Tag Archives: spilled ink


I thought of texting you last night 

“we are under the same sky, and yet, we see such different things, have a good night” 

and then it reminded me

you are on a journey 

that I am no longer a part of 

and that’s okay 


hi, have a good night 

I can’t sleep 

Grütz, Germany 


raspberries are red

It wasn’t a perfect day for weather — but it was a perfect day for Berlin.


Although, the rain did prove to threaten my plans for the day, you still wanted to meet.


I waited for you outside of our apartment building. Warschauer Strasse. One of the main hubs of Berlin, always bustling with busy bodies and enthusiastic drug induced tourists. The energy of the day was especially electric due to the kultural festival — an entire weekend filled with foods from all over the world and multiple music stages displaying local bands galore. I had been the previous night with friends, and ended up eating my life worth in Argentinian empanadas and pad thai.


My friends told me not to take you there, at least not to start off with. It was too loud for a first date — too chaotic. But I disagreed, I liked the noise, I liked the colors, the distractions from awkward conversation.


However, I took their advice. Instead, I suggested we started out with a photography exhibition from one of my favorite photographers, Mario Testino. I had already seen an installation of his in both Madrid and NYC.


So around 15:15 you finally met me outside. You were late, and I had counted on it. I was on time, and I’m never on time unless I’m nervous. But I needed the time to calm my nerves. Truthfully, I don’t know why I was wound up about it. I had spent time with you before, but in groups, and our flirtatious conversation and affectionate ambiguity had been taken lightly. I never let myself take romance too seriously. I don’t know if that’s because of my own insecurity or because I’m as laid back as I claim. Maybe, a mixture.


You looked nice though. You were in color — green and pink specifically. Mentally, I noted your favorite colors. I liked this about you, the vibrancy.


You smiled and we greeted, and then we were on our way.


The metro ride was particular. I couldn’t look at you, or else I would have just kept smiling like an idiot. So I never kept eye-contact with you for longer than normal. Plus, my uncomfortable habit of looking at someone in the eyes too long — I didn’t want to make things awkward within the first 10 minutes.

It took us about 30 minutes to get to the other side of Berlin, to the museum that hosted the exhibition. Turns out, the museum had the wrong address on their website and the installation was actually in a sister building about another 20 minutes away. However, by the time we would have gotten there, we wouldn’t have had enough time to see it properly.


“We’re going to laugh about this later in the future,” I noted, a bit disappointed.


“Why later? It’s funny now,” you answered back, with your dimpled smile.


So instead, we decided on having a drink, at a Mexican restaurant called Que Pasa.


Was I tempted to have a real drink, and by real, I mean alcoholic? Yes, absolutely. Especially since it was already 5pm. But I didn’t.


My desire to want to spend time with you sober superseded it. The times we had hung out together with our group of classmates had always somehow involved ending up drunk, and us walking home together. I’d walk you to courtyard between the both of our buildings just talking and star-gazing. Well, what little star-gazing you can do in a city of clouds — undoubtedly drunk. You even invited me into your apartment once, but I didn’t make a move. I didn’t want to and I also didn’t know what was going on. I just wanted to enjoy whatever was happening without moving too fast.


So I chose a Sprite instead.


You drank a hot chocolate.


And we talked about family and aspirations and school for a few hours over a loaded plate of nachos.


You told me you were a vegetarian for a few years of your life. So I found it ironic when you chose chicken to coat the chips. Well, we all have our guilty pleasures, I suppose.


Afterwards, I asked if you wanted to go to the festival and check it out. What I meant was — do you want to try all the food stalls with me and dance around and be fools together?


You aren’t originally from Berlin, but have lived here for a good four or so years, minus your year abroad in Korea. But you had never been to the festival. It’d be your first time too, and I was happy to experience this with you.


We walked around for an hour or so, before you decided on what you wanted to eat. A delicacy from Hungary — I can’t quite remember the name, but it’s their version of a pizza coated with garlic, a white yogurt sauce, and cheese — again, you also added meat: salami, this time. Said it reminded you of your father.


“You’re going to have to deal with me eating a lot of garlic… hope you don’t mind.”


I found the comment odd, but I didn’t mention it. Just said I wanted to try it how it’s meant to be eaten.


So we sat at the picnic tables put out beside the food stand, which was also placed right beside one of the many musical stages of the festival. It was a German group playing songs in many different languages. French, English, German.


