Paris, I love you. Paris my town, my city where I’ve always lived, where I’ve walked your ground so many times. These small cobblestones that I cherish so much. With you, I’ve laughed, loved, danced, drank, learned, and grown. Here, I’ve lived the best moments of my life.

On November 13, 2015, I lived the worst. It was a Friday like any other in the 11th, in a restaurant to finish off the work week and get ready for a nice weekend. A pizza, a bottle of wine, and friends to laugh with. That’s when the first shots started. When a human wave carried us to the ground. I did not understand. Did not understand what was happening. I called for help for minutes. Reassured the woman who held my hand strong and told her that we weren’t going to die. Saw people crawling inwards towards the terrance. Heard the shots, again and again. Without understanding. Then, silence settled before being pierced by cries of terror. Get up, see the mess everywhere. Bodies on the ground. See my friend trembling. First aid arrives. Stretchers exit. We can do nothing.

Get a taxi to escape, whisk away. Alert my relatives, my family, and through the car window see strangers laughing on the terraces of cafes. Live.

Space-time stopped. Frozen. My heart was beating 100 miles an hour. I was trembling, seeing the number of the dead increase. A sleepless night. Acute trauma, the psychologist told me at the hospital. Yes, maybe, but in the meantime I was looking for my lost friend. Not until the last text did I learn that it was over, that I didn’t have to look anymore.

Start feeling the survivor syndrome and suppress it far, far away.

Today I stand in the sun, I feel the sun warm my face, my heart beating. I live, I want to live, and I will live. I refuse to live in a world where freedom is paid in blood and pain. Humans are made to love.

Victor, for you, for all the others that I do not know and who can’t smile anymore, for families, relatives, the wounded and the survivors. I will live.