Vanessa
From Olivia's quiet warmth, we step into Melbourne's vibrant noise, as if the city itself wanted to tell Melissa, "You can start over here."
I take her through Hosier Lane, where the murals seem to scream stories no one dared to write. Melissa stops in front of one showing a woman with wings made of words and smiles like she understands something she doesn't need to explain. I take out my camera and capture the essence of the moment.
"This place has character," she says, touching the wall with her fingertips.
"And scars," I reply. "Like us." I show her the photo, and she nods with a smile.
We walk through Federation Square, where the city's noise blends with street musicians and tourists who don't realize they're part of something bigger. We buy coffee from a cart that smells like vanilla and cinnamon and sit on a bench by the Yarra River. The wind messes up our hair, but we don't care.
"Thanks for this," Melissa says, looking at the water. "I didn't know how much I needed to see something new."
"Sometimes new doesn't heal, but it distracts," I reply. "And that helps too."
We stay there a few more minutes, breathing, letting Melbourne embrace us with its orderly chaos and imperfect beauty. But I've known Melissa since we were babies, and I decide it's time for a necessary conversation.
"Mel, now that we're alone, tell me the whole truth."
My friend looks at me with understanding and gives in without even trying to make something up.
"Okay… sometimes I forget you're basically my clone. A little clumsy, but beautiful. You know everything without me having to say it."
I just smile in response—I don't want her to wander off.
Melissa sighs and tells me everything I know she's been carrying in her heart since I left Colombia a few days ago.
"What happened with Nick wasn't really the reason I came. I knew for a while he was involved with a model, but I didn't want to give it importance—he was never my person, and I knew that from the start. But the day you left, and when your uncle started looking for you, visiting me almost daily… I couldn't handle the pressure. And even less your absence. You're my best friend, my sister, and I realized I can't live without you. You are my person."
With tears in my eyes, I'm already clinging to her mid-speech. I would never doubt this girl's loyalty and love.
"I actually started packing the same day you left. And I used Nick's cheating as an excuse to leave without giving explanations. I asked Sofia to take pictures of Nick when she saw something happening, so I could use them as proof."
Now I understand the amount of luggage. I look at her, a little stunned. I know she's smart, but her planning scares me. This girl is sharp. And she's obsessed with me. In the end, she really is going to be my secret fiancée after all.
I laugh a little at my mental conversation, and Melissa looks at me confused, but I don't say anything. I'd rather ask her something that worries me more.
"Okay, first remind me never to get on your bad side. And obviously, I need you to plan every surprise or secret mission I ever need."
She nods with a serious look, like it's the most formal conversation ever.
"And now, I have to ask—do you think my uncle suspected anything these past few days? And what did you tell your dad?"
Melissa answers before I can launch into a full speech about how everything could go wrong in a thousand different ways.
"I'm 80% sure I fooled your uncle right before I left—at least while I was leaving."
She pauses briefly and continues."I greeted him in a flood of tears, showing him the photos of Nick. And I have to say, those acting classes my parents forced me to take paid off, because your uncle was so uncomfortable he only managed to ask if I was going somewhere, seeing all my suitcases scattered around."She says it proudly. "And my dad? Honestly, he doesn't care if I disappear for three days, five months, or a year, as long as I keep my image clean."
"Okay, sometimes I do approve of your parents' decisions," I say, considering that Mark—Melissa's father—can be worse than my uncle in some ways. But at least he made sure Melissa was independent and able to defend herself. She was raised to be the pure, polished image of her family. I, on the other hand, was raised to be a bargaining chip for power. No need for social or spatial skills. Two different ways of ensuring their products serve their goals.
"But what did you tell him? He could've followed you and figured out you were coming here. Maybe he already suspects I'm in Australia."I say it all at once, feeling my anxiety, as always, start to take over.
Melissa grabs my shoulders and, without warning, shakes me so hard I think the coffee from earlier might come back up. I stare at her wide-eyed.
"Okay, I did that to calm you down. You need to breathe. I've got everything under control."
I do what she says, like a scared little girl being guided by her spiritual leader—who apparently is a planning machine.
But a second later, I remember I'm older than her, and if anyone here should be giving the lectures, it's me.
"Oh, right. You're the one who got a master's in espionage while I was just learning how to use public transport in Melbourne. And your lie about being heartbroken at home while you had no idea where I was—the three days you didn't hear from me after I arrived."
Melissa laughs, but her gaze stays firm.
"I had to do it. And back to the other thing—I couldn't let your uncle suspect. So when he asked about the suitcases, I told him I was going away for a few months to a family farm. That I needed to disconnect. That I wouldn't have signal. That he shouldn't write to me."
"And he believed you?" I ask, still skeptical.
"Not completely. That's why I activated Plan B. I asked Camila—remember her? The one who always wanted to be an actress—to pretend to be me. I gave her one of my jackets, a suitcase, a wig, money, and sent her on a flight to Mexico. Your uncle's men followed her. Literally. She texted me from Cancún saying they were watching her like she was a Russian spy."
I go silent. I don't know whether to laugh, cry, or ask her to teach me how to live.
"Meanwhile," Melissa continues, as if narrating a movie, "I took a bus to Pereira with all my luggage. Slept in a terminal, then took another bus to Bogotá. From there, I bought a flight with a layover in Panama, then Los Angeles, and finally to Melbourne. It took me almost three days. But I made it."
"You're telling me you pulled off an international escape route with decoys, ground transport, multiple layovers, and acting included?" Melissa nods, proud.
"And all that with seven suitcases, a backpack, and a half-broken heart. How about that?"
I just stare at her.
"Okay. You're officially my secret fiancée. No one else would do that for me. Not for love. Not for madness." She smiles, but her eyes fill with tears.
"I did it because without you, everything back there turned gray. And because I knew that here, with you, I could breathe again. And honestly, your uncle and his ongoing surveillance were stressing me out."
I hug her again, but without words. Because some things aren't thanked with phrases. They're thanked with presence. With silence. With the kind of love that doesn't need explanation. We stay like that, quietly watching the scene, allowing ourselves to be still and calm.
Then, as the sun begins to set over the murals, and for a moment the city seems to fall silent—as if it knows two girls have just rebuilt themselves a little—Melissa takes my hand. She doesn't say anything. But in that gesture, there's everything: the story, the fear, the loyalty. And I squeeze it, like someone who promises never to let go.
We stand up in silent agreement and head toward the guys' house.