We stayed watching them for 20 minutes or so, while you ate. We hardly spoke at all. But it wasn’t uncomfortable. In fact, it’s one of my favorite things to find in a person. when you can shut the fuck up with them and still have fun.


Once you finished, we got up to leave. I walked ahead of you into the crowd, while the band continued overhead playing a song. I didn’t understand the lyrics, but I figured it must be German since I couldn’t catch any French.


Then I felt your hand on my shoulder and I turned around to look at you.


“Kiss me now, and I will be in paradise in Heaven.”


I am sure the look on my face betrayed me. I’m not that great of a liar. So after a few seconds of looking into each other’s eyes, I blurted out, “What?”


“It’s the lyric they just sang,” you said, as you smiled casually and then led me out of the crowd.


I closed my eyes and followed you, wondering if that was what the song had really said — wondering if I had missed my chance.


But let’s be real. I didn’t know if we were on a date or not, honestly.


A few days earlier, we had gone on a picnic with my group of friends. I had invited you, and you accepted. There was lots of food and lots of alcohol — two of my favorite things. So naturally, we got very inebriated.


Afterwards, we walked from the park to my friend’s house to continue our day of fun. While we strolled to theirs, you and I somehow ended up side by side. I can’t quite recall what got us onto the topic but we had both mentioned how we wanted to hangout, but not get super drunk. Since the past few times had all ended very drunk, but that’s what happens in large groups of socialization.


“We should make a date out of it.”

I was pretty intoxicated at this moment already, but I remember it. The “date” word. It took me by surprise.


“Yeah, okay, we should.” Then I asked when and we were trying to figure it out, but got interrupted by our friends and their intruding conversations.


So when we finally decided to meet up, just us two, it was never explicitly stated if this was our date or not. I wasn’t even sure you remembered what you said, or if it was just drunken words, so I didn’t bring it up. I just thought I’d go out with you and figure it out during. If nothing else, I wanted to be your friend at least. 


That was a dumb idea — but also very brilliant because it took the pressure off of a label.


After eating, we decided to check out the parade. So we followed the crowd into the fray. You put your arm on my shoulder to keep hold of me. I was too nervous to grab your hand. I had told you previously in a different hang out how intimate holding hands was to me, possibly more important than kissing.


So I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable — even though we had already held hands in the club, but that was different. I was drunk and friendly then.


Now, I was sober and interested — and that’s a deadly combination, for me. Once we got to the street the parade was on, the crowd tightened. So we crossed the street to the other side to be on the less busy part, or so we thought. Once there, we realized how packed it was, too. I let you stand in front to see, and I stood behind you.


One of the first floats we saw represented Ghana. The truck had a DJ and many dancers in the back. And there was a massive following of Ghanaians dancing around the truck to afro-beats and their own mix of reggae. This excited the energy in the crowd. People were chanting in solidarity and enjoyment, and dancing around with bottles in hand. You turned to look at me, with the biggest smile.


“This is awesome, look at all the colors and dress they’re wearing!”


I grinned back at you in response, and for the life of me, I cannot remember how it happened. I know for sure I didn’t exclusively go for your hand.


But I know it wasn’t just you either.


It just happened.


And there we were, in the middle of a huge raging crowd, looking at each other, our fingers intertwined.


You turned back around, and I expected you to let go. But you didn’t. Instead you gave my hand a small squeeze, and we stayed that way for a long while, watching the rest of the parade. I couldn’t concentrate much anymore though.


All I could feel was the heat between our skin, and how nice it was to hold your hand — but also how confusing.


We decided to cross and go back to the festival grounds to get more food — as I hadn’t eaten yet and was getting hungry.


There was a knot in my stomach, but it wasn’t from hunger. I realized in this beautiful moment that it was the first time I have ever held hands with another girl openly. Without shame, without secrets, without guilt.


I’m 25 and before that Sunday, I had never held hands with another girl so freely. Not with my fling I had before I moved to Spain, and not with my almost 4 year relationship. Not with any of the girls I “dated” in between, either. I hadn’t felt comfortable enough with myself yet.


And here I was, holding hands with a beautiful girl. A girl who didn’t make me feel like I needed to hide what I felt.


And you know, her and I can turn out to be nothing. We could stop talking today and never speak again — and I will always remember this moment, and how she was and always will be part of a very important experience for me.


