I was ten years old. I remember the burning tears of my father. The sadness and fear. That dreadful night. I remember so much that I would like to spew my brain out, so that every memory disappears.

I was twelve years old. I remember my strength. How I could carry on living, even though there were no reasons for that. I remember as well as if I were a fifty-year-old woman in the body of a twelve-year-old.

I was fourteen years old. I remember feeling my heart for the first time. The shine of her wonderful eyes. Her fascinating laughter. I remember her words, which lit up my darkness.

I was fifteen years old. I remember my depression. My loneliness. The people who were closest to me, and enjoyed my burning wounds. I remember so well the circle in which I was imprisoned. Every path led me back to its gloomy centre, every path led me back to the point of zero.

I was sixteen years old. I remember her look in the crowd. I remember the warmth that I felt when I embraced her. I remember how she was my way out, my safety, my soul.

I was seventeen years old. I remember our secret meetings. I remember her laughter. The touch of her gentle hands. Every detail. I remember so well how I felt. My heart and my soul, which drowned with joy in that feeling without calling to be rescued.

I was eighteen years old. I remember my recurring depression. I remember her farewell after our last meeting. All of the feelings that lay in her kiss. I remember her sad eyes. The pain that bored through my body until part of my soul split off and flew to her. The moment when I boarded the plane and the song that played in my head in an endless loop. How I cried. How I was without hope. How my dreams disappeared. I remember how I saw the city from above and left a piece of my soul behind.

I am nineteen years old. My feelings are frozen without you. Now I have given up, have no more dreams, no hopes. I live without a goal, without feelings, from one minute to the next. It is hell.