The Space Between Us
At one point in my life, I liked giving stones as gifts. Taking a small piece of something and handing it to someone. Leaving them something that would last forever—forever of our time. Without effort. Simply because they were stones.
Later on, I liked giving life instead: a plant, a branch, a flower, a leaf. I knew that only if the other person took care of it could it survive in acceptable conditions.
But who am I to give someone work and expect something in return? I don’t even have employees yet.
Maybe a lesson is the best gift. Are we ready to learn?
I don’t know. Maybe I’d rather give nothing.
This whole dilemma of what to give makes me think of a writer’s phrase:
“Everything good that happens to us has already been paid for—up front.”
So do I always have to give something to pay the price? No. Not for the bad. We don’t necessarily deserve it, even if only for a moment.
—
12/10/2025
For some time now, I’ve had the concepts of time and space on my mind. I want to stop at space, purely for illustrative purposes. I don’t want to stop at time.
How do I understand space? At least, how do I move through it. It could be my physical movement, but today I relate it to my magic—the desire to create.
How can I create spaces? To dissect the mold and reassemble it at will, I have to understand the mold itself. Not my mold. Not yours. The standard one. The non-magical one. If I can master its craft, I can create.
How can you combine new colors if you don’t know the basic palettes? In social relationships, mixing red and blue doesn’t always result in love—but being able to mix them is the right path. To mix, we need space. If it weren’t for space, I wouldn’t understand sound: without space, sound waves couldn’t travel, cadence couldn’t be interpreted, melody couldn’t be enjoyed.
Do, Re, Mi, Mi, Mi…
But space isn’t mine. I merely occupy it.
The opposite of space is fulfilling an objective, because an objective lacks time. Space exists so that something can be created. An objective is simply “that something happens.”
I want a space for us to meet. A free space where you can move, show me your tones and your sounds.
This ephemeral enclosure can only exist… if we give ourselves the time.
From me to me.
From you to you.
From me to you.
From you to me.
—
12/15/2025
The vertigo of not being understood.
I never think that people aren’t interested in me. I think they reject me—as if change knocked at the door and they refused to answer.
How much time do you need to know whether you want to move or not?
I jump—but what vertigo it is to leave you a piece of myself without knowing whether the rope will catch me by the neck or by the legs.
Am I playing chess with a pigeon?
—
12/29/2025
I asked that question to a stranger. I don’t think the depth of it was understood. What we did understand was the depth of that night.
Plaza Devoto is famous for its diagonals. They hold our footprints from separate paths—paths that today converge. I slowed my pace so we could walk in sync between the green grates. I’ll tell it the way she told me to, so maybe everyone can imagine the brightness in our eyes. I find it so hard to remember what she was wearing.
I feel like we undressed gradually. What I do remember is how we kept drawing closer.
We moved in almost perfect symmetry, choreographed energy. I carried her coffee in my left hand and a rosemary plant in my right; she, my exact reflection, carried a basil plant and what had been my coffee in her right. A romantic movie scene: the sun about to rise, no intention of going back. How unknown were we to each other? To answer that, I have to start at the beginning.
How does an improbable date begin?
I retreat into my world of hard numbers and navigate the dead sea of dating apps. Statistically, you have a 0.6% to 2% chance of matching with a woman. All it took was judgment and a lot of energy to see you and call you. Luckily, you answered. I won’t take credit away from the sophisticated algorithm that did its part. I like knowing that “he who has no direction cannot have a favorable wind.” This time, I knew where I wanted to go.
I was coming off a completely successful month: promotion, degree, good and profitable debt, travel—lots of love and recognition received. I hadn’t gone out with a woman in months, since that sports trip where I heard all the noise that overwhelmed me. I decided to stop ignoring my body and, until I found my compass, not push myself to jump again.
After matching, I prepared myself. I put on a brand-new plain white T-shirt. It symbolized the purity with which I approached the meeting. I chose my perfume—the most restrained one. I didn’t want anything to shout; if she managed to see me, maybe she’d understand. I befriended the Uber driver. Ignoring the GPS, he drove me through her life, showing me the places she frequented with her children: the club, the school, where her children’s friends lived. I never imagined that once my date got in, I’d be the only one talking the entire ride.
