I remember it all.

Clearly. Perfectly.

It wasn't that long ago, so that shouldn't be surprising, but I can't get it out of my mind.

Every detail, every feeling.

Someone once told me that Spanish drivers are slow and careful.

Fucking liars. He wasn't.

I wasn't scared.

I swear, I wasn't scared, damnit!

It was just… Something new. I'd never ridden on a four wheeler before.

I can remember all the sounds;

The roar of the engine, the rustle of wind through the dead weeds, the exuberant shouts of our friends.

My own, shallow breathing.

I remember holding on tight, arms around your waist, pressing close to you.

The thought takes my breath away.

The wind stung my face, gave me goosebumps.

But you were warm, strong. You protected me, in a way, I guess.

At one point, when we were sppeding down a hill, I remember wishing fleetingly that I could just die in that instant, so I could die completely happy.

… Damnit, when did I get so gushy and romantic?

It's your fault, you know. You bastard. You damn tomato bastard.

I fucking love you. But I hate you too.

You ripped out my heart, and kept it with you, back in Spain.

So now we're apart again, and it makes me feel broken.

I hate this feeling.

I long for another breathless ride on the four-wheeler.

I long to hold you again.

To feel so safe, yet so fucking vulnerable.

While we were riding, you told me, or at least, I think you told me;

"I want to get my motorcycle license, because I like you holding on to me like this."

You really did say that, right?

Just the thought of it makes my cheeks feel like they're burning.

It hasn't been that long since I left Spain, went back to my house in Italy.

(Not my home, that's back in Spain… With you)

Damnit, I miss you so fucking much.

I miss everything about you and about… Us.

How our hands fit together so well, how you'd cuddle close to me, how you'd kiss me.

I love your smile, even if it's so bright I swear it burns my eyes.

I'm never gonna say these things to you, you know.

At least, not to your face.

I'd get too embarrassed, and I'd start stuttering.

Then I'd push you away, like always.

I don't mean it when I say I hate you, or I tell you to leave me alone.

Some people would say I'm just being difficult, and I suppose they're right,

So I'm… Sorry for that, I guess.

I'm sorry for a lot of things, really.

I'm not cute like my brother, I'm not good with words, or art really, I get flustered to easily, and I swear too much.

Why would someone like you love someone like me?

I don't get it, thinking about it gives me a headache, but, well, I'm glad you do,

because I really love you too.

I love you, Antonio.

Te amo.