Dear heart you screwed up

The air in the house always shifted when Diego was coming over. At twelve years old, I didn't understand the way it happens , how a room could suddenly feel smaller, hotter, or more electric simply because my father’s best friend had stepped through the threshold. I sat on the bottom step of the staircase, my chin resting on my knees, watching the front door. My father, Joe, was pacing, a bottle of beer in his hand, laughing at something Diego had said from the driveway. When Diego walked in, the cold aura alone he carried with him, the one that made the delivery man stutter and my older sister look at the floor, seemed to dissipate the moment his eyes landed on me. He was tall, broader than I remembered, his frame carrying the heavy, solid weight of a professional athlete. He wore a simple dark jacket, his hair slightly damp from the evening chill. He didn't look like a grown-up in the way my father’s other friends did; he looked like a storm that had decided, just for a moment, to stay still. "Amy," he said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated against my ribcage. I didn't move. I just stared, trapped in that twelve year old orbit that would eventually grow into something I couldn't control. He walked over, ignoring my father’s chatter, and reached out to ruffle my hair. His hand was large, his skin warm, and even then, I felt a strange, jarring pull in my chest, a sudden ache that made me want to hide him from the rest of the world. "You're getting tall," he remarked, his gaze lingering in a way that felt heavy with unspoken things. "I'm eating my vegetables," I mumbled, feeling foolish. He chuckled, a sound so rare it felt like a secret he was only sharing with me. Joe clapped a hand on Diego’s shoulder, oblivious to the way the air had tightened. They were best friends, linked by years of history and, eventually, a career in hockey that kept Diego traveling for months at a time. I lived for those gaps between his arrivals. I spent my days analyzing the gifts he brought small, thoughtful trinkets that felt like tokens of a devotion I wasn't supposed to name yet. In the weeks when he was gone, I would trace the lines of his face in my memory, obsessing over the distance between us. I knew he was a hockey player, a man whose life belonged to the ice and the road, but in my head, I began to build a shrine of our shared moments. I didn't care about his goals or his championships; I cared about the way he looked at me when no one else was watching, a look that felt like a promise. That night, dinner was a blur of noise. Joe talked about the league, about the upcoming season, and about how lucky they were to have a friend like Diego who always kept his head in the game. I sat across from them, picking at my food, listening to the tone of Diego’s voice. He was so controlled, so distant with everyone else, yet I knew if I asked, he would give me his full attention. Later, as the house grew quiet, I found him on the porch. He was looking out at the dark trees, his silhouette sharp against the moonlight. I walked up behind him, stopping a few feet away. "You're leaving again tomorrow," I said, it wasn't a question. He turned, his eyes searching mine. "I have to, Amy. It’s the job." "I hate it," I whispered. I felt a surge of irrational anger, the same jealousy that would later burn so hot it would make me want to pour boiling coffee on anyone who tried to take my place. He didn't pull away. Instead, he stepped closer, his presence overwhelming. He smelled like cedar and something metallic, like cold air. "It won't be forever," he said. He reached out, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw, a gesture that, in my twelve year old mind, sealed a pact I didn't yet have the vocabulary to understand. He was my father’s friend, but as I stood there in the shadow of the house, I knew, with the terrifying clarity of the young, that he was already mine. I watched him leave the next morning, my heart a heavy, sinking stone, knowing that the years ahead were just a waiting game. I would grow, I would go to college, and he would retire from his world, and finally, all the space between us would be gone. I stood on the driveway and watched the car disappear, already imagining the day I wouldn't have to let him drive away. I was twelve, and I was already waiting for my life to begin. The house felt cavernous now, echoes of Diego’s departing car still ringing in the driveway long after the gravel had settled into silence. I retreated to my room, the sanctuary where I curated my observations of him like a scientist cataloging rare, dangerous specimens. My walls were sparse, but my mind was crowded with a timeline of his appearances. He wasn't just my father’s best friend; he was the primary color in an otherwise grayscale world. I pulled out my journal, the one hidden beneath my mattress, and began to write, my hand trembling slightly. I cataloged the dates, the gifts, the specific, jagged edges of his smile, a smile he only wore when he thought I was looking. My father, Joe, was the polar opposite. He was loud, boisterous, a man who wore his heart on his sleeve and his failures on his skin. He loved Diego with a loyalty that bordered on the reverent, oblivious to the fact that his best friend had become the sun around which my entire orbit revolved. I remembered the way Joe used to brag about Diego’s early years in the junior leagues, back before the world championship trophies and the cold, impenetrable reputation that followed him like a shadow. I traced the memory of his hand on my jaw again, that lingering, electric contact. It was a simple gesture, perhaps meant as an uncle’s affection, but I knew better. I felt the dangerous, intoxicating weight of it. My sister, older and seemingly more attuned to the nuances of adult behavior, would sometimes watch us, watch him, with a look of guarded curiosity. She could sense the shift in the air, the way the atmosphere compressed when he entered a room, but she didn't possess the visceral, bone deep certainty that I held. She didn't have the obsession. As the days turned into weeks, I began to cultivate this secret life. I studied his games on the television, not for the sport, but to see him in his element, sweaty, aggressive, undeniably powerful. The commentator’s voice would drone on about "Diego’s dominance on the ice," and I would whisper to the screen, "You're mine." It was a childish incantation, a plea to the universe to hurry up the slow, agonizing process of my growing up. I knew the odds were against me. I was a child, and he was a man of the world, a man who belonged to the stadium lights and the frantic cheers of thousands. But I had time. I had the patience of a predator. I watched Joe, my father, and I wondered if he would ever see the truth if it were staring him in the face. Would he be angry? Would he be disgusted? Or would he, in his own brand of blind loyalty, eventually surrender to the reality that his best friend and his daughter were destined for a connection that defied all conventions? That night, under the covers, I listened to the house settling, imagining Diego somewhere out there, thousands of miles away, perhaps caught in the same drafty, cold air that I was breathing here. The distance was my enemy, but it was also my teacher. It taught me how to wait. It taught me how to hurt. It sharpened the blade of my desire until it was fine enough to cut through any obstacle that might stand between us in the years to come. I was twelve, yes, but I was already ancient in the ways of loving him. hey