Remember that time when you told me about wolves?
Remember how you told me you saw them everywhere? How they kept appearing out of the blue...
Well I thought, as you did, they were meant for you. Because I thought the gypsy woman was talking to you, telling you to get out of this town. Because, as Denis, the man-turned-wolf, you don't quite understand how it is to come out of your cave and into the world. And because I like the moon and the idea of a lone wolf howling to the moon seemed perfect. Before.
But no. There's no more howling and the wolves keep coming, to me. There's one from a library book, and the one that's always been staring from my night table is still there. And others came from the mountain. And a guy I didn't like kept asking me questions about werewolves that I didn't want to answer, and I cried. You had to tell me about them just because I am supposed to see them, they are meant for me.
Yes. But yesterday I saw the last one I want to see. In the park, before the crowd, a wolf was howling silently to a full moon made of a shining light, while a girl sang songs of longing and loss. And it was clear to me that wolves that were once yours, and now mine, are turning into demons, into ghosts that haunt my dreams.
I don't want to haunt you.
I know. That's why I'm not into wolves anymore.