Tea, milk & honey

October 20.

Cloudy.

"I thought you could do more than just that, you were not what I expected, if I’m honest to tell you the truth. When you are able to face me, only then will you see me again."

Those were the last words I remember from that dream. Although it was 5 years ago, those words have been the only ones that have stayed with me to this day.

I know better than anyone that nothing lasts forever although in those days that didn't seem to be something to worry about, Dad's words now echo in my head as a reproach for having omitted him; at the end of the day the coffee cools, the smoke dissipates, time passes and people change.

Now where should I start?

Thousands of times I asked myself that question, so many that I lost count; maybe I should start by describing how my personality used to be and those who were with me. That is what I am most certain of so far.

I have always been a science fiction lover, with me it is not "seeing is believing", curiosity guides most of my life, this is not intended to be a diary, at least not a normal one where I will write in detail the important aspects of my current life; it is a guide, a log, as a starting point for me. A couple of days ago I was recommended to write this as I remember what happened.

My family consists of my parents and my older siblings, Evelyn and Alex; although we have a good family relationship we only would only see each other at lunch and dinner time, other than that we were independent until vacations.

I was in the third grade of high school, my only friend in whom I can say that I fully trust was Noah, in my first years of high school I was too insecure and quiet which had me in deplorable social conditions; sometimes I think that it is due to the education I had at home, with my parents working day and night in a hospital they barely had time for themselves so we had governesses from an early age, one for each of us, so we didn't interact much either.

The first day I had that strange and chilling dream the feeling in my chest was like an implosion of heat and strength that came out mercilessly like salt water from my eyes and a strong exhalation. When I was younger I used to have nightmares very often until one of my governesses taught me how to make a dream catcher and a small, somewhat frightening doll to watch over my dreams. Eventually I started dreaming about future events, small accidents, important events, and vice versa.

Once I recovered from the nightmare I went through my routine of going to school, bathing, clean underwear, uniform and grooming. It was Friday and the diagnostic evaluations had concluded for many in an unsatisfactory way because with the results of the tests they considered economic support and some academic privileges; I had breakfast with some leftovers from dinner in the silence of the huge house, my siblings were leaving earlier to their universities and my parents to the hospital, I prepared a sandwich, chopped fruit, filled a tumbler with tea -I prefer it with a splash of milk and a spoonful of honey-, took my backpack and left with little more than 10 minutes to spare.

It was a clear and sunny day, my place was next to the window, on the third floor, where I could see Noah arrive 5 minutes before the bell rang. And once again a new week began, it wasn't until a couple of days ago that something inside me had made the decision to confess my feelings to the boy I liked; I have no memory of when I started to find him interesting but he awoke in me feelings difficult to explain, I was anxious to be near him and talk to him, even though we were in the same room it was not easy to find him alone, he had a fan club that followed him very closely. The only person who knew about it was Noé, who did not understand why I found him so attractive since arrogance was the most appropriate adjective to refer to him. And in the end my only answer was "he is special...".

He stopped dead in his tracks, his hand stopped moving over the paper as he reached the point where he had to remember that face in such a dense and distant fog. He put the pen down on the desk with a heavy sigh and ran his hands through his hair back as he leaned his full weight on the chair, remembering how the cascade of events had started seemed to be a little more complicated than expected, he was warned that it was likely that many things were buried as a protective measure and that was frustrating.

He looked out the window, it was getting dark and the temperature had dropped a couple of degrees.

In the small space he had for a room he only had a desk, chair, bed, carpet, bathroom with the essentials; a window from which hung a wind chime, and a radio that emitted white noise and used as a lullaby to sleep, sometimes meditate, at least that kept him slightly sane for his recovery exercise that was through the letters. The routine established for a few months now was to wake up, have breakfast, contemplate the country scenery at noon, walk around the garden five times, rest in the shade of the oldest and leafiest tree, go back inside to eat, go up to the bedroom to read the only 10-page book he knew, play with Kokoa, his grandfather's blind cat, and finally sit in front of a blank notebook to remember in vain.

The fact that he had finally written something down was already a breakthrough and it was small moments in which the images came back so vividly in random bursts that it was difficult to identify which events were real, which were a dream and which were simple fantasies; that was what at the end of the day ended up plunging him into confusion. And so for weeks and months it had been his life, a monotonous cycle with no apparent end. When he finished writing it was barely 8 o'clock at night, his hour of rest. He turned on the radio, took a bath or shower? of less than 3 minutes, brushed his hair and teeth before getting under the covers and settling down to rest but not before taking the tiny book and opening the first page, which he did not read, to lose his concentration on the yellowed paper trying to find what was the thought that led him to write the first page of his diary:

"That day he had dreamed of his old home, the one that was a huge house for only 5 people, with his best friend and an old platonic love, and had it not been for the tea with milk that his grandfather had prepared for him he might not have come to remember the details of that autumn morning; for for much of the day his head seemed to be on the verge of collapse from a terrible migraine that did not subside until he unloaded his bank of memories on the paper."