I told her I’d just come back from spending Christmas in Punta del Este, invited by a family friend. I never thought that all that information would be used against me.
I picked her up at 11:39 p.m.—nine minutes late. She got into the Uber, greeted me, and the discomfort hung in the air.
“We were just talking with my friend the driver about how I’ve just come back from Punta,” I said.
“Oh, how fancy,” she replied.
“Yes, but he was invited,” the driver added.
I kept talking about the trip, about being stuck babysitting, about the kids’ antics.
“Have you ever bought anything illegal?” the driver asked her.
“No, never.”
Then the driver resumed his monologue until we arrived.
Absenta Bar. Named after the forbidden drink favored by artists and poets. Oscar Wilde attributed to it a famous line that captures the night:
“After the first glass, you see things as you would like them to be. After the second, you see them as they are not. Finally, you see them as they are—and that is the most terrible thing in the world.”
I chose the place for its connection to our personalities, thinking it would give us something to talk about. The only thing we truly shared were Oscar’s words—the three acts in which this story unfolds.
The First Glass
We entered the beautiful Belle Époque–style venue. The ground floor was spectacular; the upper floor could have been any generic beer bar. Loud music, dim lighting. We sat at the table she chose: me on a chair, her on a bench against the wall that ran the length of the bar. The bench sat ten centimeters higher than the chair. Our first face-to-face look was undeniably unbalanced. For a man, picking up a woman in an Uber may already seem questionable, but sitting ten centimeters lower is a death sentence. If spaces could speak, they would have told me: “Get out of here, wonder.” I didn’t realize they were screaming it.
Luckily, we changed tables. A poet would laugh; a mathematician would say I was down by “two” and the operations continued. How to change her expression? Forgive me—I never described her. And how could I, without sighing? But at that moment, I wasn’t sighing. She was a fallen angel in a hell that hadn’t caught fire. An expressionless face, as if something were missing—besides the drinks.
“The service is terrible,” I commented. She laughed as if we were alone. Without drinking anything, that glass intoxicated me.
I’m a strategist moving pieces without a board. I don’t move anywhere, I feel no progress—and if I don’t advance, is it time’s fault or space’s? I see my account overdrawn when her friend calls her phone. Credit’s up. She stands to answer. I used that time to rethink strategy, to look at the map and spot other options. At that moment, the only thing I knew was that we had to leave.
I have health and luck. Staying there with her already felt unfair—but life is unfair, and that table had proven it. I asked if she wanted another drink.
“No, I’m fine.”
I still had credit. Let’s move. This account is settled. Let’s change the space. I took the lead and we left. Let’s walk and see if we find our rhythm.
Things Not As They Are
We left the bar. I held the door for her. We walked a few meters and suddenly she grabbed my arm.
“You walk too fast.”
I laughed. “Yeah.”
I slowed down. A lot. And something changed.
Not just the pace—the space changed, the air changed.
People were sleeping on the street. We zigzagged from sidewalk to sidewalk, dodging bodies like obstacles.
“This feels like a video game,” she said.
“You can tell you’ve never played,” I replied. “No one who plays says ‘video game.’ You say ‘games.’”
That opened the door for stories, memories, worlds. That’s when I began to see her differently.
I knew almost nothing about her, but one thing was clear: she was healthy. Healthy in body, in affection, in friendships. You could tell from her athleticism, her easy laugh, the fact that she’d been loved.
She was beautiful. Very. Decisive for her age. Fiery. Impulsive. But above all: pleasant.
We reached Las Vías. To one side, I saw a dark, green path, enclosed by plants. Something called to me.
I didn’t want to keep walking like everyone else. I didn’t want to sit and drink the same drink you drink with just anyone.
I thought about pieces, boards, strategies—and realized something: I didn’t want the board.
I wanted to fly. And if she dared, take her by the hand.
I pointed to the path. “Want to go that way?”
