It was the day that a letter I wrote to you came back to me.

The night before I had dreamed of us making snow-angels like we did when we were kids. 

Mateo, who used to be in the same class as us, brought it to me. Dusk was settling over the roof tops. He knocked softly on my window and just stood there with his head down, as awkward and gangly as ever. Without raising his head, he handed me the letter. It was still in the same pale-yellow envelope I placed it in. Only dirty and creased. Dried blood and dirt painted a rusty rose in the left corner. Your name and address smudged. You must have carried it in the breast pocket of your uniform.

Mateo did not say anything. He did not need to.  I knew he recognised my handwriting from all those essays I wrote for him while he played basketball. Mateo was as crazy about basketball as you. Only you wrote your own essays, and sometimes mine too. Especially for maths and physics. I gave you my poetry reflections in return and insisted on reading you Neruda and Lorca deep into the hot summer nights. I knew you were pretending to like poetry for the love of me. As I was pretending to like basketball for the love of you.

I hid the letter inside my jewellery box. Then placed it in the deepest corner of my suitcase. When the plane took off I fancy you could see it.

When our daughter asks me what it was like when we were young, I show her your picture. The one where you are standing in front of our school on graduation day. Smiling into the camera.

The letter is still in my jewellery box. Still unopened.