HER

Looking out her bedroom window, she could see the storm. The rain was falling heavily and steadily; you could see the tree leaves moving and hear the wind howling.

Catalina loved the rain, especially when there was lightning. That night, seeing that it was raining, she couldn't resist the temptation to go out and get wet. She ran outside; it felt incredibly cold, but she didn't care. She went out and got soaked. She felt every drop fall on her head, on her arms, on her face—on her.

Many people view the rain with fear or as a misfortune, but for her, the rain made her feel free. It was exactly what she needed that night: to feel the drops of water and the wind, just to know she was alive.

She returned home, changed clothes, and made herself a hot chocolate. As was her custom on cloudy or rainy days, she took out a pen and a piece of paper, sat at her desk facing the window, watched the storm, let herself be carried away by it, and began to write.

Lightning struck near her house, causing the power to go out. It was no longer possible to see anything inside, but she was very clever and lit a candle, placing it on the desk.

You couldn't see very clearly, but her silhouette was beautiful. Half of her face was visible in the candlelight; she looked troubled. She definitely hadn't had a good day, but the good thing was that writing allowed her to vent; it was an escape. Someday she will be a great writer.

She has finished writing. She delicately puts away the paper and pen, takes the candle to light her way, heads to her room, and carefully puts on her pajamas. She has blown out the dim light that illuminated her and has gone to sleep. As always, she finishes writing and goes to rest; her thoughts have been written down on paper. On a piece of paper that was previously white and empty, she had the delicacy to write, to create life, to put her thoughts or ideas on a blank page.

Surely she wrote about her day, or perhaps she created a story as is her custom, but what matters is that right now she is resting. She is in the arms of Morpheus; it's the only chance I have to be so close to her.

Every day I come to her door, but I don't dare to knock for fear she will reject me. So, I always take the key she has hidden under the flowerpot. Today will be no exception.

Standing in front of this door, I look for the key; it's as if she leaves it for me. Well, I go in, but today I will change my routine. I am curious to know what it is she writes so much about. I carefully head towards her study. What a surprise! Everything is so tidy. I imagine she keeps all her writings in this drawer. It's locked. It doesn't matter; I'll force the drawer. Done.

Here are her writings, but I think she didn't write a story; on the contrary, she wrote about a man—a man who is not me. After so much time watching her, adoring her, this is how she repays me. I have to destroy these papers.

The walk to her room feels eternal, but I finally arrive, and there she is, asleep, resting like a little angel. I watch her peacefully, give her a kiss on the cheek, and leave.

The next morning, as I do every day, I pass by her house. The only difference now is that there is a police officer talking to her, and she looks a bit agitated. She leads him toward her study. Could it be that she didn't like that I destroyed her pages and wrote our story on new ones?

THE END. Written by: Cecilia Del Razo