The couch has left its mark on me. My neck is stiff, my back aches in places it usually does not. The apartment carries the faint scent of coffee, and beneath it something softer, something that does not belong to me. Alma. Even after she leaves, she lingers.
I sit up slowly, rubbing my face with both hands. For a moment I almost expect to hear her moving in the bedroom, the sound of her presence filling the silence. The quiet corrects me, sharp and undeniable.
The bed is made now. Neat. Intentional. As if she wanted to leave without taking space with her. I stand in the doorway longer than I should, staring at the order she left behind, then turn away with a heaviness that settles in my chest.
The shower runs too hot. I let the water burn against my skin until my thoughts dull and the ache in my body softens. Steam thickens around me, swallowing the room. When I step out, the mirror is fogged over, my reflection blurred into something I cannot quite claim as mine. I dress without looking too closely at myself.
The apartment feels smaller once I am ready. Confining. I open the windows, let the city air rush in, but the walls still press close. I leave anyway.
Barcelona does not pause for anyone. Traffic moves. People walk. Lives continue. The drive back to the Valdés mansion is automatic, a route memorized long before I had any say in it.
The gates open. Stone and glass rise in front of me, familiar and imposing. Home, if the word can be stretched that far.
Inside, everything is polished and quiet. Staff move through the halls like shadows. I am halfway upstairs when my phone rings.
My father.
I answer on the second ring.
"Come to my office," Eduardo Valdés says. "Now."
He does not wait for a reply.
His office is cool and dim, all dark wood and controlled light. He stands behind his desk, phone in his hand, eyes fixed on the screen.
"You have been visible," he says.
He turns the phone toward me.
Photographs. Taken from angles meant to suggest intimacy. Me and Alma on the street. Outside campus. Sitting too close at a café. Ordinary moments twisted into something dangerous.
"She is a Cruz," he says.
"Yes."
"Alma Cruz. Hector's daughter."
The name shifts the air in the room. Old things stir beneath his calm expression.
"Hector tried to take what was not his," Eduardo continues. "Money. Trust. A woman who never belonged to him."
His jaw tightens, just slightly. He schools his face a moment later.
"You will stop seeing her."
It is not a request.
"I will not," I say.
Silence stretches between us, heavy and deliberate.
"This is not about affection," he says quietly. "It is about survival."
"She is not a threat."
"She is visible," he replies. "And visibility is weakness."
The words strike deeper than I want to admit. I clench my jaw. "I can handle it."
"You are already failing," he says. "End it. Before it costs you more than you can afford."
I nod once.
Not agreement.
Understanding.
Campus is louder than the mansion. Messier. Alive.
Students crowd the walkways, voices overlapping, laughter careless. Diego finds me near the steps and looks me over with a frown.
"You look like hell."
"Good."
Juan falls in beside us. "Basketball later?"
"Maybe."
Daniel waves from across the quad. Alma is not with him.
The absence hits harder than I expect.
My phone vibrates.
A notification.
I open it before I can stop myself.
A café near campus. Alma sits across from Gabriel, laughing, sunlight catching in her hair. She looks relaxed. Unburdened.
Something tightens in my chest, sharp and unwelcome.
I lock the phone and slide it back into my pocket.
Emotion is a liability.
And I am running out of control.
**Alma**
The door sticks the way it always does.
I shoulder it open, already fumbling for my keys out of habit, and then I stop.
Juan's boots are by the couch.
Not kicked off, not careless just tucked neatly beside it, toes aligned, like they belong here. Like he plans on staying.
For a second, I just stand there with the door half closed behind me, the weight of that small detail sinking in. Then I shut it slowly and take in the apartment.
One bedroom. An open kitchen that bleeds into the living room. A couch that has doubled as a guest bed, a therapy chair, and occasionally a place to cry when neither of us wanted to admit we were doing exactly that. Our entire life, Camilla's and mine, stacked into this space out of necessity and stubborn loyalty.
And right now, it smells wrong, a bit manly.
Cologne. Clean and sharp and unmistakably not mine or Camilla's. I would have known if Camilla had bought another perfume, because anything that belongs to her must be shared among us like a rite of passage.
I drop my bag onto the counter, the sound louder than I mean it to be, and walk toward the bedroom.
The door is half open.
Camilla is sprawled across my bed like she pays rent alone, hair wild, face peaceful. Her arm is slung over Juan's bare chest, possessive and lazy, as if she's claiming territory. Juan, for his part, looks entirely too comfortable for someone who knows exactly whose bed this is. I mean yes Gael has ever come to my apartment but never spent a night here. I have never imagined a man sleeping on my bed if we do not have anything going on, but who am I to judge. My day is a bit too weird for me to stand whatever is going on here.
