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PEOPLE THINK A SOUL MATE IS YOUR PERFECT FIT, AND THAT’S WHAT EVERYONE WANTS.
Marco thought that leaving Mönchengladbach and joining Borussia was the right choice. Everyone else claimed that he was a clever boy, thinking about his future, calculating his best way through life.
It wasn’t true. None of it. Of course he cared about his career and of course he wanted the best for himself. But at the age of 23, with a talent like his, with the praise of everyone around, his conscience got dimmed. He hesitated, he didn’t know what to do, how to do it, when to do it. The question of where, however, was answered the moment he first laid his eyes on that small kid, dressed in yellow, with a haircut nearly as crazy as his own.
When Marco joined Borussia Dortmund, he instantaneously glued himself to Mario. He wrapped his hands around Mario’s neck – figuratively speaking – like a drowning man catching a straw. And there, in the chocolate brown eyes of the boy who has barely turned twenty, Marco thought he has finally found his perfect fit. ‘As a classic midfield duo, there is nobody better than the prolific Reus and the strategist Götze,’ they kept saying, and Marco couldn’t help but smile with red cheeks, and instinctively look at the equally blushing Mario.
Marco didn’t need anything else, since he got Mario, and he came to those terms in just a month time or so. He didn’t need anything else than Mario’s smile or Mario’s confused bubble-cheeked face when he just couldn’t perform on his top level during a training. And even then, even when Mario was far from the best, to Marco he was perfect. And, yes, Marco’s stupid grin probably revealed him once or twice… or every time.
BUT A TRUE SOUL MATE IS A MIRROR, THE PERSON WHO SHOWS YOU EVERYTHING THAT’S HOLDING YOU BACK, THE PERSON WHO BRINGS YOU TO YOUR OWN ATTENTION SO YOU CAN CHANGE YOUR LIFE.
Mario changed Marco’s life and no matter how much Marco tries to deny it now, there is no turning back. Every single morning, when Marco spent hours to get his hair as perfect as possible, the first thing he had to do was to look at the mirror and think of Mario. Is he up? Is he yawning now? Is he arranging his brown hair, just like me? And just like that, in an instant, Marco would receive a text message.
Morgen. Try not to waste all the hair gel. :)
Marco would then imagine Mario saying this out loud – plump lips curving up and almost hitting his ears before spreading, to reveal the whitest teeth in a blinding smile and pleasurably deafening laughter. And Marco would just give in (probably blushing more than he could admit) and will half-crook a smile, embarrassed by his own childish lack of breath.
But whenever Marco felt gloomy, Mario was there. How could people not understand and even mock him for calling Mario Sunny? Was not he a sunshine, indeed? Wasn’t he the only one who bothered to drag himself closer to Marco in such harsh times, embrace him, caress the back of his head, and whisper soothing words? Then beam in an enthusiastic smile and challenge him to a game (which turns to plural) of FIFA? Wasn’t Mario the only one who kept telling him whenever you fall down, Marcinho, I will be there to catch you and lift you up? Wasn’t Mario the only one who responded to his I don’t know what I’d do without you, Sunny, with you’ll just miss me like hell?
A TRUE SOUL MATE IS PROBABLY THE MOST IMPORTANT PERSON YOU’LL EVER MEET, BECAUSE THEY TEAR DOWN YOUR WALLS AND SMACK YOU AWAKE.
When Mario was looking at him like that, there were some seconds when Marco questioned himself whether he was still breathing or alive. And then, just in a blink, he would see Mario’s brightening smile and how he squatted; and Marco instinctively did the same, and they both jumped, bumping their sides and backs against each other – their own personal (intimate?) celebration. Each touch to Mario’s body caused an electricity friction with his, and Marco landed back, eyes not leaving Mario for an instant. Marco’s hands involuntarily reached out for Mario’s sweaty hair, tugging it, playing with it, ruffling it, pressing it at his own cheek.
Marco remembers the first time Mario cupped his face, smiled innocently, and stared at his eyes, as if asking you ok? Marco lost his trail of thoughts, gaze uneasily shifting to Mario’s lips – not quite catching what they murmur – then to the contour of Mario’s perfect face features. The instincts in Marco were almost animalistic as he felt the urge to grab Mario’s cheeks, to squeeze them, and to shut him up with a gentle kiss. But Marco was afraid. He remembers the moment oh, so vividly and clearly. How he stood up, backed off, apologised for ‘not feeling too well’, and quickly drove back home.
