The day before you arrive

I woke up every day at six sharp. I never needed an alarm: my body knew the time with almost mechanical precision. The coffee brewed itself —out of habit, not pleasure—, and the sound of the coffeemaker filled the apartment with a promise it never kept. The shower water was the same temperature every morning, and the towel I used was always the second one on the shelf, folded at an exact angle.

My life was a catalog of habits.
I could describe every minute without error:
At six thirty, coffee;
At six forty-five, the mirror;
At seven, the beige coat and black shoes;
At a quarter past seven, the elevator that smelled of old cologne and indifference;
At twenty-three past seven, the subway, yellow line;
At eight, the same desk, the same papers, the same voices.

Order protected me. It was like living inside a photograph: everything still, no noise, no vertigo.

I smoked a cigarette at half past ten, right after the second email of the morning. I ate alone in front of the dining room window, with my notebook beside me, jotting down things I already knew by heart. I came home at half past six, bought Chinese food, and ate dinner watching television. I knew every dialogue of the series I followed by heart. I could close my eyes and guess what the presenter was going to say before they spoke.

I always read for half an hour before bed. At ten, very punctually, I turned off the lamp.
And just before sleeping, I thought that this was how the rest of my life would be: correct, stable, predictable. Without surprises. Without questions. Without hunger.

And then you arrived.

I don't know if it was in the street, or in the rain, or in that instant where everything seems casual, but nothing is. I only remember that the air changed. I saw you. And something in me —something that had slept for years— suddenly breathed, as if coming back to life.

Your voice broke my routine like lightning. Your gaze was the negation of balance. And your presence, a beautiful crack in my perfect order.

That day I was late for work. Not because of traffic, but because I couldn't stop thinking about you. Time lost its meaning. The lists, the schedules, the pending tasks... dissolved.

That night, for the first time in years, I forgot to buy dinner. I didn't turn on the television. I didn't read. I just waited. The clock struck ten, and I didn't turn off the lamp. Inside, something nameless was burning.

Since you arrived, everything that was routine became a promise. The cup of coffee now steams differently. The mirror reflects another woman: the one I had forgotten existed.
And even though the world remains the same —the station, the trains, the schedules—, nothing in me is in its place anymore.

The day before you arrived, I existed and didn't know it.

But since you arrived, I am alive and now I know it.