My Best Friend 's Fiance

That morning I woke up early, as I woke up I looked at Pierre sleeping next to me. I took a pen and sat in front of my notebook on the desk and started writing in my diary. I looked at Pierre, still lying in bed, as I wrote in my diary and let my feelings flow.

*My name is Beatrice, and I´m currently writing in my diary because there is a deep hidden secret no one could ever know, only my diary knows. I am engaged with the love of my life, Pierre, but I have been cheating on him since 2 months ago with his best friend, Mathew, and I think I love both of them. *

I sighed deeply and remembered the first time I met Mathew, my fiancé Pierre's best friend. It was at the beach. I close my eyes and it seems like I can see his blue eyes, alongside the blue of the sea for the first time. Memory is the most wonderful gift of time when we use it to love ourselves and to love others, because we can always go back in time and love again.

If there's one thing Mathew always considered hymself addicted to in the broadest sense of the world, it's adrenaline. That feeling of power, like electricity that runs through the deepest recesses of your body, stimulating every sense, every nerve, making the heart become a wild animal, completely unbridled, pumping blood non-stop while running an eternal and hard-fought race against itself. Almost as long as I can remember Mathew always loved adrenalina, that was the reason I met him on the beach, He was looking for something new, some new kind of dangerous. He has insisted on searching for it in any way He cans, all for the sake of feeling that every cell of his body revives with strength while himmyself is transported to the only state in which He can truly feels and say with all propriety that He is alive.

that I breathe, that I am something more than a simple bundle of flesh and bones that gets up and walks only by inertia, to do a job and that's it. I guess that's why I became a professional racer, because the cars and the track in front of me, with all its dangerous curves like the very sight of death, represent and have always represented the closest definition to what I'm saying. And I guess that's why, because of that unbridled passion I feel at the idea of pushing my body to the limit in almost every aspect that fills my day-to-day, is that I fell in love with it so strongly. From the first moment I saw her, I knew that, without going too far, she was the perfect woman for me, almost as if God himself had decided to fulfill my whim of creating the most perfect and beautiful being and put her in front of me, at my disposal. She was beautiful, much more so than any other girl I had ever seen before in London, the city I had just arrived from when I met her. She moved with astonishing agility, but even more astonishing was the fact that she dared not lose the gracefulness with which every part of her body seemed to have been blessed. She smiled like an angel, with the very hair of a mermaid, and when I was finally able to cross words with her, I realized that I had not been wrong at all before: she was the perfect woman in every way I could think of...the only problem, of course, was that she was the girlfriend of my best friend in the whole world. Worst of all, however, that truth could do nothing to stop me. It is true that in any other aspect, the forbidden would have been able to stop me, but in her case, it only increased my interest. That is precisely why I love her in the wild, frantic, and strong way I do...because she is forbidden, and that has always been more of a letter of invitation than a warning sign.

Every great story must have a good beginning. That is a universally accepted truth...and I have decided that mine must have one too. I am perfectly aware that a part of me believes that my story began the very moment I met Belle, the celestial woman who blinded all my senses in one fell swoop and snatched from me suddenly and mercilessly all my capacity for reason...but the truth is that it did not. It would be too absurd for me to believe that this is true because the truth is that my story knows its origin long before that. My story begins many, many years ago, in my beloved and native City, with two little boys united by a strong friendship that only many decades later would be sadly tarnished by the existence of an unbridled, forbidden, and clandestine love that would wildly shake all the foundations on which their relationship had been built...but I guess I am digressing from the subject. Those kids I'm talking about, of course, are Mathewo and me. As unbelievable as it sounds, I still remember perfectly the moment Mathewo and I met because that's really what happens to the moments that are to be important and defining in your life...they stick with you like a sticker, like an indelible tattoo that can never be erased, or at least not easily. At that time I was about seven years old, maybe eight, and although it is an age that many might consider too tender to make any important decision, I already knew very well what I wanted to be. One afternoon, on television, I saw the summary of a race that had recently taken place, and the image of those shiny cars, the speed with which they raced, and the ecstasy in which their drivers seemed to be always immersed had left me so impressed, that I had automatically made the decision that this was what I wanted for my life. I remember sitting with my eyes like saucers fixed on the TV, just as I remember perfectly the moment when my father decided to take a space next to me on the sofa.

• Do you like what you see," he asked me, and although I didn't dare look away from the screen to see him, I knew he was smiling. Do you like racing, Pierre?

-I love them," I replied with the raw sincerity that sometimes characterizes children of that age. They're...great.

• Do you know what they are called?

-They are... cars. They are cars.

-They have a much more specific name," Dad replied, laughing at my words. They are called formula one cars, and they are among the most prestigious and famous in the world.

For a brief moment, we were both completely silent, our eyes always fixed on the screen. After watching the red car overtake the green one, and watching it skid around a corner and then regain control as if it were really no big deal, I was so impressed that I blurted out:

-I want to be like that.

• I beg your pardon," asked Dad, who, like me, had been concentrating hard on the race.

-I want to be in one of those races," I repeated, with complete confidence, not even considering the possibility that Dad might make fun of me. I want to drive one of those cars.

-Well, good for you, son," he replied, with the same seriousness with which he would treat the comment if it had come from an adult. To become one you have to study hard and train even harder, so I advise you to start now, so you don't get caught in the afternoon.