The night is not the same without you, Marcinho.
Marco re-re-re-read the text message he later got from Mario but his fingers just lingered over the phone keyboard, typing and deleting, making mistakes and keeping them, without pressing send. Nothing will be the same without you, Sunny was what Marco wanted to type, to say, to shout directly at Mario’s lips, and the thought alone caught him off-guard. And just then, just at that very moment, Marco realised that losing Mario meant losing himself. Just when he let his own walls crumble right before him, with one, with just a single smile from Mario. Just when he was awake – so wide awake, as to remember every single Mario’s look, blush, move, laugh, body part. Just when he finally met his soul mate.
BUT TO LIVE WITH A SOUL MATE FOREVER?
Holding Mario close to himself, pressing his body right against his own, tucking his hair beneath his chin. This moment. He craved it to be forever. The second Mario turned around and someone else hugged him, celebrating the team’s goal, Marco realised that forever should exist. And if it did… if it existed, Mario should be here forever. Should be his forever. He would be.
NAH. TOO PAINFUL.
Marco remembers something else too and he doesn’t want to remember it. He doesn’t want to relive this memory, this moment when Mario’s brown eyes – full with tears and something Marco can’t quite decipher yet (even after all those months) – looked up at him. He doesn’t want to feel Mario’s soft skin under his thumbs as they massaged the round cheeks and Mario stepped back, pushing him away, slowly shaking his head.
That’s not true, isn’t it, Sunny? You are not going anywhere, right? That’s a joke, hm?
Marco doesn’t want to remember the way Mario reverted his eyes from him, closed them, took a deep breath, and looked straight at him once again. He doesn’t want to remember how Mario’s voice broke down and it came out as a whisper.
Marco, I-…
And Marco just doesn’t remember. Maybe Mario said he was sorry, maybe he said they would always be friends, but Marco doesn’t remember. All he remembers was his painful thought: Forever exists. It just wasn’t meant for us, Sunny.
SOUL MATES, THEY COME INTO YOUR LIFE JUST TO REVEAL ANOTHER LAYER OF YOURSELF TO YOU.
He spent days and weeks, encouraging himself to close all the memories connected to Mario. Deleted everything about him, threw away every belonging, every small thing that had Mario’s touch or presence still on it.
And Marco still doesn’t want to remember when he stood up and looked right above Mario’s head, lower lip almost invisibly trembling. He doesn’t want to remember when Mario – dressed in that awful red – approached him and whispered I miss you, I miss you so much, Marco, his breath tickling Marco’s neck and earlobe. He didn’t want to look either, but his green eyes involuntarily shifted at Mario’s brown and, although he tried to keep the still and indifferent composure, his heart screamed and I will always miss you. And then Mario just casually touched his hand, the fingers of his other one running through Marco’s hair, and Marco’s mind obsessed over this same thought once again: And we could’ve been forever, Sunny, just the two of us.
When Marco went back to the tunnel, head bowed down, tears at the edge of his eyelashes, his thoughts ran at the speed of light. And then… he didn’t want but he remembered – he remembered so much. He remembered the first time he met Mario, Mario’s first smile, his first sleepover at Marco’s house, Mario’s touch – all of his touches (innocent, Marco now recalls) that made Marco’s stomach turn upside down, Mario’s whispers in his earlobe, Mario’s gute nacht-s when he tugged the exhausted Marco in bed and patted his hair. And Marco – the shy, locked-in, careful Marco – he changed. Mario just rushed in his life, shed his diamond smile, took Marco’s breath out of his lungs with his desperate hugs, kissed Marco’s temple when they celebrated (or even without any particular reason). Mario showed him the ‘other Marco’ deep inside, revealed him someone else, made him someone else.
AND THEN THEY LEAVE.
And then, just like he made Marco’s head spin, he slammed it against the wall. Just like he made Marco’s heart burst out of his chest, he threw ice all over it. Just like he made Marco believe they would be forever – just the two of them, against the world – he turned his back at him. Just like Marco wanted him to stay, Mario left. Without letting Marco know that Mario had his own personal forever. Forever, which both of them kept, regardless of their reluctance to remember. Marco was too afraid to say it, Mario was too afraid to hear it. I. Will. Love. You. Forever.