O QUE RESTOU DE NÓS

THE ANNIVERSARY — PART 1

For three years, Mael had kept that date to himself.

Not because Adrian had ever given him reason to expect a celebration, but because certain dates impose themselves even when only one of the people involved decides to carry them.

The day they had married was one of them.

Mael had never demanded flowers, restaurant reservations, or commemorative photographs. Even so, when their third anniversary arrived, he woke with a precise awareness of what that number meant: three years since he had heard his own name beside Adrian's and, for a few minutes, allowed himself to believe that a legal choice might one day become an emotional one.

The gift he had prepared remained unopened.

Mael had taken it to his room the night before and left it on the desk, out of anyone's sight.

He hadn't rehearsed a speech.

He hadn't imagined Adrian becoming emotional.

He knew the man he had married far too well to fantasize about a scene that would never exist.

He only wanted to give him something he had chosen himself, on that date, and perhaps hear a thank you.

It was little.

So little that Mael felt embarrassed when he realized how carefully he adjusted the wrapping before leaving for work.

At the end of the afternoon, when he returned, he found Adrian crossing the hall already dressed to go out.

Mael would have walked past him as he had on so many other nights if he hadn't noticed the small dark box in his hand.

The object fit entirely in Adrian's palm.

A jewelry box.

Mael recognized the shape before he even thought about it.

He stopped for a second.

Adrian continued moving, putting the box away, and didn't explain where he was going.

He wasn't obligated to explain. That had never been the arrangement between them.

Mael knew that.

He also knew Adrian had never given him a gift.

Not on their first anniversary, when Mael had still waited until far too late.

Not on the second, when he had already been careful not to prepare any dinner.

Not on birthdays, Christmas, or any other date that could have been used as an excuse to offer something personal.

For a long time, Mael had turned that absence into a characteristic of Adrian.

He didn't care about gifts.

He didn't remember dates.

He didn't know how to show attention that way.

It was a simple explanation, almost comforting, because it didn't require Mael to ask himself why that absence existed only between the two of them.

But that day, Adrian was carrying a jewelry box.

And it was their wedding anniversary.

Hope appeared before Mael could stop it.

Not large enough to make him ask, nor naive enough to erase three years.

Just a small, involuntary movement inside his chest:

Maybe.

Adrian left, and Mael was left with that ridiculous word for hours.