**

…But you know what? A soul-deprived fuckup player like me must accept what she is. I think this is the first step to gain a sort of balance: self-acceptance.
There are people who are genetically predisposed to relationships and fidelity, while other people aren’t. I belong to that second category, that’s all. And these two categories cannot be mixed together. They just don’t fit at all, and you sense it right from the start.
This is the reason why Carmen and I didn’t fit… at all…

**

I don’t believe that people can’t change. I believe that experience and time mold and transform you like clay, and that you end up being… just different – so different that, sometimes, you hardly recognize yourself if you look at the past. Think about the meaning of the word “regret”. When you regret something, you feel sorry and disappointed about the way you acted, or about the way things went. It means that, having the chance to turn back time, you would behave differently. And this itself means that you’re changed.
I didn’t want Shane to change. The only thing I wanted, was to make her see how beautiful she can be.

**

There it is, the bus. It’s approaching like a big dark elephant in the pale reflex of the snow. I stand up and move a couple of steps towards.
The bus stops, the doors open with a loud puff.
And I see her.
She’s sitting right behind the driver and her head is bowed. She’s crying while she keeps on tormenting a white napkin. I blink repeatedly and suddenly there’s a lack of oxygen in my lungs.
My head is spinning because that woman is Carmen.
Or better, she becomes Carmen in front of my very eyes.
Same complexion, same long dark hair. And the same, painful and lost and disoriented expression Carmen had after the Cherie Jaffe debacle.

“Carmen… I made a mistake… And I can’t tell you I won’t do it again… But I want to try. You’re the first person I want to make this promise to”

I stumble back and I nearly risk to fall with my ass on the ground. My knees, suddenly, seem rigid like stone. And every sound is reduced. And the perspective betrays me, because I know that woman is not Carmen. I shake my head and close my eyes tightly, while everything starts spinning around me.
“Ma’am… what are you planning to do? I can’t be waiting for you the whole night” declares the driver.
I look at him like he’s an alien. Then I feel the crying woman’s eyes all over me, and I turn my head towards her. She’s the representation of a prey captured in a trap. Everything around me just disintegrates.
“…So?”, says the man.
I would like to answer, and I would like to move, but I can’t. I just can’t. I am not feeling well. I am staggering.
“Ma’am…? Are you okay?” he asks, and sounds genuinely concerned.
I raise my hand, bow my head nodding and make another step back.
“Are you sure?” he adds, tilting his head.
I’m suffocating. What’s this? A panic attack?
“I am sure. Go, please…”. Five simple words and such an intense effort to spit them out.
“Jesus Christ…” , he states sighing, and closes the door.