She looked at me. “No way. I’ll get robbed.”
Pause. “Well… maybe with you.”
I gently took her arm. “Come with me.”
“But if something happens, you fight,” she said.
I laughed. “And why do you think I brought my lion?”
She had curls and red hair.
I wondered how many times she’d heard that joke.
We walked a few steps and found some pull-up bars.
“Can you do one?” I asked.
“Yeah, obviously.”
She did one. Barely. It sparked something in me.
“Come on, you can do it.”
I told her I had nothing to prove. I lied a little. I jumped up. Instead of a pull-up, I did a muscle-up.
Either I’d tear something cold… or I’d look great.
I looked great. Total show-off.
She laughed. We weren’t talking the same anymore. Now we were measuring each other, touching, moving.
We kept walking down a narrow corridor, green on both sides. Concrete underfoot. Smell of wet grass. Heavy summer night.
I heard a noise. Thought it was a rat.
It was water.
The path led to sprinklers, and they turned on. She ran. I grabbed her.
“Stop, it’s just grass.”
I washed my hands—I’d touched the bar. She tried to wipe them on my white T-shirt. I stopped her.
We stood facing each other. Hands held. Eyes locked.
I washed my eyes. And I understood something: she wasn’t ready yet for me to get closer.
We continued. The sprinklers soaked the entire path. We tried the dirt—mud. She was wearing flip-flops, a short black skirt, getting drenched.
We turned back. There was a fence leading to the street.
“We can jump it.”
We looked both ways.
“Let’s do it.”
I jumped first. I hesitated—I could do it, but I didn’t want her to fall. I didn’t look.
“Don’t look,” she said.
I looked ahead. I waited.
When she landed, we laughed hard. There was complicity. We’d solved something together.
We reached the street. A bar—used to be called Pentos.
I walked ahead again. A car came fast. I saw her behind me.
I stopped. Went back. Crossed with her.
Again, I understood: instinct pulled me forward, but desire wanted us synchronized.
We ordered beers. IPA for me. Golden for her. A pool token. I paid.
“Next one’s on you.”
The pool table was occupied. We waited.
We played: Jenga—she won. Uno—tie. Chinchón—I won.
There was friction. Playful. Alive.
I was having a good time. I wanted to continue.
The pool players went out to smoke. They left the table set up, occupied. Token in. Balls ready. As if saying, “It’s ours.”
We looked at each other.
“Do you want to play with me?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Do you want to fight?”
“No.”
“Me neither,” I said. But she went anyway. She talked to them. Came back.
“Total bad vibes. They treated me badly.”
Something shifted in me.
I didn’t like it at all. I stood up, went outside, straight to them, token in hand.
I placed it on the table. Looked at them.
“Guys, I’m going to play your pool.”
I went back in, grabbed a cue, got ready to play.
She stayed seated, watching.
Two of them came in—a man and a woman.
“You can’t do that,” they said. “The table’s ours. That’s the code.”
They talked. The man was shaking.
I looked straight at him, cue in hand.
“But it’s to be shared. This is a public bar. You’re outside, I’m waiting. I play one game, then you go. What do you say?”
“You’re right,” he said. “Play one.”
The woman disagreed.
“You can’t just come in all aggressive like that. We’re playing now.”
We didn’t play.
I went back to the table.
“We’re leaving,” I told her.
We poured the beers into plastic cups and went looking for another pool table.
While I paid, she read bar reviews out loud, acting them out. She laughed. She made me laugh.
She had several laughs: the giggle, the open laugh, the laugh that chokes, that half-pig snort that appears when control is lost.
At some point, without saying it, we became a team.
Walking, we reached Plaza Devoto.
She sat on the green grates to adjust her flip-flops. She looked tired.
“Want to sit for a bit?”
I know that plaza by heart. I’ve spent a thousand nights there—celebrations, farewells, friends, dogs, stories, other dates.
I’d never sat on that bench. But it was just like all the others.
We sat.
And we began to move closer.
I told her about my childhood, my family, about not feeling understood. She listened. Really listened.
