At Your Door

Translation: Maria Moiteira

Here I stand, waiting at your door.

The same door you opened when I came to pick you up for our first date. We had planned to go to the cinema, and I was desperately yearning to see you. I remember thinking that your house's door was the most beautiful one on the street. To anyone else, it might not have been anything special. The wood was already kind of worn, probably from all the afternoons the sun touched it but could never quite enter. But even so, it managed to make me fall for it.

You confessed that you've always been very reluctant to have home visits.

‘I'm afraid they'll judge my decor. Half of this was inherited from my grandmother,’ you said, laughing, though I sensed a hint of embarrassment in your voice.

This was all after Dune, a movie that never sparked my interest, but I gave it a chance because you loved science fiction.

‘Don’t think of it that way. Think of it as having vintage artefacts,’ I said, smiling, hoping it would make you feel better. To this day, I'm not sure if it worked, but at least you started opening the curtains (which were also inherited) more often.

I appreciated the door’s details even more when we painted it, the week after you invited me to live with you, almost a year after our first date.

‘What do you think of blue?’ you asked me.

‘It's a bit of a dull colour.’

‘Dull? How so, 'dull'?’

‘It’s kind of a sad colour, I guess. I never liked it much.’

‘Yeah, I get that,’ though you didn’t seem entirely convinced. ‘So, what would you suggest instead?’

‘Something in shades of green would look really nice.’

And it turned out perfect. Not long after that conversation, we found a beautiful emerald green. That colour was in perfect harmony with the gold that adorned the doorknob and the peephole.

It was that emerald green that started welcoming us after all our walks down Avenida da Liberdade, after the dinners (that were sometimes a bit too expensive but that we loved because they never left us dishes to wash), after our frequent cinema outings that became a tradition, and all those boring family lunches. That same emerald green that greeted us also marked the start of our exchange of smiles, leading you to steal a kiss or two from me as I slipped off the painful heels you adored. I sacrificed my toes many times just to hear you say ‘I’ve never seen you look so beautiful.’ But it was worth it! I looked at my blisters with fondness because each one of them reminded me of you.

This is the door I opened with the key you gave me, every day after work. As soon as I climbed the three steps and faced the green, I always felt a little happier: it felt like the colour of our home and our love. They say it’s the colour of hope. To me, it was the hope of seeing you after a day of tedious meetings; the hope of being comforted when I felt unsure about my future; the hope that your kiss would heal all my troubles, and the hope that our love would last forever.

‘Do you like emeralds?’

‘Do you?’

‘I love them. They have always been my favourite stone.’

‘Then they’re my favourite too,’ you said as you stroked my hair.

I can’t recall if I told you, but the emerald is still one of the rarest jewels in the world. I connected that rarity to our love. To the intimate romance you created. To the kind of relationship I had dreamed of since I was sixteen, undoubtedly influenced by the romcoms I binged after school. You made it happen with the simple gesture of opening the door for me.

Here I stand, waiting at your door.

The same door I stared at when you closed it during a silly argument. To this day, I don’t understand what sparked that coldness in you. I don't know. I remember nothing except the fear of losing you as you ignored me in the hallway between the living room and the kitchen. How could something so intimate disappear like that? All I remember are the whispered ‘This will pass’ that I told myself as tears rolled down my face. I don't know. Maybe you lost interest or fell out of love and simply didn’t know how to deal with it. Did you think it would blow over? Did I do something wrong? I really don't know.

Here I stand, waiting at your door

Two months after that fallout, we had our worst argument, sparked by an episode of jealousy. For weeks, I’d felt you were distant, and I had my suspicions. When I told you about them, you got angry and left the house. Never in my life had I felt worse for sharing my fears. ‘Should I have kept it to myself?’ I wondered, standing by the door, my gaze resting on you. ‘Will this pass?’ I thought as I noticed a crack just above the doorknob.

Here I stand, waiting at your door.

Before my eyes, I no longer see any emerald green, only an indigo blue so dark it barely reflects the light from the street lamps. In one hand, I hold a box with my last belongings, while the other hand touches the crack you never managed to cover. Even after all my efforts, my love was not enough for you. I still have a few scars on my heels, and every time I pass by the cinema, I think of you. I will never get used to the warmth of your space. You left me with wounds that will accompany me throughout my life and that will hardly ever heal.

Here I stand, waiting at your door. I wonder if it was ever really mine, too.