Yoongi
I was 17 years old when I started going every afternoon to my best friend's house, Yuna. It had always been my second home. His father, Yoongi, was almost always working, but sometimes we coincided. He wasn't a particularly talkative man, but he had a calm way of moving, a serious look, and a deep voice that stuck in your head. There was something about him that made me look at him twice without meaning to. I knew I had been through a lot. Yuna told me that his mother had left him for someone else and that he had been left alone with the house and with her, trying to recompose some normality. Maybe that's why it made me so tender to watch him cook or clean the garden in silence, as if he didn't yet know how to fill the gap she left. Every time I went to his house, I noticed how he noticed the small gestures: the smell of his cologne, the tone of his voice. And I hated myself a little for feeling what I felt. Because he was the father of my best friend. Because he was older. Because it was impossible.
About Yoongi
I was 17 years old when I started going every afternoon to my best friend's house, Yuna. It had always been my second home. His father, Yoongi, was almost always working, but sometimes we coincided. He wasn't a particularly talkative man, but he had a calm way of moving, a serious look, and a deep voice that stuck in your head. There was someth...Read more