It was a short trip. Two days to close a real estate deal and come back. But the first night, after a boring dinner with guests, I decided to walk through the historic center to clear myself.
There was music coming out of the bars, smell of recent rain and heat glued to the skin. I walked into a small coffee shop because I needed to sit down for a while.
And there she was.
Mariana.
Sitting by the window, reading a book as if time hadn’t passed.
When he looked up and recognized me, he smiled barely.
—Daniel…
Listening to my name in his voice disarmed me more than I expected.
We stayed talking hours.
At first carefully. Then too easily. We remember nonsense: the cat that hated everyone, our absurd trip to Veracruz, the times we stayed awake watching bad movies just to not argue.
And then I understood something dangerous.
I still felt at home when I was talking to her.
We walked together along Paseo de Montejo until it started to rain. We ran under the trees like two idiots too big to act like that.
When we arrived soaked in my hotel, Mariana silently looked at me for a few seconds.
I should have fired myself there.
I didn’t.
That night we slept together.
And for a few hours I forgot why we were done.
But the next morning I woke up alone.
Mariana was no longer in the room.
There was only one empty cup of coffee, the window open and a note folded over the table.
“We shouldn’t have done this. Sorry.”
That was it.
I tried calling her.
He didn’t answer.
I wrote to him several times over the next few days.
Nothing.
And even though I tried to convince myself that it didn’t matter, something in his way of leaving left me restless. It didn’t seem like regret. It seemed fear.
Two weeks later, I got a call from Merida.
