We find you after a little while, you're out in the range again, waiting for one of your old friends. You tell us her name and I point out how it's funny that one part of her name means cute. You laugh and agree, and I'm happy that I picked up on something like that, something that no one else did. After all, if that's what it'd take to get you back, I'd take 10 more years of spanish.

She's nice, your friend. I feel more left out than usual though, because sometimes you and she begin a conversation in Spanish and I'm just not confident enough to speak up. Remember when you and I made plans to travel the world?

Our first destination: Florence, Italy. That was your choice. I said we should just travel all of Europe to begin with. I remember clear as day when you suggested Spain as our next stop, saying that my Spanish would be great. Even though I said I would be shy, you said you'd be with me every step of the way.

You dreamed up all our conversations that we'd have, imagined how we'd be speaking together and no one else would be able to take part, we'd have our own time in the midst of many others; like you're doing with your friend now.

I wish we really could go to Spain together. Right now.

Because in this moment I'm back to feeling invisible, back to feeling like my words are nothing but whispers in the wind. And I'd give anything to get you to see me again.

But most of all, I just want to do what I love, with who I love.