Maybe this is why holding hands is so intimate for me. Because I’ve never done it before with someone and it felt so… normal.


No one gave us weird looks, or ridiculed us, or said anything out of the ordinary.


But it was you, too. You didn’t pull back, or make it feel awkward. Just comfortable.


I can’t describe it properly, how it made me feel. Just that it felt so normal. It’s the first time in my life, I’ve felt like a girl who likes another girl and that’s normal.


I’m sure at the end of the night, I could have tried to kiss you.


I didn’t want to though. Why ruin the moment? It was enough for me, to have your hand in mine.


A little after midnight, we decided to go to a bar. One of my favorites. Madame Claude. I only had one beer — one. That’s it. At a bar, filled with alcohol. Guess I was enjoying you so much. You intoxicated me.


We stayed until about 4:30am, when we decided it was time to go home. Time had escaped me. I couldn’t believe we had spent nearly 14 hours together. I had mentioned it to you at the bar. How I had other plans just in case our hangout was awkward, and you told me the same. You had been out until 4/5am the past few nights and were really tired. And had you not been enjoying yourself, you would have used this as a reason to excuse yourself earlier.


We both laughed harder than we meant to, I think. It was good to know I wasn’t the only one nervous.


As we walked home, some random drunk guy asked you for sex in German. Said you guys could do it really fast. You scoffed and turned him down. But he kept trying to talk to you. I really didn’t understand anything at the moment, with my limited German skills.


But then I felt your hand slip through my arm, and you pulled yourself closer to me. I knew that feeling perfectly, without you having to explain. You felt safe around me, and kept your arm looped in mine. You walked close to me, on the way home. Eventually, dropping your arm to hold my hand instead.


“You’re comfortable to be around.” You said, before letting go of my hand so I could open the door for us.


We stood at the base of the stairs. Normally, I would walk you to the courtyard between our buildings up to your door to your building. I don’t know why, but I didn’t this time.


I just hugged you, and you held on to me for longer than a regular hug.


“I know you’re tired, so I’ll let you sleep.”


You smirked at me, and said breathlessly between us, “I had a really good time.”


“Me too.” I held your gaze for a few silent moments. Even in the dark, your blue eyes were crystal clear.


And then I watched you walk away — and I couldn’t help but wonder, if it was a date or not.


But I knew, even if it wasn’t, I’d always remember it for more important reasons.

lukewarm regret


Cecilia stepped off the airplane and mindlessly followed the stream of travelers. The delay of her previous flight had given her more time to prepare for the inevitable family reunion, and thinking about it made her throat tight and suffocating. As she waited in line to pass through Passport Control, the last phone call with her dad resurfaced and repeated, echoing between her ears in earnest.

“Lia, baby, tell ya what, I’ll make your favorite pie and we can go for our morning walks like we used to if you just come home next month in August. I’ll even buy your ticket home. Don’t say anything yet, just think about it.”

She remembered the boyish pleading in his voice, combined with his uncanny knack for making her feel guilty. Unsuccessfully, she had tried to cut him off between each word, but his voice never faltered, and overpowered her own. The knot in her chest strained at the thought of her father’s incessant persistence. He had been calling so much lately, and it had resulted in her ignoring her phone for days at a time.

The officer waved her up next, and she fumbled with her passport in her hands before handing it over to him. His friendliness unsettled her, as he casually asked questions about her stay. He flipped through her passport, and stopped to look at her picture, then peered at her for an uncomfortable amount of time in silence. She was sure he was comparing the 2D version of herself with the dismayed person standing in front of him. For a moment, she forgot the jumbled mess in her head, and became impatient, unintentionally letting slip the annoyance in her voice of being stared at, “It’s me, I promise.”

His lopsided smile spread on the right side of his face lazily, “Welcome home then, Cecilia.” She couldn’t tell if she was being paranoid, but she thought she heard a hint of haughty sarcasm in his tone. Before she could respond, the officer had already motioned for the next person in line.

Her left hand gripped the handle of her luggage, as she followed the exit signs and passed through the doors beckoning her home. Her breathing was shallow, and her eyes darted around the area. She looked around nervously for whosever familiar face from her family was designated to pick her up.

She nearly jumped from the touch on her shoulder, and cringed from the unknown physical contact. Swiftly, she turned around and faced the person behind her.

