Remember, my darling, this lovely Friday. The only one of its kind. The one where you awoke early while darkness was still dancing around the milky-silked stars, you slipped into your sleek boots and balaclava, crept out the door and greeted the night as you went to mount your bike. Sweet samba tunes sauntered out from your speaker, keeping you warm as you whipped through the streets into the biting wind.

Remember how on top of the world you felt, or rather one with it, seeing it all and feeling overwhelmed with gratitude for this one magical life. Remember how you whizzed past the few people who were also awake at that time and beamed them a cheeky smile, teeth and all. You couldn’t help it.

It’s hard to be cranky on a bike – I’ve tried and tried, succeeding not. The speed that makes one feel they’re flying, scarf and coat fanning behind like a boat with wind in her sail. Hair rippling, trying its best to catch up but to no avail, hands hugging the handles tightly and loosely, and all at once. Legs churning like some electric mixer kneading out the dough for bread, perhaps on its way to becoming a sweet challah. Heart racing, lungs pumping, adrenaline climbing, blood streaming, eyes laughing, spirit – soaring.

Remember how present and real everything was that morning, that magical December morning in 2025. You rode up Carrera de San Francisco, very saintly indeed with street lights lit up on either side, almost as if Saint Francis himself were hailing you onwards as the sparrows sang their smooth song, spreading the daily gossip for all to hear. You parked and alighted from your noble steed onto the sidewalk, taking in the plaza and sniffing it all in – your old barrio.

Remember how you treaded pavement, swimming over to the nearest open café. Hand stretched, door opened, salsa sonic flooding in your ears and the smell of croissants overwhelming your nasal passages. A happy buzz painted the scene a warm yellow, infusing the place with energy.

Remember how alive you felt as you placed your order – un café con leche y cuatro croissants, por favor. You and the lady next door started to dance to the music, both bathing in the warmth of the ambience and happy to be free from the cold’s nippy bite. You picked up the croissants and coffee, bid the lady at the counter and your new dance partner a good day and sauntered out.

Remember how the sky stretched and shook out some of its loose water, drizzling you with moisture hydrating, nourishing, coaxing out a coy smile. You crossed the San Millán plaza, studying the faces that stalked by. Most, en route to work, still waking, yawning and in desperate search of caffeine. Some, somber; others, placid; all, there. The lampposts continued to light the path to what was becoming your favourite bench. You sat down and started writing, waiting.

Remember how a girl sat beside you and you both greeted each other and chuckled as you recognised the bag from the café you were just at mirrored in her lap. A happy coincidence, like an invisible string pulling you closer. A shared commonality, uniting. Her brown eyes popped out of thick framed glasses while long, soft, ginger tresses cascaded down cutting off at her waist. She was from Palmanova, a town in Northeast Italy near Venice, almost touching Slovenia (her mom was Slovenian). She had been in Madrid since September studying a master’s in Management and taught you two things, 1) Slovenia is a beautiful country with a total population smaller than Madrid and safe for solo travellers and 2) Venice’s MOSE project which is a mechanical wall that has been years and billions in the making and intended to protect the city from the raging floods and high tides (Aqua Alta) of the Adriatic is slowly failing, sinking below high costs and demanding upkeep. You also spoke about Italian and what a melodious language it is and how fond you both were of Madrid with its balance of old and novel, its glistening vermouths, mouth watering tapas and buildings all-a-charm.

Remember how the person who you were waiting for, your treasured friend, bright-haired and blue-eyed Vanessa, jumped onto the scene and how you introduced her to your new amica of the mattina (to whom you wished a happy Friday) and then waltzed away arm in arm excited to spill and drink the tea together.

Remember how good it felt to spend time with a loved one—like a balm to a wound, soothing; like a hot chocolate on a brisk day, warm; and a full breakfast on an empty stomach, filling. You gabbed and chatted, admiring the sky as it slowly turned from dark to dawn, purple hues swirling with clouds of gray. And there you both were, strolling past the Plaza de Paja, up through the Segovia bridge, winding past the royal palace and making your way through Plaza de España to another bench that was also making the top-five list.

Remember how you both sat, exchanging words, swapping jokes, smiling and laughing heartily together—bellies heaving, noses tinged pink from the cold, eyes twinkling with love and hearts full of frothy hope—as you munched on your morning croissants, contentedly. Then, the clock struck 8:18, and it was time to part. Two kisses to the cheek, one to the air for good measure and a hug the size of a bear (grizzly)—and just like that she was off in one direction and you in the other. Together, apart, together. Remember all this, my dear, and you would have a gift.