She told me about hers. Her father. Her mother. And the person she was seeing.
She said her first date with him had been awful. Truly awful. And yet they insisted, they moved—and something appeared.
I thought about our beginning. The bar. The movement.
We leaned in. We kissed.
It was 4:30 a.m.
For a while, time stopped, I told her. I couldn’t believe five hours had passed. I didn’t want to leave. I didn’t want to get anywhere.
I just wanted to be there. To see her. To hear her. To be heard. To be understood.
I remembered a phrase: “We don’t seek to be loved; we seek to be understood.”
And there, on that bench, we were understanding each other. I told her about game theory and zero-sum games.
She couldn’t retain any of it.
“Wait, start over,” she said. “I got lost in your eyes.”
How to hide that the same had been happening to me since she sat on that bench.
We went to find a bar so I could use the bathroom.
We ordered coffee. Nutella for her. Vanilla for me.
She tried mine and liked it better.
“Let’s switch,” I said. “It’s all yours.”
We went to the playground. The swings. The seesaw.
I told her that in Japan they don’t use Tinder. In parks, they use seesaws. The woman sits on one side, the man on the other.
If she lets herself fall, it’s a match. If not, it isn’t.
Up and down we went.
At one point she stayed up top. I teased her, pretending to step off.
She held on tight.
I understood something then. I didn’t want her to fall. I didn’t want to break anything.
I got off. Went to her side. Hugged her.
Without realizing it, she stained my white shirt with lipstick. I felt her presence touch something deeper.
She asked if I was always this affectionate.
“No,” I said. “Honestly, no.”
It had been a long time since I felt this way.
I think all the work I did on myself—seeing no one, not forcing anything—allowed me to open like this. I hope she believed me.
It was 5:30. We went back to her place.
At the door, we laughed. Looked at each other face to face.
“Why do you look at me like that?” she asked.
We kissed.
I didn’t want to go in. I wanted to end the night there.
“You’re leaving just like that?”
“Yes… but wait until I get in the Uber.”
She went to get something from her car. Came back.
“Hi,” she said.
I thought: If you say hi, don’t say goodbye.
I made a joke to mask it.
The Uber arrived. A kiss. I leave. I come back. Another kiss.
As if it might be the last.
She went inside. Closed the door. Left it slightly open.
She watched me leave.
As if she didn’t want to leave either.
I got home smiling.
Oscar had already written it, sentencing fate:
“Finally, you see them as they are… and that is the most terrible thing in the world.”
The next morning, I was still smiling.
I remembered the night while drinking mate. During the awkward bar conversation, she’d mentioned she was traveling for a few days. I hadn’t thought much of it—maybe because I didn’t have to. Or so I assumed. (Ale—don’t assume.)
For some reason, the pressure in my chest erased the smile. Discomfort took over.
What are these sensations? Why are they here?
—
01/07/2026
It took me a long time to write how things really were—or at least how they seemed to me. Somehow, wounds have a retroactive effect that I thought had already been settled. I allowed myself to feel, but the tide was rough; I didn’t know where the account would land.
“I don’t know if I should tell you. I think you couldn’t bear it—or maybe I’m the one who couldn’t say it.”
I felt in love on that date, the way I once had with someone else. And although “no one bathes in the same river twice,” the fear of drowning was the same. I remembered that time, almost ten years ago, when the memory of love was followed by immense pain.
I wanted to separate the memory from the motion I was living.
She was like a painting in a museum—beautiful to look at, then move on.
I’m becoming a visitor of art galleries.
It’s time to create my own work.
How many conditions will I demand of my love?
I refuse to believe that combination of colors will ever repeat. This time, mixing red and blue was frightening.
For now, all I cling to is the night of the sprinklers. It exists. It’s real. But it’s drowning me.
Can I keep living there for a while?
Yes—but I don’t want to stop in time.
Sailors cannot know we’re sinking.
Until the storm passes: hard as stone, alive as a plant, armed with what I’ve learned.
Until I have an answer.
Until time makes it clear.
Us, in new clothes.
Next time at the King of Cups…
…"
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