Her defenses immediately dropped, and she found herself in the arms of her mother. The seasons of silence between them vanished, and a feeling of comfort warmed her shaking frame of a body. It surprised her how natural this felt. Cecilia’s banishment by her mother had been the reason for her long period of absence. However, if she was being truly honest with herself, it was her own lack of courage that had kept her distant. Neither of the two had ever quite figured out how to apologize to each other.

But with her father’s recent and untimely passing, Cecilia decided it was time to try.



It was well past 2am, and we were delightfully drunk deep within the darkness of the night struggling to open the front door of the building. Once inside, I followed you up the only flight of stairs to our apartment. I say “our” because you had just given me my own set of keys earlier that day.

I was simultaneously shocked and overwhelmingly happy.

You did it so… simple. That’s how you always were with the big moments in our relationship, leaving the grandiose gestures of love to me. We had woken up that morning, both in a rush to get to class. I had more time than you, so I rummaged through your closet and smirked, while grabbing your baby pink towel. It was funny; I knew how much it’d annoy you to see me use your favorite towel. I set the water temperature to my liking, and jumped into your shower. Your vanilla scented shampoo clinged to the dampness of my hair, my fingers moving furiously against my scalp. I was going to be late, so I took my time. Why was I always late?

I heard you enter the restroom, the sound of toothbrush bristles against teeth.

Before I’d forget, I peaked my head behind the shower curtain to look at her, “Hey babe, leave your keys for me so I can lock up before I go to class and I’ll leave them at you parent’s house so you can pick them up after you finish work.”

Her mom lived a block down the street, it was a routine we did often, and afforded me the comfort of many a mornings’ homemade breakfast.

She gargled some water in her throat before answering me, steadily keeping her eyes on her reflection in the mirror hoisted above the sink, “I’m in a hurry my love, I left your keys on my bed…” In the small silence following, she sneaked a playful glance at me and more words fumbled rapidly from her mouth, “My mom still expects you for breakfast. See you tonight.” Before I could register her words, she closed the bathroom door.

I finished my shower, wrapping the towel around my body, and reopening the momentarily closed door, “Babe?” There was no answer, she had left already.

The tips of my fingers ran through the front of my hair, pushing my bangs away from my face. I walked into her room and scanned the sheets on her bed. Right on the edge sat a purle butterfly keychain, attached were four keys; the two to her apartment, and the two to mine. “Ahhh” I breathed, realization finally setting in — my own set. I sat beside the keys and looked at them without touching. I stared at them for a long while, before the sound of my phone pulled me out of my confused trance.

This specific notification alert meant a text message. I pressed the home button on my iphone to open it.

You feel like home.

It buzzed again.

I love you so much, can’t wait to wake up to your eyes all the time now.

Infectiously, the entirety of my body felt so light and clean. I smiled like a fool at my phone and responded carefully, craftily:

You assume this means I’m staying. I just thought it meant I didn’t have to borrow your keys anymore.


I imagined what she’d look like upon reading this. She’d have rolled her eyes, a smirk pulling at the corners of her lips. Her response came quickly, effectively:

It means I finally decided to stop seeing all my other boyfriends.


“Bitch,” I said out loud automatically… with the utmost affection, of course.

Thank god, I’m a girl then. I guess I made the cut, yeah?


I held my phone in my hand, waiting her text. I grinned stupidly at the screen, all initial hesitation and confusion disappearing from my mind. I looked around the room, letting it sink in. She had decorated one wall with my graffiti photography, I beamed proudly. The other wall the bed fell against, was filled with pictures of friends, family, and us in white frames, captured moments of happiness… another buzz.

My favourite girl. 🙂


So… is that a yes then?


My fingers punched the keyboard, then the send button.



Your hand was on the knob, ready to push our door open, but I stopped you. I felt you turn around to face me, and immediately both of my hands found your face in the dark and I pulled you into my kiss. I felt your hands on my waist, the intimacy between our lips becoming increasingly fervent. You pulled me against you forcefully, which caused you to take a few clumsy steps backwards, enclosing the space between your back and the door; every part of our bodies collided, touching.

At the sound of another door opening, I jumped back away from you instinctively.

Your aunt lived right beside you, and the outline of her furious figure in her doorway was enough to make us both kneel over in laugher, “What are you two doing making so much noise out here at this time of night, go inside and sleep!”

You calmed her down in your native tongue, your words slurring from the alcohol, while I grabbed my keys and opened the door for us. Once inside, you wrapped your arms around my neck, my hands finding the small of your back and pressing you to me.

