No sabría decir cuándo decidí escribir sobre ella. Tal vez ya la había soñado en algún cuento inconcluso, con nombre prestado y finales que evitaban enamorarse.

La reconocí por su silencio, por ese modo de detener el tiempo. Todo lo que creía saber del amor, del que duele, del que uno escribe sin haber vivido, se volvió inútil frente a ella.

Mis pensamientos fueron expropiados. Me enamoré sin permiso.

Porque, antes de ella, había hecho un pacto. Un compromiso con la oscuridad. No con brujas ni demonios, aunque bien podrían, sino con la tristeza. Esa que se instala como huésped permanente, que te promete que, si no vuelves a amar, tampoco volverás a romperte.

Pero ella… apareció.

Algunos hablan de flechazos, mariposas, pero no, nada de eso. Fue certeza. El alma la reconoció.

“Apareciste tan tarde, que decidí ajustar los relojes para seguir tu compás.”

No se lo dije. Me lo dije. Lo escribí a mano temblando, con el corazón, evitando no ser fácil.

Ella hablaba de cosas simples. El gas que nunca llega. La vecina que se roba el Wi-Fi. Su perrita que tiembla con cada trueno. Y yo solo pensaba: dame todo eso, incluso tus quejas… porque quiero la vida contigo.

Pero el amor verdadero no viene solo. Trae consigo una sombra. Una que no se ve, pero que te sigue.

Desde que la amo, los espejos se empañan sin razón. A veces, la ventana del pasillo, la que no da a ninguna parte, se abre sola. Y hay noches donde la veo dormida, murmurando nombres que no son míos.

Un día me mostró una cicatriz en el pecho. Una línea difuminada, como si alguna vez le hubieran querido borrar algo.

—Esto estaba ahí desde antes —me dijo—. Pero desde que te conocí… la siento viva.

No se lo dije en voz alta, pero lo supe: no era solo yo quien cargaba un pacto.

Ella también.

Solo que el mío fue voluntario. El suyo…, no sé.

Y si queríamos liberarnos… tendríamos que hacerlo juntos.

Esa noche, encendimos una vela. Ella dijo que su abuela le enseñó que, cuando no sabes qué hacer, enciendas una luz que no consuma totalmente la oscuridad. Yo escribí su nombre tres veces. El fuego no bailó. Y entonces, sin aviso, su cicatriz palpitó.

Ella cerró los ojos.

—Yo no pedí este amor, pero me pertenece —susurró—. Si alguna vez juré lealtad a la sombra, hoy rompo ese voto.

Y yo, que ya no creía en salvaciones, sentí que algo se rompía.

Una hoja que salió de la nada nos habló:

“Aquel que modifica el tiempo por amor, merece reescribir su destino.”

Nos abrazamos.

El fuego se apagó.

Ahora escribo esto, para que no se me olvide.

Sí.
El amor existe.

I can't tell you when I decided to write about her. Perhaps he had already dreamed of her in some unfinished story, with a borrowed name and endings that avoided falling in love.

I recognized her by her silence, by that way of stopping time. Everything she thought she knew about love, about which it hurts, about which one writes without having lived, became useless in front of her.

My thoughts were appropriated. I fell in love without permission.

Because, before her, he had made a pact. A commitment to the darkness. Not with witches or demons, although they might well, but with sadness. The one who settles in as a permanent guest, who promises you that if you don't love again, you won't break up again either.

But she... she showed up.

Some people talk about crushes, butterflies, but no, nothing like that. It was certain. The soul recognized her.

“You showed up so late, I decided to set the clocks to follow your beat.”

I didn't tell him. I said to myself that. I wrote it by hand, trembling, with my heart, avoiding being too easy.

She was talking about simple things. The gas that never comes. The neighbor who steals the Wi-Fi. Her little dog that trembles with every thunderclap. And I was thinking: give me all that, even your complaints... because I want life with you.

But true love does not come alone. He brings a shadow with him. One that is not seen, but that follows you.

Since I've loved her, the mirrors fog up for no reason. Sometimes the window in the hallway, the one that doesn't face anywhere, opens by itself. And there are nights when I see her sleeping, muttering names that are not mine.

One day, he showed me a scar on his chest. A blurred line, as if they had ever wanted to erase something.

"This has been there since before—" he told me. But since I met you... I feel her alive.

I didn't say it out loud, but I knew it: it wasn't just me carrying a pact.

So is she.

Only mine was voluntary. His..., I don't know.

And if we wanted to free ourselves... we'd have to do it together.

That night, we lit a candle. She said her grandmother taught her that when you don't know what to do, turn on a light that doesn't consume the darkness. I wrote his name three times. The fire did not dance. And then, without warning, his scar throbbed.

She closed her eyes.

—I didn't ask for this love, but it belongs to me," she whispered. If I've ever sworn allegiance to the shadow, I'm breaking that vow today.

And I, who no longer believed in salvation, felt that something was breaking.

A leaf that came out of nowhere spoke to us:

"He who modifies time for love deserves to rewrite his destiny.”

We hugged each other.

The fire went out.

I'm writing this now, so I won't forget.

Yes.
Love exists.