While I love you (Under Our Star #1)

I am what I say

-I can't take it anymore...

The girl on the other side of the mike tells the story with so many pauses that after half an hour we are still without gossip and too much advertising space.

The drowning of his speech is so deep that it reaches the mausoleum of my inner fiber. Yes, mausoleum: Monument where things or animals are buried. And who says things also says people. Old or young. Indistinctly. The mausoleum doesn't care about jubilee details. " Because, although they do not believe it they also fall, do not go to trust because it is a shame in these times as we neglect our elders for that life of drugs and disgusting things. And watch out! I do not say it for you who adored your grandmother who was a heaven and that of such a saint God have her in her glory should take many examples, but you do not worry that here I am that, although I can not replace her, I will always be at your side because I have changed diapers and cleaned that shitty ass. Quote from Elvira's morning show. Best friend of my grandmother and current legal representative in the worthy encomium of substitute yaya and tireless advisor.

-He doesn't understand me...

Aying, who are you talking about now?

My problem lies in the fact that we've been dizzying the straight line of truth for half an hour. I am not complaining, I am a great listener and advisor. As Master Anselmo used to say in his classes of The destiny is yours : From error comes the learning that leads us to happiness . Which translated into a more guerrilla language means don't be cynical and act as you preach, because the Instagram feed is saturated with honeyed posts that nobody pays attention to.

Anthony, Karina, Laura and I created this radio program that we are excited to call: We are not alone. A project in which we all have a place. Here our stupidities, dramas and delirium extremus are listened to with total understanding. After all, whoever hasn't said something stupid or dreamed of colorful unicorns, cast the first stone.

This program was one of my many follies, and since she who has friends will never ride alone, here we are, playing heroes like The Three Musketeers by Alexandre Dumas. Although, in order not to hurt sensibilities, I prefer not to say who is the impulsive D'Artagnan and who is the clever Athos.

-No one understands me.

-Why do you think that?

I sit with my back completely straight. Posture helps concentration. And this conversation requires huge bowls of focused concentration. This girl has stolen all my yawns for the year.

Karina, who until now had been highlighting the notes of the major arcana with colored markers, raised her head. She seems to find my question interesting. Anthony and Laura also focus their attention on me. Seconds before, the three of them distracted their attention on artistic creations of little cultural value.

-You still haven't told me your name. I repeat a bit annoyed.

I have not received an answer for a long time. I don't like not knowing who I'm talking to. I wasn't first in my journalism class, but the subjects have been passed and the basics are basic. Name, what do you do, do you study or work, do you have a girlfriend? Aying... maybe this last question I didn't learn in class.

-I can't... - The half explanations of endless vowels make the sentences a confusing dialogue. Something is not right- -I can't. I can't. I can't. It's too much. Oooo. Yyyyyy. Yoooo.

Can't you tell me your name? If you don't explain yourself I won't be able to understand you.

The young woman's single sentences are an endless ocean of dizzy doubts. And I don't like oceans. The bricks of life are dodged, however, the oceans... Those are big words. Like men the great seas are capable of hiding in the preciousness of the superficial the most sinister of plans. For example, oceanic men are the most dangerous. And I say guys because we are transparent, direct, and beautiful, and smart and...

-I am afraid of the future. I tremble at the thought of what may come. The sound of breathing on the other end of the phone brings me back to the conversation. He is impatient. He has managed to capture my scattered interest.

-Acting without fear is called foolishness. What you feel is normal. To be alive is to enjoy the scarce while facing the too much and fearing the unexpected.

My friends raise their heads and cheeks with a sympathetic smile while they look for the notebook of famous quotes. A somewhat clever phrase that occurs to me, a phrase they jot down to guffaw in front of a couple of cold beers and some patatas bravas. They will be fools .

-You can talk to me. You are not alone.

The girls snort. Anthony in the director's booth mimics them. On their foreheads thoughts outline bright neon letters: "Another teenage girl frustrated by her misunderstood love . "

I read and understand them.

We've been doing this project for a year and our most interesting program turned out to be a young woman who didn't know if having sex with her boyfriend's best friend was better than banging her chemistry teacher. The contagious disillusionment of the team catches up with me. The idea of Solas was to give a voice to girls who were trying to be a Mr Wonderfull agenda and were stuck in standardized notebooks.

-It's hard to love someone you can't love. The girl's voice is drowned out in a choppy statement.

Anthony raises a sheet of paper from the voice-over booth above his head " Another girl in love with her friend's boyfriend" . I read it. They may be right.

-Feelings are our essence," I spoke with phrases memorized in Maestro Anselmo's classes. A teacher? Your best friend's boyfriend? A boy from another city? Who is he?

Karina, Laura and Anthony continue to paint on their folios. By now Velazquez would accept them into his art school.

-You don't understand me either... -Long, deep silence. And not just any silence. This is one of those silences in which looks shoot up in terror. We are on a radio program. Here the dead spaces are hit or scythe. And if I let my good fortune guide me, I will surely find myself in front of a scythe around my neck and about to dissect my neck. The seconds are spinning fast on the handle of the plastic clock we hang next to the On Air sign .

-Anthony breaks the silence, "While we're trying to get back in touch, how about some music!

Just another day planning to get you back on your feet

The house as an inferno burns memories,

and I masochistically left everything as it was...

I want to tell you that I am sorry

that I miss you

that of all that has happened baby I regret....

The background melody hides our disappointment. It's not the first time a call is cut off. Or decapitates me.

The final chorus with the last I love you fades into the atmosphere and Anthony's hand rises over his shoulder. It's my cue.

-We are not alone! Every Thursday from nineteen to twenty-one," she said, recovering her lost spirit. We'll see you at the next program of... Alone!

-We are not alone! -Laura and Karina eagerly repeat, forgetting their artwork on the table.

More music.

-We're done for the day. Laura picks up the colored pens.

-Some beers? Hot chocolate? -Anthony asks, stepping out of his director's booth. The position of chief controller is a lonely one.

-I can't.

-Neither do I.

Karina and Laura answer at the same time with different excuses.

-I'll stay another while. I have some paperwork to sort out. I reply, kissing my best friends goodbye.

You don't understand me either. Those words are drilling into my head. What's he hiding?

-Don't even think about it. Friend's boyfriend with whom she is deeply in love. The same as always.

Anthony smiles at me from the doorway. I smile back. He knows me too well to guess my thoughts.

-Go away. I'm sure you've met -I push him from behind-. Don't worry about me. New girl maybe?

I stay alone in the small, lonely studio. The cracked leather chairs are so old they don't even tell stories anymore. The work table is a badly repaired pine wood. No matter what position it rests in, the wretched thing always dances to the beat of my elbows. Laura says we can go back to the flea market and complain to the seller. We never do. We both know that her damage is well worth the few euros paid. Today the recording room is a jumble of flea market chairs, second-hand furniture and apple crates covered with a crocheted stitch tapepetito, a gift from dearest substitute grandmother Elvira. This place is more like a World War II shelter than a recording room. Who in their right mind would trust the announcer of a program who patches the base of her mic with duct tape and who has the last unpaid electric bill?

-Light! -I press the switches urgently. Thoughts in the dark are more enlightening.

What if this girl really was the first listener who really needed my help?