I might never see you again.

There's an episode of the dystopian series Black Mirror in which, thanks to a sort of ocular implant, citizens see information alongside the people. Something similar happens to me sometimes, but without an implant and in real life. It happens especially when I see old friends and distant relatives: I see a little number next to their heads, but nothing specific, so I never know the exact number. The number tells me how many times I have left to see that person before a) they die b) I die. And it distressed me greatly. In fact, I'm telling you this because I want to share this reality check that hurts me so much, to see if it makes it less unbearable.

Every time I say goodbye to a friend who lives far away, I think that in a year or two I'll see them again, and until recently, I almost never considered that it might be the last time I'd ever see them. But, of course, I also can't say goodbye as if we'd never see each other again. That would be very uncomfortable for the other person. So many years of learning to navigate the thought of imminent death, only to throw it all away now! It's better to sing and believe that we're together, "See you next time!", and appear happy.

If I am “lucky” enough to be aware of my death, to say goodbye to my loved ones in a bed, I will touch them a lot.

But the blessed little number… It appeared four years ago, returning from the center of Geneva on a beautiful train crossing the Alps. I was returning from teaching Spanish to a young cellist who paid me by the hour for eight hours of work. I ran into a friend in the carriage from when I lived in Germany 11 years earlier. The number was number one. A shiver ran through me. We only had one more meeting together. When we said goodbye, she invited me to visit her in Essen for her birthday. But I declined. I told myself that if I saw her again, either she or I would die immediately afterwards; that I should postpone that meeting until life forced me to.

Since then, if I let my gaze wander even slightly while talking to someone, I imagine the number next to their ear. And an enormous sadness overwhelms me. I tend to reach out in those situations and touch the other person. I'm very touchy. I like to hug and caress my friends; it makes me feel more alive. I suppose that, if I'm "lucky" enough to be aware of my death, to say goodbye to my loved ones in a bed, I'll touch them a lot, and I might even hug every object I see, just to see if death can't drag me down. If this were proven, every time I fell ill I'd tie my ankles to large concrete blocks. Because I don't want to die. For whatever reason, and despite everything against me, it's not in my plans, to be honest. By the way, the next time we see each other, if you want to know the number, just ask me. I won't charge you for it. Although, if it's a very small number, I'll lie to you and increase it, so that you'll start avoiding me and not want to see me anymore.

What unbearable lightness of being!