When I was fifteen years old I liked biting my nails. I loved gnawing at every little piece, twisting my mouth until I could no longer feel any stubborn bits, until my fingers throbbed in pain. But I didn’t care – I pressed them against one another until they were numb. Biting my nails was a childish thing, evidence of my anxiousness. But when I was thirty, I would sit with all my tiny glasses of colored paint, and with their tiny brushes I would paint my nails, every day a different color, because I was no longer a child or anxious, and I needed to show that to just everyone.

When I was fifteen years old I liked noise. I loved loud music, rowdy laughter. There was never any silence in my life, and the quiet sounded like a punishment. At thirty, silence was an intruder that had become my ever-present partner. It was there when I woke up and there when I ate and there when I lay down. The silence, however, had never been so deafening.

When I was fifteen years old I liked the heat. I loved wearing lightweight clothing and feeling my hair sticking to my sweaty face making me prettier – or so I thought. And the sun was so welcome and it darkened my skin and left tan lines that I loved to see in those strategic places. At thirty, the heat annoyed me and I cursed, among clenched teeth, the sun that had once been so desired. Because now it chastised me and again it left lines, but these now were called wrinkles and took hold of those spots in the face that worry and bitterness made a point of marking.

When I was fifteen years old I liked the cold. I loved feeling the icy wind, blushing my face and turning my lips red. I loved warming up my hands by placing them on my warm belly and under all those heavy clothes that waited for months in the closet for their chance to come out. At thirty, the cold hurt in my bones and my feet felt like deprived of all blood. I placed my hands on my skin, which now shook the whole time, but not even all the clothes in the world seemed able to warm up that frozen soul.

When I was fifteen years old I liked people. I loved parties, meet ups, those gatherings that popped up everywhere. I always wanted to be surrounded by people, and nobody ever upset me. At thirty, people disappointed me and wounded me without even knowing, and I, confused, would withdraw and protect myself from further hurt, and my withdrawal confounded and hurt the people who I disappointed and wounded without even knowing.

When I was fifteen years old every morning was such a delight. I jumped out of bed smiling at everything that day and the ones ahead would bring me. My present was exhilaration, and my future the promise of so much more. At thirty, every morning was agony. I would open my eyes and find out that nobody, once again, had listened to my prayers, and I once again was awake. My present was damnation, and my future the threat of so much more.

Thirty-five years have gone since I was fifteen, and twenty since I was thirty. And now I do not look at that girl and at that woman with the wisdom the years have brought me, because I do not have it. If there is anything I can give them, that will be the only treasure I own, which I have named surrender. That might be what they call wisdom after all.

Surrender. Come, Life, come make me laugh and then make me cry, come give it to me and then take it all way, come make me believe and them make me doubt, come make me bleed and then make me stop bleeding, come, come, come. And then start it all over again. I surrender, I submit myself, I accept. No – more than that: I want it, and I want it all. Because now I understand that receiving only what I desire is nothing when compared to what I really need.

And then I reach out my hand to that girl and to that woman, and I whisper in your ears to close your eyes and feel whatever it is that you are feeling. We are not in control of anything anyway, so feel it, feel it all, with no boundaries. Because you, the girl, happy in your ignorant expectation of such amazing accomplishments, could never imagine the afflictions that lay ahead. Lucky you. Just like you had no idea, my friend, how happy you would still be, when you wept in pain, at the height of your disappointment at the tree of great achievements that had the ground covered by rotten fruit. Again, lucky you. It was all just the way it was meant to be. The excited and innocent laughter of those first years was no less necessary than the brutal and overwhelming suffering of the years that came later on. It was all magnificent and terrible just the way it was supposed to be. Yes, because that is life, isn’t it? It is pure joy, it is stabbing pain, it is full trust, it is sneaky betrayal, it is feeling that everything is finally fine, it is a rug swept from under our feet. Ad infinitum.

And now I look at the past fifty years and who knows how many more ahead, with a cup of coffee in my hands, in absolute surrender. My body tired, indeed, but strong and scarred, my eyes failing to see as well but seeing better than ever before, my wrinkles deep, from the sweet days in the sun and from the tormented days in the dark. And now, when I hear everyone say that uncertainty has thrown a cloak over our worlds, when I hear everyone wonder what it is and what it is not going to be of all of us, I fall silent. I don’t know. But then I remember that I never did, so I surrender, and I feel at peace.

