I wrote a novel!

Hola,

I read that title over and over and still wonder to myself, how did I manage to do all that? Have a full-time job, go to the movies, try to solve my adolescent sister's depression, convince my mom that my sister was depressed, maintain a relationship, stay hydrated, and on top of it all, keep up with a daily skincare routine. I still pinch myself and ask: where did all those words come from? I never read books, or honestly, anything at all (don’t even get me started on instruction manuals). Never mind— that’s not true at all. This is actually me:

The closest and most honest answer to that question I've gotten so far is a long one: I was still heartbroken after many years of having ended a relationship, and I didn’t want to acknowledge it. I needed therapy, but I didn’t have the money to pay for it, or rather, I did—but eating out every night and getting pedicures was so much fun! But in all honesty, I was also paying for my sister’s therapist twice a week (that didn’t convince my mom). I had also, for the first time, entered a truly loving, mature, and serious relationship. I needed to break free from the chokehold in which I’d been trapped for four years, so I guess writing became the tool to express how much pain I was feeling, how difficult it was for me to remember how my mom found out that I was gay, how easy it was to feel lonely in one of the most crowded cities in the world, and, most importantly, how hungry I was to climb a social ladder that never seemed to end.

But, what actually happened?

Well, let’s start with a cliché sentence:

It was the end of March 2020…COVID was at its peak. I was sharing a comfortable two-bedroom apartment on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, which I knew I’d be able to keep for another six months. Right before the pandemic started, I’d done a big job for a famous Colombian singer that paid me well enough to last for half of the year. I remember that two hours into my flight back to New York from Bogotá, the pilot announced that it was the last plane flying out of Colombia to the U.S. until further notice. As a freelance worker, six months of not having to worry about money is an incredibly rare thing, but the news of people dying, markets crashing, and the impossibility of doing my work remotely never really let me process how lucky I was to not have to find jobs right away. The first few weeks of the shutdown, I spent retouching and editing the images from that big job. Once that was done, I started organizing all my digital files. I had a good workflow and was finally doing organizational tasks I’d never had the time to do before. When those were finished, I started watching a lot of TV news. In fact, the first streaming service I subscribed to was CNN. I’d say that before the pandemic, I had never properly watched TV during the four years I’d been living in New York, so I guess I thank COVID for making me an annoying, overly opinionated TV addict? Anyway, in the grand scheme of what was happening in the world, things seemed stable for me—except for that one day when my roommate decided to go TOTALLY INSANE, and that changed everything for me.

Nick and I started dating at the end of December 2018, so by the time the world crashed in 2020, we had a very stable and close relationship. One of the rules we had, apart from not being indoors with anybody else or having sex with other people (kidding), was to not ride the subway whenever we wanted to see each other. He lived in Brooklyn, and I was uptown in the city, so this was quite a distance for either of us to walk. One of our COVID dates was to walk from each of our homes and meet somewhere in the middle. I have a very fond memory of that date. We sat on a bench in Tompkins Square Park and ate food he cooked and a salad I, of course, bought. Later in April, when the weather started to get warmer, I began noticing that my roommate had become much quieter. She wouldn’t leave not only the apartment but her room at all. One day, I remember checking to see if she’d used the bathroom just to make sure she was okay and alive. She was, but I also started noticing that all the pizza boxes and food she ordered online were never in the trash can in our kitchen. This was completely understandable—COVID was VERY hard for many people, so any reaction was absolutely justified.

However, one Saturday morning, Nick asked me to stay over at his place since his roommate was going away, so we’d have the place to ourselves. I said yes, packed for one night, and walked for three hours from 89th Street in Manhattan to Boerum Hill, Brooklyn, where he lived. We had a great night, cooked together, and watched movies. The next day, I woke up really early to a message from my roommate that said:

"Where did you spend the night?"

Fair question. I replied:

"I stayed at Nick’s. I walked here and will walk back home later."

Two hours later, as I was crossing the Manhattan Bridge with this incredible view…

… She texted back:

"That is ridiculous. He lives in Brooklyn. It’s impossible that you walked there. Please quarantine somewhere and don’t come to the apartment for the next two weeks."

I laughed nervously, took a screenshot of the message, and kept walking home. By the time I got to the door of my home, I put the key in the lock and realized it wasn’t opening the door—she had officially locked me out of the apartment.

Listen, Colombians are the nicest people you will ever meet, and I mean that. But when people cross lines, we react quickly, and we can match whatever rage comes our way.

I texted the screenshot I had taken to a lawyer friend I knew here in New York and asked her if it was legal for my roommate to do that. She asked if I was part of the lease. I said yes, and she simply replied, "Then there’s no way she is allowed to lock you out of your apartment."

As soon as I noticed that my roommate had locked the door on me. I asked her if there was something wrong with the door, just to be polite and pretend that I didn’t know what was happening. She didn’t reply. Then I said, “Can you please open the door? For some reason, my key isn’t working.” Fifteen minutes passed, and she replied, “You’re not entering my apartment, I told you!”

I took a deep breath and wrote:

“I just talked to my lawyer, and she told me that you can’t make legally unsupported arguments and lock me out of an apartment I pay for. So if you don’t let me in, I’m calling the police.”

Two minutes after I sent the message, I heard a noise behind the door. I turned my key to the right, and the door was unlocked.

But how is this related to me writing a novel?

Bear with me...

In the days following that incident, I noticed that every time I went to the bathroom to shower, she would go into my room and spray my furniture with disinfectant. She started stealing things from me, like my phone charger and my winter coat. She also hid my walking shoes. Mind you, her girlfriend would come to our apartment and stay over three times a week, lol. All of this, of course, made my anxiety spiral out of control. Since I wasn’t going to therapy or taking any meds, I decided not only to look for another place to live but also to start running for the first time. I had heard that cardio was a good way to cope with stress.

I would wake up, buy food for the day, see Nick, and go for runs right before bed. I did this every single day for two weeks while searching for apartments. One of those evenings, as I was finishing my run around the Jackie Onassis Reservoir in Central Park, I sat down on a bench facing the bike path just outside the water to check my phone—and honestly, to look at the hot guys running around. Not a lot of people were doing anything outside during those COVID weeks in New York, so it was very easy to people-watch and wonder about their situations. The people-watching part of that night was really wonderful—until it wasn’t.

The only clear image I remember from those few seconds that made me lose my breath and feel like I wanted to throw up was the structure of a 1960s dusty brown bicycle with red handles and an old purple "I ❤️ NY" sticker, moving towards me. It was him. My ex. My first relationship. My first heartbreak. My first love.

I remember feeling my legs get so weak that I almost had to crawl behind a bush to hide so he couldn’t see me. I didn’t even have the strength to look up—eye contact seemed like the biggest threat to my mental health. I stayed behind the bush until he passed by. I ran home desperately after, jumped into bed without showering, and got under my blankets in a matter of seconds.

This was the first night in my life when fear and pain didn’t keep me awake. It actually numbed me so much that I fell asleep immediately after forcing myself to keep my eyes closed.

Of course, the inevitable accountability of the unconsciousness happened… He was ALL OVER my dream that night. And what was that dream about?

Come back next week to learn all about it and to read more about how that dream turned into the novel I want you to know (and read).

Chao!
Andrés