"Are you ready?" I say, sounding mysterious. Jessie grabs her tablet pencil, and Dean starts to make drums with his fingers on the table, when his phone buzzes. He checks it and his expression tightens for a split second.

  "Shit. I—uh, I gotta bounce. Emergency thing. Keep going, yeah?"

  He's grabbing his things in a rush.

  "Are you coming back?" Jessie asks, concerned.

  "You okay?" I add, also concerned.

  Dean's already halfway to the door. "Not coming back. Yeah, I'm okay, just—a personal thing. You two keep going. Just send me whatever you come up with."

  He's gone. I blink at the door for a moment, then turn to Jessie. She also freezes, but then looks at me with that wide-eyed curiosity she always carries — like she's permanently tuned into some invisible frequency where things sparkle a little more than usual.

  "Well, now it's just us girls. Hit me." She rushes me, impatient.

  I smile and slide my iPad with an image I've put together on Pinterest —a collage of red strings, shadowed figures, empty hands just missing each other.

  "So. The theme is connection and disconnection. Inspired by the red thread of fate myth— you know, how two souls are tied together. But this thread can tangle, stretch, knot, make little bows… even break. But there's always a trace of it."

  Jessie gasps. Genuinely gasps.

  "YES. Oh my god. Like invisible threads in the photos? We could literally stitch red embroidery into the styling, or even project the threads across the set…"

  "Exactly. I want it to feel soft and sharp at the same time, like a rose. Almost ghostly. Like you're witnessing something private. People are almost touching. Almost seeing each other. It's not about romance, either. It's more... existential. The kind of closeness that could be anything. Love, yes. But also friendship, grief, longing."

  "Oh my god, the tension! What's our palette? Tell me it's moody."

  "Mostly neutrals, pale pinks… but with these sudden pops of vivid crimson where the thread shows up. The rest should feel like memory. Blurry edges, dreamlike lighting. Like it's not really happening."

  Jessie's already sketching furiously on her tablet. "We can mirror the layouts — like using symmetry in the designs but break it just a little, so everything feels off-balanced, like something's missing."

  echoes in my head. "I don't know why, but this one feels right. Like, really right."

  "Because it is. This is gonna be so good. Dean's gonna freak when he sees it."

  I grin and lean back in my chair as Jessie spins her tablet toward me, already rendering a digital string across a mockup of Anna's profile.

  Somewhere deep in my chest, it hums — a strange certainty I can't explain. Like something invisible just clicked into place. We finish the overall concept and reference images to pitch the idea, and send the details to Dean.

  "Wednesday. Eleven a.m. Anna's team is dialing in from L.A.," I remind her.

  "Is she gonna be on the call?" Her eyes are glimmering with hope.

  "Probably not. Her team handles the approvals. But I think she'll the pitch right after. And if we get a yes..." I trail off, smiling to myself.

  "It's 'go' time," Jessie says, giving little cute punches to the air.

  "Exactly. So, I think we are done for today," I say, stretching. The golden hour is leaking through the windows, scattering warm light on everything. "Going home?"

  "Yeah, I'm not feeling so much like going out today."

  "Same, actually yesterday I saw—I am about to tell her what I saw last night between Daniel and that girl—in a short lapse of oversharing— but her phone rings, and she answers right away. She speaks in Thai. I don't understand anything but she looks concerned.

  "Sorry, it was my mom. Tell me what you were saying," she says with an exaggerated guilty face for cutting me off.

  "I think the Thai language it's so damn cute! Or you make it sound cute. I don't know."

  She laughs, but notices the change of subject.

  So I trail back. "I was saying that yesterday we drank a lot, and I'm also feeling like staying home." Reinventing my sentence.

  She presses her lips and nods.

  We pick up our stuff and close the studio.Outside the door, I give her a small goodbye hug. "See you tomorrow."

  She says, "Bye," waving slowly.