"Well, since we are getting to know each other better, I must tell you something. I have some issues with people eating with their mouths open, and also touching their food, like, well, I always pick my fries with a fork, and I also hate it when they spill their...

"Oh, so you're one of those clean freaks?"

"Yes, I guess so..."

"Sex with you must be really fun."

She knows as soon as she picks up the phone. Maybe because the voice coming from the other side may have taken a second too long. Maybe because before the strangely casual greeting she may have heard his anxious breathing. Somehow she knows. And between all that hello and hi and how is everything and oh you know it must be the same at your place right and yes that’s crazy who could have thought, she knows there is more. He takes a breath.

“I have to tell you, I have to get this out of me, I still love you, I can’t forget, I miss you so much, I know so much has happened, it’s been so long, but I’ve done everything, I don’t know what else to do, I feel like I’m choking, I had to tell you, you are the love of my life, I am not asking you for anything, I don’t expect anything, but I had to tell you, if you ever feel down, if you ever feel like nobody’s ever really loved you, I just want you to know that I love you more than anything in this world and I always will…”

She doesn’t say a word for a second, or two or three. He waits. And then she bursts into a stream of don’t-say-that-you-know-that-is-not-true-you-think-you-love-me-but-you-know-you-only-say-that-because-you-are-there-all-by-yourself-you-shouldn’t-tell-me-that-you-will-be-sorry-later-what-do-you-expect-of-me-please-don’t and she talks because she as she talks he is quiet and if he is quiet she won’t hear that he loves her when the mere thought of him gives her cold shivers and that he sees her as the love of his life while she sees him as a big mistake with a name, a surname and an address. But even as she talks she feels how much he suffers and the grief for all this madness floods her eyes and breaks her voice and she knows that when he hears her cry he will think that if she still cries after everything that’s happened and after so long that is because there is still something there and she fears that he will cling to this frayed thread of hope built by salty pitiful tears and nothing else.

And between the empty sentences come the full tears, because she is so, so, so sorry. Why, dear God, why do things have to be this way? How can the object of so much love give nothing in return, how can someone love one who does not love him back, how can someone love one who loves someone else, someone who doesn’t love her, someone for whom she cries other tears, these filled not with pity but pain? Why is there love even when it is never nurtured, how can it still be there even when always despised? What is this hell in which we live, at the same time with so much love and with no love at all, receiving what we neither expect nor desire while we expect and desire what we can’t have? Why? Why do things have to be this way?

But soon she runs out of those empty sentences, and then she falls silent; she realizes there is no thread left he can cling to, and she can almost feel in her own mouth the taste of his regret. In the deafening silence that follows her merciful speech, she knows that he feels small and pathetic and that he would give anything not to have heard that rejection he just heard, disguised as common sense. He murmurs something and hangs up, but she finds no relief. Because she can almost see him, so far away, sitting down, his back slumped, his head in his hands, a lump in his throat and this pain that just won’t leave him. And she finds no solace in thinking that one day the pain will go away. She knows it will not. She knows.

She knows as soon as she picks up the phone. Somehow she knows. And between all that hello and hi and how is everything and oh you know it must be the same at your place right and yes that’s crazy who could have thought, she knows there is more. He takes a breath.

“I have to tell you, I have to get this out of me, I still love you, I can’t forget, I miss you so much, I know it’s been so long, but I’ve done everything, I don’t know what else to do, I feel like I’m choking, I had to tell you, you are the love of my life, I am not asking you for anything, I don’t expect anything, but I had to tell you, if you ever feel down, if you ever feel like nobody’s ever really loved you, I just want you to know that I love you more than anything in this world and I always will…”

She doesn’t say a word for a second, or two or three. He waits. And then she bursts into a stream of don’t-say-that-you-know-that-is-not-true-you-think-you-love-me-but-you-know-you-only-say-that-because-you-are-there-all-by-yourself-you-shouldn’t-tell-me-that-you-will-be-sorry-later-what-do-you-expect-of-me-please-don’t and she talks because she as she talks he is quiet and if he is quiet she won’t hear that he loves her when the mere thought of him gives her cold shivers and that he sees her as the love of his life while she sees him as a big mistake with a name, a surname and an address.