There are only two people who have known me during the seasons when I was, without question, the happiest version of myself.
My partner, Dani.
And her. Alexia.
Alexia and I met when we were about two years old. A brand-new apartment building, late communism still woven into every detail of daily life. Our parents were neighbors. In front of the building there was a small park—grass, sand, and an abundance of time. People sat outside because there were no cell phones, the landline was shared with other apartments, TVs stayed off most of the day, and programming only started in the evening, for a few short hours. Days felt endless. And maybe only in my memory, people felt calmer. Maybe even happier.
That’s where we found each other: in the grass, in the playground sand, in the elevator of our building. We played together constantly, and our mothers took care of us as if we were sisters. We ate lunch together. Took baths together after rolling in the mud right after summer rainstorms. Sometimes we even slept over at each other’s places. And of course, like all kids, we fought. But we always made up.
No pride. No long silences.
We were eight when Alexia’s mother decided to move with her to France. Neither of us truly understood what that meant. We said goodbye in tears, with scraped knees and hearts far too small for that kind of distance. In the years that followed, we cried for each other—more deeply and more honestly than we ever would later for the men who would, inevitably, break our hearts.
Every summer, Alexia came back for a month. And I think the rest of the year we lived almost entirely on the promise of that next hug. When we were together, we were free. We were happy.
No explanations needed.
As we grew older, we still did everything together—going out, dancing until morning, rehearsing choreography obsessively during the day. Backstreet Boys were the soundtrack of our lives. I don’t know if I’ve ever been that happy again. When our dreams mixed with coconut-scented smoke in long summer nights in a student neighborhood that felt like the center of the universe. When the future felt infinite and gentle.
Then came the real years.
With worries.
With problems.
With anxiety.
With different kinds of joy.
Alexia now has a daughter. And every time I look at her, I see Alexia all over again: free, kind, brave. A little shy, but deeply open to the world.
Alexia and I are still soulmates. One single word from an old night, from another life, is enough to make us laugh or cry together.
No explanations.
No context.
Two years ago, Alexia’s grandmother passed away. And I’m sure it comforted her to see us there together—two women in a cold chapel, standing silently for hours. Our lives unfolded through hard moments and very good ones. Through the happiest of them.
And somehow, always together.