Beauty is everywhere. I've always known it.
I understood it as a child: I was enchanted by the perfect structure of a spider's web, how the leaves spiralled onto their stems.

I've always pursued beauty, but because of you, I never possessed it.

It was your adolescent muscles that were to blame, Alfredo, the curly hair I loved to twist around my finger. Your green eyes that bewitched me from the first moment.

You took my heart, you shook it in a whirlwind of emotions, then you played with it, cruelly, until today. You started when you told me you'd gotten her pregnant the summer of our secondary school final exams, in what you always called a moment of weakness. Then you married her, and three kids were born, stones that buried my happiness.

You kept me hanging on your wire, like a spider that wants to escape, only to be caught again by a capricious child.

I don't know how many times we met clandestinely, how many sheets of anonymous hotel rooms we soaked with our sweat. Afterward, just before returning to your family, you told me the same old lie, always identical: "Ada, I love you. Let's see each other soon, I can't live without you."

I always hated myself for believing it, addicted to your deceptive words. After each meeting, I was floating, hoping you were finally mine. Then I denied it when you weren't call me for months. I wrote you fiery letters, texts, begging to see you again as soon as possible. And finally, when I'd lost all hope, you'd contact me for another spin on the wire: a telegraphic proposal, a few hours, a day, rarely a weekend. Another hotel and the two of us again.

Between one meeting and the next, I tried hard not to think about you, dedicating myself to my work, between drawings and construction sites. Renovations, interiors, apartments, houses, gardens. Places dedicated to the happiness of the clients who lived there, while I could touch happiness only when hugging you. I decided to live in Paris, far from you, where perfection reigns on every corner. Many trips, professional challenges, increasingly complex buildings to design.

Now that it's over, I'm standing in the freezing church, alone as I have been throughout the rest of my life. The incense smell chokes my breath, the bell announces the end of the service, solemn and profoundly sad.

I’m behind an anonymous bench, in the back: the seats for acquaintances, intruders deprived of the right to share the intimacy of the family.

I hear the words, I see glances, inconsolable embraces and finally understand: everyone loved you. Your grown children, your wife that I've hated for all these years but always found elegant, your many friends. Your brother and other strangers carry the coffin where you lie. When you pass in front of me, the tears flow as a river. If I had the right, I would hug you one last time, or at least touch the smooth wood, as I once touched your skin.

I shiver as they all pass, your family at last: I recognize your youngest son, in his early twenties, with green eyes and black hair. I feel like I see you again as a boy.
When only a few people remain in the church, I weigh the options in a long moment of indecision.

Follow the people to the cemetery and stay aside as I always have.

Confront your wife, reveal that we've always secretly loved each other, for the pure satisfaction of hurting her.

Disappear silently, seek a high place and throw myself down to end it all: life no longer makes sense without you.

I'm still thinking, full of doubts, when your son comes back, looking for someone: apparently me, as he's coming in my direction.

"Mrs. Ada," he says.

The doubt has turned to frost, fear, terror. What would this young man, identical to you, want?

"It's me." A matter-of-fact, expressionless answer.

"My father told me a lot about you. How you were there for him, so many difficult times. How you met at school and your friendship never ended, even though you lived far away." He hesitates, perhaps wanting to say more, but deciding to stop. "I just wanted to thank you for coming."

He shakes my hand before I can react, reconnecting the lost thoughts, and then disappears.

When I recover, I run after him. I stop at the door, and it's already too late. Everyone's gone by car, him too.

"...your friendship never ended...": that's what he said.

I think back to his words, suddenly I look around, and things seem different: a beautiful sun warms my face, melting the cold, I smell the lime flowers, the spring sky is deep blue.

I wonder if my life can go on. Maybe I'll free myself from your presence, and from your absence.

I take a first step, then another. Light as spider legs running on a sturdy web, where all the wires support my weight.
Goodbye Alfredo, I will always love you.