One day, I said to her, “I love you.”
She was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen in my entire life. She always had her hair styled in two side pigtails, and her big eyes were like almonds. But… my goodness… she was the most cheerful girl I had ever met. It was enough for me to catch a glimpse of her to make my day better, and perhaps even make my cheeks flush with embarrassment. And she always noticed my blush, giggling softly while her pleasant voice echoed in the half-empty room.
As the days passed, I remained fascinated by the girl whose name I never knew. Both of us, like many people our age, finished university with their eyes on the future, curious about the possibilities that lay ahead of us.
From that moment when I saw her leave through the door, departing from the university forever, I neither saw nor heard from her again, until… one afternoon, feeling bored, I decided to turn on the television. The first image that appeared before my eyes was the face of a young and beautiful girl, drowned by her father. That face… that beautiful face… was the same girl I had loved since university. Now, she was dead, without my knowing.
“Rose Edwards,” I whispered simply, savoring the bitter taste of that name hanging in the air.
Several months later, when the sun was shining beautifully outside and the apricot trees were in bloom, I gathered my courage and left my small, gloomy apartment, holding a bouquet of flowers. I wanted to reach the cemetery as late as possible, painfully prolonging the moment when I would face reality.
With my heart in my throat, I looked around, sitting on the bus until we reached the destination.
“Rose died before she could love anyone,” I weakly repeated to myself, “and I will die loving someone with whom I cannot be.”
I made a few extra stops before finally getting off the bus and heading to the cemetery, where the girl rested, now indifferent to what would happen around her. I reached her grave—a modest plot marked by white and black pebbles and a large stone with the girl’s personal details engraved on it.
“Rose, my sweet Rose,” I whispered weakly, placing the bouquet of flowers on the grave.
“I loved you,” I finally said, with tears in my eyes.
Perhaps, at that moment, I realized what had happened and the suffering that Rose and I would have to endure.