We stumbled stupidly in love across the livingroom and into our bedroom.

You took your make-up and heels off and got ready for sleep, while I changed the sheets to the bed. Once done, I sat on top the fresh linen in pajamas, and watched you perform your nightly routine. Finally you switched the lights off and lay beside me. We nestled under the covers together, you face pressed up delicately against my neck, your body in my arms. You had this way of making me feel safe.

I was wide-awake; tracing patterns against your bare back, the effect of liquor finally wearing off. But I could hear your breath, slowing and becoming deeper. You’d be asleep soon, and then I’d be able to fall asleep after.

Suddenly and without warning, you made a small movement, pulling the sheets over our head and trapping us beneath. I laughed, and playfully tried pulling them back, “What are you doing?”

You shushed me like a child and told me to stay still. I obliged curiously; you sucked in great amounts of air, the warmth of your slow exhaling breath against my neck made me hot, but I didn’t shift away for comfort. On the contrary, I wanted to stay like this for a long time, in our bed, in our apartment… in our home.

Before you finally succumbed to slumber, with great effort, you whispered in your sleepy voice against my skin, “I love the smell of clean sheets. It reminds me of you.”

Home is where the stomach is. 

This is an essay for my Writing Beyond the Boundaries class. It’s supposed to focus on food and/or drink. 


January 2nd, 2017

When a French, American, and Mexican walk into a bar… they will undoubtedly leave drunk and hungry. 

And so half past three in the morning we followed our stomachs through all the small winding, cobbled streets of Prague, Christmas lights illuminating our way. Soft snowflakes fell upon us, but it would not deter us. In fact, the confetti like icicles only enhanced the gut wrenching desire, or perhaps that was the alcohol overriding our sense of cold. I followed my companions, and let them lead the way. 

What would we finally decide on? Kulajda? Goulash? Trdelník? The possibilities were wide and endless, even at this time at night. Prague seemed to suit my insomniatic nature. I know, I know… insomniatic isn’t a definitive word. But for a moment imagine it means having problems with sleeping due to unimaginable euphoric feelings of happiness. 

Lost in my own thoughts of textbook definitions and the meaning of life, quite literally, I accidentally stumbled into the back of Daniel, who stood next to Ethel in front of a bright neon lime green sign, his deep intoxicated voice faltering with excitement, “I’ve found what we’re eating.” Ethel’s slight chuckle in the background made me curious. 

I regained my composure and squeezed in between them, my eyes searching for what made them stop so abruptly. A small inaudible “ah” escaped through my dry cracked lips, and an uncontrollable grin spread across my face. 


Initially, I found it hilarious. Earlier in the day we had spoken of finding a nice sit down restaurant to enjoy dinner and savor the many flavors of Czech cuisine, so I hesitated on Daniel’s choice. 
Someone walked out of the place with a small plastic to go bag, the zesty aroma of fresh guacamole following and overtaking my sense of smell — I found myself enthusiastically leading us inside. 
We placed our orders and waited patiently off on the side, or at least I did. “Good food takes love and time,” my mom has always told me.  

I thought of her earnestly and fondly in this moment. Somewhere across the world, in her differing time zone; it was dinner. 

She would have just gotten off of work. Her hour commute from the hospital to home would be filled with thoughts of what to cook for the evening. She would be indescribably exhausted, but would be too stubborn to abandon the opportunity for a home cooked meal shared with family. 

I admired this about my mom, her sense of family. After years of bountiful disagreement and hard arguments, she was still my most loved person. Despite the distance, or perhaps even because of it, our relationship had becoming increasingly vital to my own personal happiness. Time does that, I suppose. It really makes you appreciate people and experiences — 

and food. 

My overly large, aluminum wrapped burrito was thrust into my hands by Ethel, bringing my transatlantic thoughts back to the present moment, back to gothic structured Prague, back to the random small restaurant serving a Mexican dish I missed, back to my friends I was creating this experience with. 
I took my first bite, and chewed slowly… thoughtfully. The texture of the tortilla wasn’t as soft as I’m used to, but the chicken had a delightful smoky hint, accentuated by the burst of lime and onions. 

It wasn’t at all close to my mom’s cooking, but I enjoyed it anyway, recalling another one of her kitchen wisdoms: 

Food, like happiness, is best when shared.  

Prague, Czech Republic