There are things in this world that aren’t meant to last. I was old enough to know that. Some say it’s a matter of fate. Two worlds collide, two life lines cross and meet before shooting out in different directions. Was it written in the stars? Or was it just a coincidence? 

We were two complete strangers, and we became alike so quickly. By the end of his stay even the sound, and rhythm of our footsteps seemed the same. I adapted to the vigor of his moves, and he learned my sneaky ways of shifting around. My smell was mixing with his like the sweetest of perfumes. It was almost as if these two could no longer exist alone. In the nights, his skin was blending with my flesh so smoothly, I was scared we might become one. What would we do if by dawn there was no Victor, and no Marcel, but a unified entity of bodies, emotions, memories? When I held him, I felt as if I was holding the whole life lying ahead of me. And at the same time, I knew this life was slipping away from my grasp. 

“I don’t think I’ll ever get to see him again,” I said calmly in between the drags of a cigarette.

The wilderness of purples and reds spilled all over the sky was reflecting in the clean surface of the lake. I was playing with the warm sand below my palm, observing the horizon and waiting patiently for the night that was about to devour our little valley. The first night without him. 

Paolina sat by my side, unusually silent. She came to check on me as soon as I was back from the airport. Had he asked her to do so, or was it her own idea? Whatever the case, I was fine with her presence. Anything seemed better than staying on my own that dark and lonely evening.

“Why?” She looked at me curiously, with her face aimed at the setting sun. 

I brushed my shoulders unknowingly, watching the ash falling from the cigarette she was smoking. 

“Gut feeling.”

“Did you have a fight?” Her eyes were immensely focused on my face, as if she was trying to read my mind.

“No, it’s not that.” I shook my head, wondering how to give utterance to my thoughts. “It’s just… He seemed to be tied down. Internally, externally... He was giving me hints all this time. It just doesn't seem like he's in control of his own life.”

I recalled the time he mentioned the hardships of being a part of the modeling industry. How he was circling around the subject, trying not to say anything. Or how he cried the rainy night we were stuck alone in the house. He was trembling and shaking while telling me about the way his parents treated him, the way he used to loathe himself. 

Marcel was a broken man, subjectified by his closest environment, kept captive. He had regained his freedom for a short while, but now that he left Vagli Sotto, he was back in his prison again. For his parents, for his supervisors he was nothing more than a puppet with a pretty face and a beautiful body. And I couldn't do anything to rip him out of this madness.

He might have kept me assured about his plans of joining me in Milano, but I knew too damn well he would end up doing whatever his agency tells him to. In the face of their ruthless calculus, his words meant nothing. I could feel it in my bones - he was gone for good.  

“I think I know where you're coming from.” She looked at me as if she understood completely what I meant. Did she read between the lines, or had he opened up before her? “What if you're right? Do you think it was worth it?”

Her question hung in the air, as I pondered her words, looking for the right answer. Fleeting moments of delight, followed by intoxicating longing, the ecstasy and heartache, the temptation and the punishment. 

“Was it worth it?” I began, my voice almost trembling with sudden emotion, “How can one judge the worth of their own experiences? We love, we lose, we live on. In the end all that’s left are the memories.”

Paolina nodded, her eyes reflecting a silent understanding. I felt her hand on my palm, caressing me in a reassuring gesture of quiet compassion.

As the last glimpses of twilight faded into the darkness, I felt a strange sense of peace settling over me. Perhaps, in losing Marcel, I found something else - a deeper understanding of emotions, intimacy, and the elusive beauty of life itself. Perhaps amidst all that, I discovered a part of myself I never knew existed. A part shaped by the youthful heat of our summer madness. A part that will forever remain touched by his presence.

“Yes,” I finally replied. “It was worth it. Every embrace, every glance, every shared moment.”

All my longing, sorrow and muffled grief suddenly transformed into a feeling of acceptance. Some experiences are not made to last, but it doesn’t make them any less valuable. They become a part of us. They merge with our souls, reconstruct us, blend into our minds, and live on, until our lights are out.