I clear my throat.
Nothing.
I clear it again, louder.
Still nothing.
"Wow," I say, voice dry. "I leave for one night and suddenly we're hosting guests."
Camilla cracks one eye open, squinting at me like the light offends her. "You're alive."
"Barely," I reply. "And I see you've upgraded my mattress experience without consulting me."
Juan opens his eyes and grins, completely unashamed. "Morning, Alma."
"It's not morning," I say flatly. "And you are in my bed."
Camilla groans as she sits up, dragging the sheet with her. "Relax. We didn't do anything."
I lift a brow, unimpressed. "That sentence has never once been comforting."
Juan laughs, stretching like he owns the place. "I slept."
"On my dignity," I mutter, already turning away before I say something I'll regret.
I leave them to untangle themselves and retreat to the kitchen, where I make coffee strong and bitter, the only way I can tolerate today. The kettle hisses, the mug warms my hands, and my head hums faintly. Not from alcohol. From memory.
Gael's kitchen.
His silence.
The way his eyes followed me without touching. Not forgetting the thought of him taking me to his place in the name of my safety. Sometimes he can be romantic but acts as dumb as a rock. I thought to myself. I start smiling by the thought of me spending a night in his apartment. "Disgusting." I shove the thought away and take a long sip of my coffee.
A few minutes later, Camilla pads in, hair tied up messily, wearing one of my oversize shirts like it belongs to her. She leans against the counter, watching me too closely.
"You okay?" she asks.
"I'm fine."
She tilts her head. "That was not convincing."
"I woke up in a stranger's house," I say lightly, staring into my mug. "Came home to find my best friend hosting sleepovers in my bed. It's been a full day already."
She opens her mouth to respond just as Juan appears behind her, tugging on his shirt, suddenly all polite and cautious.
"I'll go," he says. "Before I get stabbed."
I glance at him over my shoulder. "Wise."
He doesn't argue.
"See you guys in school?" He murmured before closing the door. "Sure," Camilla says as she smiles. Juan smiles back and blows a kiss while Camilla pretends to reach for it.
"That was painful to watch." I said as I left the kitchen. "Bye Juan."
When the door closes behind him, the apartment exhales.
It settles back into its familiar rhythm, small, crowded, ours. The hum of the fridge. The faint rattle of traffic outside. Camilla moves around the bedroom, drawers opening and closing, life resuming like nothing unusual happened.
I shower quickly, letting hot water beat against my shoulders until my thoughts loosen. By the time I'm dressed, jeans, a simple blouse, hair pulled back into a no-nonsense tie. I feel steadier. Functional. Before I leave, I slide a novel into my bag. I don't know when I'll read it, but I like knowing it's there. A quiet world waiting, just in case.
Outside, Barcelona is already awake and intent on getting somewhere. On the metro, I let Maluma fill my ears, bass thumping softly as the train sways underground. I tap my foot without realizing it, letting the rhythm anchor me, drown out the lingering images of the morning.
Lumen hits me with the familiar mix of coffee and ambition the moment I step inside.
"Morning, Alma," Marta calls from reception, balancing a headset and a takeaway cup.
"Morning," I reply, smiling as I swipe in.
The day slides into routine. Emails pile up and get cleared. Comments are answered with carefully crafted friendliness. Posts are scheduled, captions tweaked, hashtags debated. A client calls in a mild panic about engagement numbers, and I talk him down with practiced calm.
"Trust the process," I tell him. "It's trending upward. We're good."
By mid-morning, the office is buzzing. Someone laughs too loudly near the printer. A customer stops by the front desk asking about a campaign update, eyes darting between me and the screen behind me.
"So… are we going viral or what?" he jokes.
"Working on it," I say lightly. "Virality doesn't like being rushed."
He chuckles and leaves satisfied. Another email comes in. Another task. The work steadies me. It reminds me that I'm capable. That I know what I'm doing. That I belong somewhere.
By noon, my stomach makes its opinion very clear.
My phone buzzes.
Gabriel: Hey Girl, Lunch?
I stare at the screen for a second longer than necessary, then type back with a smile on my face.
Me: Yes. I am craving some milkshake and I just want to stuff myself with food.
Gabriel: Cool meet me at the café across the street.
He texts back with a laughing emoji.
The café is warm and loud, all overlapping conversations and clinking cups. The smell of toasted bread and espresso hangs in the air. Gabriel waves as soon as he sees me, already smiling like this is the best part of his day.
