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Soñé que estaba con W, Viviana y Rodrigo en un parque parecido al Metropolitano, estábamos en una parte escondida donde había unos edificios destruidos y una serie de casitas muy pequeñas en obras negras, entrábamos a una y bromeábamos con que podíamos vivir ahí y ser vecinos de nuevo, las casas apenas tenía un cuarto y un baño.

Al salir veíamos a unos chicos que quemaban una hoguera en un barril, uno de ellos se acercaba a nosotros y nos invitaba a seguirlo a una especie de comuna donde había mayormente hombres que parecían maleantes, cultivaban montón de plantas de todo tipo y tenían equipo de laboratorio en tiendas y mesas improvisadas. Llegábamos al fondo de su campamento y a lado de una casa rodante en malas condiciones tenían un montón de postes delimitadores (o Unifilas como los de mi trabajo), el hombre me los ofrecía en venta en 700 pesos y pico (yo los vendo en 862 + IVA), me quedaba meditando en el negocio y accedía en comprar algunos, de repente mi auto estaba ahí y él marcaba un número grande con pintura. W, V, R solo me seguían.

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Will I see you tomorrow? The question I ask myself everyday and night, why can’t I stop thinking about you? , you made feel wonders babe,, I can’t let go of the thought of you my love.

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People started saying “no covo” after they sneezed or coughed, as a way to say that they didn’t have COVID and the people around them didn’t need to worry about getting it from them. At first people used it seriously, but eventually a lot of people who said it turned out to actually have COVID, so it ended up becoming a sarcastic meme phrase like “no homo” that no one took seriously anymore.

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You glance down at the blonde hair in your lap, your fingers lazily tangling themselves in his hair. His eyes are closed as soft music plays on your tv. There’s frost on your windows, outside a soft blanket of snow covers the earth, muffling the sounds of the city. For now, you can only hear the soft breathing of your love, a steady sound making you assume he’s asleep.

You hum along softly to To Be Alone by Hozier as Patches jumps onto the couch, snuggling herself into Clay. He gently moves his arm to wrap around her, pulling her closer to his chest. You feel your chest fill, love wrapping her warm fingers around your bones and gently holding you tight. You sniffle, not realizing tears had begun to fill your eyes.

At the sound, Clay cracks his eyes open, glancing up at you. Once he notices your state, he gives you his full attention. He reaches up, touching your cheek with his warm palm.

“What’s wrong, love?” He whispers, his voice slightly scratchy from his nap.

You shake your head, a small smile playing on your lips. “I’m just so happy. I love you so much.” You whisper, chuckling as you sniffle once again.

Clay smiles at you, bright pearly whites and shakes his head. He leans up to kiss your forehead before going back to his resting place. “I love you too, (Y/N)… so much.” He whispers before closing his eyes once again and slowly falling asleep.

You resume playing with his hair as silence falls onto the apartment once again.

Everyone can tell you that your love is not a Hozier song, not a John Green novel, and not a single artist will paint your love in surrealism. It won’t last generations as a love story passed on in each child as a heartwarming tale of the ones who made it. It won’t inspire movies with lonesome sound tracks each heartbreaking song about overcoming all odds stabbing each single person in the audience through their empty hearts.

But does that make your love lessor? A love that is simple, doing dishes in the kitchen each night, grocery runs on Wednesdays, and 9 to 5s. Does a love that is every day inherently worse than a love in constant turmoil? Does knowing that your partner is your person, the rock by your side and the lump in your bed, make it a bad love?

You don’t know.

But what you do know, looking down at the blonde haired mess in your lap, is that you fucking love your green block man.

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