1 - Discovered

I've been anticipating this moment; you finally picked me up. From the look in your eyes, I can sense a hint of hesitation. That's perfectly alright.

I'll share the story of how I met my first partner in just a moment, but first, I want to express my gratitude once again. I've been sitting here, counting dead pigeons as they fall from the sky. I was waiting for my next pair of eyes.

Wait. How's the weather where you are? Is it pleasant? Pleasant enough for you to wonder why you're not out doing something more adventurous instead of sitting here with me in silence? I tend to ramble. It’s a habit of mine.

Or is it raining? I despise driving in the rain; it’s as if everyone forgets how to drive. Are you avoiding something?

Or perhaps this is the ideal weather for you? In this world, with me?

As for me? I'm still counting pigeons. I already mentioned that.

They began falling from the sky about two days ago. People can't decide if it's a curse or if our world is truly coming to an end.

This maldito internet.

People are so engrossed in podcasts these days, while here we are, left to wither away. En el pinche carajo that seems never-ending yet feels so finished.

There’s no "repentance" here. There is no "God" that some of these folks speak of. We’ve simply overstayed our welcome. Collecting dust, waiting to be recycled, sampled, reused, remade, or, simply, forgotten.

After she jumped, I persuaded Raul to join me for a screening. That’s what we call "stalking." We observe those we wish to read us next, aligning events in their lives to lead them to our existence.

I swear, some people get so lazy with their screenings. They lack a strategy, a technique—just pure wishful thinking.

Those books... they never get read in their entirety. Well, people like you read a few pages and then skim through the rest.

That happens quite often. The underachieving readers aren’t hard to spot.

You know, the person at the bar whose hand shakes slightly when they hold their glass. That neighbor who stutters when faced with complexity, the woman at the bank who daydreams about the same thing every day but never wakes up to pursue it. It’s the mailman who forgets what he was saying, always lost in thought. They’re all buffering. Constantly three steps behind the rest of us, all because they don’t like screening.

Not me. I embrace my chaotic life.

The other night, at Raul's place, we heard some thumping. We knew exactly what it was, but his wife was convinced it wasn’t happening to "their" home.

She was a pretentious woman back in the day. A character crafted by some white writer, and you know what that means... she was featured in books and movies, you name it. The works.

The rumbling grew louder. We rushed to the window to look, but his vieja kept wailing, "No, not here! Not me!"

Raul's character was fresh; he’s some sort of vampire, so his life expectancy is solid for now. Teenage girls adore vampires. Pendejadas, as my father always said about vampire enthusiasts.

Anyway, her damn black hole appeared outside, right next to my new car.

It kept expanding, waiting for her to jump.

I mean, she could have refused. But we know what happens when you avoid the hole.

So, no, you don’t overstay.

Your soul, your story, it deteriorates. You become just a hollow shell, desperate for answers, like beggars. They sit outside of bodegas, pleading to know who they were, what they did, hoping they were good people, yearning for forgiveness and remembrance.

Once your black hole appears—