"Hey," he says when I sit down. "How's your day going?"
I laugh, dropping my bag at my feet. "Well. I woke up in someone else's apartment. Went home and found someone in my bed. Is there anything more I could ask for?"
He blinks. Then bursts out laughing. "You're joking."
"I wish."
"Wow," he says, shaking his head. "That's… impressive."
"How did you get home?" I ask, while taking a sip of my milkshake.
"I don't even know," he admits. "I woke up feeling crappy and then remembered I have work. Like… ugh. Being an adult, right?"
"Tragic," I agree. "Truly."
He sobers a little, glancing at me. "Hey. I'm sorry I didn't take care of you last night. At the party."
I wave it off immediately. "No worries. I have, like, twenty-four-seven protection without even asking for it."
He grins. "Clearly."
We order food and talk about everything and nothing—work deadlines, rent prices, how university somehow felt easier than real life. I find myself laughing more than I expect to, shoulders loosening, breath coming easier.
Then something shifts.
That familiar awareness crawls up my spine, sharp and unwelcome.
I look up.
Gael stands across the street, phone in hand, posture loose like he has nowhere urgent to be. His expression gives nothing away. Calm. Closed. Dangerous in its restraint.
For a heartbeat, our eyes meet.
The café dissolves. The clatter of cups, the laughter, Gabriel's voice all blur into something distant and muffled. It is just him and me and the weight of everything unsaid pressing between us.
He looks away first, attention dropping back to his phone as if that moment never existed.
My chest tightens anyway. Sharp. Unfair.
I inhale, but the air feels thinner than it should.
Gabriel notices. He always does. He follows my line of sight, then looks back at me, curiosity soft but alert.
"You know him?"
"Yes," I say, a little too quickly. My fingers tighten around my cup. "From university. Uh… he was also at the party last night."
Gabriel lets out a short laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. "That explains it. I was for sure way too far gone to remember anyone apart from you and your friends. Everything else is just flashes and noise."
I force a smile, nodding as if that settles something inside me. My gaze drops to the table, tracing the faint ring my mug has left behind.
"Yeah," I say lightly, a beat too light. "Don't waste your time knowing him. He's just… a random friend."
The words land heavier than I intend, even to my own ears.
He nods and keeps talking, unaware of the storm he has just stepped around.
When lunch ends, I walk back to work alone, letting the city swallow me up. The afternoon stretches on in a haze of emails, deadlines, and polite smiles that do not quite reach my eyes. I answer clients, schedule posts, nod through conversations, and move through the office like a version of myself set on autopilot. By the time my shift finally ends, the sky has softened into evening, the light gentler, almost forgiving.
I take a detour and stop by the park.
I sit on a bench with my book resting unopened in my lap, its pages untouched. Music hums quietly in my ears, low enough to let the world seep in. Couples drift past, fingers laced. A group of friends bursts into laughter nearby, loud and careless. Life continues, full and unbothered.
I think of Gael.
The way he stood across the street. The way he looked away first.
Something tight coils in my chest.
Then I stand.
No.
I shake the thought loose and start walking, choosing the familiar route home instead.
When I step inside, Camilla looks up from the couch, blanket pulled around her shoulders. "Wow. You survived the whole day."
"Barely," I say, dropping my bag by the door.
She studies me for a moment, then her smile softens. "You are allowed to choose yourself."
"I know," I reply, the words steady this time.
And this time, I mean it.
**Gael**
Night settles over Barcelona like a held breath.
I am in my apartment again. Not the quiet one. The other one. Screens glow in the dark, harsh and restless. A controller sits heavy in my hands while the game runs loud and fast, violent enough that it should drown out thought.
It does not.
My fingers move on instinct. The match ends and I barely register the loss. I let the controller fall onto the couch and it slips to the floor with a dull sound. I open a drawer I know better than to open.
The pill bottle rattles softly in my palm. The sound is small. Familiar. I hesitate just long enough to pretend the pause matters.
It does not.
I take the pills without water. The edge dulls. The world slows at the corners. My thoughts smear instead of stopping. Not enough. It is never enough.
My phone vibrates on the table.
Diego.
Where are you.
Another message follows seconds later.
Juan.
You alive.
I turn the phone face down and leave it there.
I sit on the floor with my back against the couch, knees drawn in, staring at the blank space between the walls. The room hums. The city breathes outside the windows. Still, she finds me.
Alma.
Her face appears without permission. Laughing in that café. Relaxed. Unaware. The idea that she can be fine without me cuts deeper than anything else. It lodges under my skin and refuses to leave.
I push myself up, I grab my jacket and leave.