go. They’re not linear. That’s why I hope you won’t ever judge yourself for feeling like you’ve figured it all out one day, only to feel like you’ve failed the next.

This whole thing—healing, growing—it’s an up-and-down process. In order not to become the one who first planted those seeds in your garden, you have to learn how to tend to it. And tending to a garden is seasonal work—it doesn’t run like a factory line. It can’t be perfectly timed or precisely controlled. You can’t dictate the weather or force a wounded patch of earth to bloom on command. But what you can do is choose how you show up to the work. You can change yourself.

Sometimes it’ll feel hard, and that’s okay. Maybe you can be a little gentler with yourself. When we were children, that garden was never supposed to be ours to care for. That was meant to be our parents’ responsibility. But some of us—like you, like me—were forced to pick up the heavy tools far too early. And back then, we had so little. Just a bit of instinct, a blurry sense of right and wrong, and a lot of trial and error. Even so, we did the best we could with what we had—and that’s already something remarkable.

You don’t have to turn a damaged plot of land into a blooming field. You can choose to leave it behind. Let it rest, let it wither, and go somewhere new—to plant new seeds. You can change soil. You can move forward. Truly—it’s okay.

I want you to remember that these overwhelming feelings aren’t yours alone. What you’re experiencing now is what once couldn’t be felt back then. It’s what was left unresolved, finally rising to the surface. That means something big: it means you finally have the space and the strength to face them.

Growth doesn’t mean controlling everything. It means finding a soft steadiness in the waves. It’s hard, but there’s beauty in it too. I’ve never really believed in ‘letting go of the past.’ I think the way we are now is shaped—line by line—by everything we’ve lived through. Those experiences don’t disappear. They become your bones, your nerves, the way you flinch or soften. So when I say ‘let go,’ I mean let go of the guilt.

It’s like surfing. Emotions are waves—they’re not something to conquer, but something to ride. To rise and fall with. To float with, until they pass. You don’t need to become the ‘healed version’ of yourself. You just need to stay willing—to keep choosing to become someone a little healthier, one breath at a time.

You’ve already been so brave, walking this far.

So please, don’t feel alone. We’re all on this journey. Like the breath—it rises and falls, comes and goes. Everything passes. And everything comes.”

My friend Mori also shared her thoughts with me:

“Yes. I believe that no matter how much inner work we’ve done, certain emotions and experiences will always find their own way back to us. Pain is often tied to the meaning we assign to something—the more we care about it, the deeper it cuts when it feels threatened or begins to slip away.

Maybe you place great importance on consistency, on steady presence, on honest communication. So when those core values feel shaken or unclear, of course fear rises. You want to protect what matters. And you react—naturally. We all do.

We are not passive observers of life. The reason we feel, the reason we react, is because we are always trying to defend what we hold dear.

Many people treat certain reactions as ‘just human,’ but if you look more closely, you’ll see how deeply they are tied to our personal stories. We often assume others will feel the same way we do—or that we should feel something in response to a particular situation. But the truth is, what truly moves us isn’t the event itself, but the way it touches a deep inner thread—something sacred, something remembered.

So when someone isn’t present; or when their words don’t align with their actions; or when consistency quietly falls away—it’s not just a passing discomfort. It stirs something deeper. It invites you to look inward and ask: Why does this unsettle me so much? What does this reflect in my own life? Maybe, at some point, someone showed you what it felt like to be truly held, to be met with steadiness and truth. Maybe it was a moment in childhood, a line in a book, or a small act that felt enormous. Maybe it's something you quietly tucked into your heart and have been holding onto ever since.

These emotions—they’ll keep coming. But they’ll also keep transforming. And you’ll continue to find new ways to meet them. The values you care about will begin to shape the way you relate to others, and the way you relate to yourself.

So feeling pain, exhaustion, or even brokenness after all your efforts—doesn’t mean something’s wrong with you. It’s simply how you respond to your own inner world. It’s the shape of your care.

When something truly matters, you stand by it. You don’t back down or pretend it doesn’t hurt. That’s why you cry. That’s why you sometimes feel overwhelmed. It just means you’re fiercely protecting the soft, precious parts of yourself.

This isn’t weakness.

In fact, I often think society pathologizes emotion too easily—as if every deep feeling must come from trauma or damage. But sometimes, it’s the opposite.

Despite everything you’ve been through, despite the way old fears still find their way back to you, you keep choosing to live. You choose to connect, to stay open, to love. How do you do that? How do you still move toward closeness and trust, even knowing the shadows of the past may return?

It tells me something. That deep inside you, there is a strength—a real one. One that helps you come back to tenderness and trust, again and again.

Your emotions are not your limitation.

They are part of your journey.”

It was late.

Outside, the rain fell—soft and steady.

It tapped against windowsills, leaves, and roof tiles.

I thought of that Friday night—the night before we parted.

We had just watched a movie. Outside, the wind was wild.

Autumn had arrived all at once.

Later that night, after we had made love, our bodies still carried each other’s warmth.

We stood naked in the kitchen, drinking water, listening to the rain.

I said, “I want to hug you in the rain.”

And just like that, I stepped out into the night.

He hesitated, a little shy.

Then, he opened the door and came to join me.

The rain was cold, clear.

It ran from my hair to my shoulders, sliding down my skin.

But his skin was warm.

We stood there in my tiny courtyard, hugging each other, skin to skin.

The world around us was dark and quiet.

Only the sound of the rain.

Only our breathing.

Only our hearts.

“Thank you for joining me,” I whispered.

He kissed my hair softly, saying nothing.

Later, we went back inside and washed off the rain.

The windows in my bedroom were wide open.

The sound of the rain poured in without hesitation.

He lay on my bed, eyes gazing out into the rain.

I stood at the wardrobe, towel in hand, drying my hair, fingers moving through the clothes.

I was looking for a tank top.

Running my hand across fabric after fabric.

But I never found it.

The only sounds in the room were the rain and the rustling of my search.

I never really owned pajamas—not proper ones, at least.

Usually, I wore nothing, or just pulled on whatever old T-shirt or tank top was lying nearby.

That night was no different.

I was starting to grow restless, still searching,

"I can't find any..."

“Vení así, Shikin.”

So I climbed into his arms, bare-skinned and quiet.

We turned off the light.

Said nothing.

Just listened to the rain.

It surrounded us, wrapped us in its rhythm.

The world slowed down.

Time paused.

We weren’t anything defined.

We were simply two people, honest and open,

liking each other, hugging each other,

sharing a moment that felt outside of time.

I said, “This is so beautiful. I’m really glad I met you.”

He replied softly, “I was just thinking the same thing.”

Goodbye, then—

to the sound of that rain,

and the tenderness of that embrace.