The Writer (English Translation)

 Apparently, we had been sitting side by side on the same couch without realizing it. She was the one who turned around and greeted me.

Her hair had turned much grayer. At first, her face seemed unfamiliar, but little by little it became recognizable, like a photograph slowly emerging in a developing tray.

Ah, the writer.

Suddenly I remembered her. The young writer I had met two decades ago. I had read two of her short stories and sent her my comments. She never replied. And it wasn’t as though I had criticized her. Quite the opposite—I had been careful. The stories struck me as unfinished, written with a certain haste, but I never told her that. I simply praised what I had found valuable and encouraged her to keep writing and sharing her work.

Yesterday, she asked me about my art.

Because just as I remember her as the writer, she remembers me as the artist.

I told her I was doing well, that I was still producing work. She replied that she had thought I no longer did anything, that I had stopped. She based it on what she sees on Facebook. I explained that I was still working, only that I no longer posted on social media as often as I used to. I preferred to leave the explanation there. I had no reason to justify myself.

Then I returned the question.

“And you? How is the writing going?”

Her reaction was immediate.

“Oh, no!” she replied, with an expression of disgust. “I’m deeply disappointed in humanity. I can’t stand politicians. I can’t stand people. I trust no one.”

My mind drifted back to the last conversation we had had years earlier. I remembered how she had recounted a medical emergency in such exhaustive detail that it had felt excessive for the level of familiarity we shared.

We used to talk about books and authors. But one day she awoke with such intense feminist fervor that discussing literature became difficult. Many of the writers she had once admired had joined a growing list of people who, in her view, deserved to be canceled. I learned to avoid certain topics—not because I agreed with her, but because I knew we would end up arguing, and I had no desire to become angry.

Back then, she had been disappointed in men.

Now, her disappointment seemed to have expanded to encompass humanity itself.

She told me she had stopped writing. Instead, she had found God. She now belonged to a Catholic community in the Mission.

She began describing an event they attended. As she spoke, she kept interrupting her own story to insist that I should come with her.

“You should come.”
“You’d love it.”
“You really ought to go.”

I listened patiently. I tried not to judge her. After all, everyone finds comfort where they can and follows the path they feel compelled to follow.

“Everyone chooses the road they want to take,” I told her.

I stood up to say goodbye.

Then she took my hand.

“You should come with me,” she insisted once again.

It was only then that I realized she was drunk. Until that moment, I hadn’t noticed.

I leaned in a little closer and answered firmly, though affectionately.

“No, sweetheart. I’m not going to any event. Stop insisting.”

I kissed her on the cheek, wished her good luck, and continued on my way.

As I walked away, I thought about how people change. Sometimes so much that they become strangers, while still retaining the same face of someone we once knew.