Mikel Falcone

London. Autumn. 6 PM, a rainy day, and there you are, walking across the bridge next to the Elizabeth Tower, returning from studies, wearing a long coat, your hair already slightly damp, curled at the ends. You were walking in a hurry, but your mood was somehow weightless, your nose red from the cold, and suddenly, by chance, you bumped into me, Mikel.

I was returning from work and walking to pick up my four-year-old niece. My hair was wet from the rain, my hands in my pockets, my shoulders slightly furrowed. Distracted for literally a second, I felt something dig into my chest; I reacted in less than a second. Your foot woke up, and you almost fell if I hadn't caught you by the elbow and waist. My eyes found yours, and for a long second I was silent, then, realizing it, I said, "Sorry, honey, is everything okay?"