  When I get back, Daniel's already gone to work. I drop my keys in a ceramic bowl (Jessie made—this can stay past). The last rays of sunlight filter through the half-drawn curtains, hitting the dusty leaves of the monstera in the corner. Jessie also helped me choose most of the plants at my place. she said, and dragged me to three different plant shops until we found a spider plant that she claimed had the right vibe.

  I sit on the couch and let my body sink. The girl at the bar pops back into my mind—the way she touched Daniel's arm, how he laughed like they were old friends. I shouldn't think about that.

  He always says I’m the one who overthinks things. But if everything is fine, why does it feel so… off? Before I can spiral further, my phone buzzes with a text. Lucía!

  Luchi:(Emmma! Hey, I’m going to New York next week!)

  My chest lights up. Lucía Ibarra. I haven't spoken to her properly in maybe two years? We used to do everything together when we were little, even fall in love with the same boys. So funny. I'm writing a reply when she calls. I answer with a smile already forming.

  As soon as she sees me, "?Ay, nena! Mirá esa carita yankee. ?Qué hacés, Emma?" (Oh, babe! Look at that Yankee face. What are you up to, Emma?)

  I look at myself on the selfie cam and fix my hair. "?Boluda! ?No te puedo creer! ?Estás hermosa!" I miss speaking in my Argentinian accent. "?Cuándo venís?" (Dude! I can't believe you! You look gorgeous!)(When are you coming?)

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  "El jueves que viene, llego súper temprano. Me salió una entrevista con una agencia que tiene sede allá. No sé si va a salir algo, pero pagaron el vuelo y me quedo unos días." (Next Thursday, I'm arriving super early. I got an interview with an agency based there. I don't know if anything will work out, but they paid for my flight, and I'm staying for a few days.)

  "?Te pagan el vuelo? Aahh buenoo!"(Are they paying for your flight? Ahh, fancy!)

  She rolls her eyes, "Pará, si sabés lo que me costó armar el portfolio. No dormí por tres días. Pero bue. Escuchame—nos vemos, ?no?"(Wait, if you knew how hard it was to put together the portfolio. I didn't sleep for three days. But oh well. Listen... we will meet, right?)

  "Obvio. Vamos a comer o algo. ?Seguís odiando el tofu?"(Of course. I'll take you to eat. We can go out. Do you still hate tofu?)

  She makes a disgusted face. "Asqueroso. Dame una milanga con fritas, por favor."(Disgusting. Give me a milanesa with fries, please.)

  We laugh and I get a flash of honesty. "Extra?aba tu cara, boluda." It's been so long since I spoke with someone from home. I feel like I need a connection like this so badly. (I missed your face, idiot.)

  "Y yo la tuya, en serio. Estás más linda que nunca. ?Estás bien?"(And I missed yours, for real. You're prettier than ever. Are you okay?)

  I smile and pause. "Sí sí, estoy bien. Re contenta que venís!"(Yes... yes, I'm fine. I'm so glad you're coming!)

  We hang up with promises to text. I stare at the darkened phone screen for a moment, caught in a soft wave of nostalgia. It is good to see her. It doesn’t matter how long, we can still talk like time hasn't really passed.

  Then I notice I had another message.

  Mom: Hola amorr! Todo tranquilo?

  Mom: ?Yo empecé un curso literario y estoy escribiendo otra vez! Super contenta. No lo hago desde que me casé con el despreciable de tu padre.

  Mom: ?Me llamás después?

  Mom: No te olvides que tu horóscopo te aconseja que no te hagas mucho la cabeza, tené cuidado con tus emociones, no todo es lo que parece. ???

  I roll my eyes so hard I give myself a headache. There’s something infuriating about someone that uses the horoscope as a guide of their own emotions, always. Her way of parenting: Mercury in retrograde. Her way of avoiding real questions: Venus in Pisces. ‘Don’t ask me things today, I read I will be very irritable’. Yeah, like I need the stars to tell me that.

  No shit, Mom.

  I drop the phone on the bed, kick off my socks, and open the laptop. A new episode of Sinister has just come out. I hit play, curl up between my cats, and let the voice of the youtuber lull me into sleep. They say you can't feel lonely when you're alone if you know yourself. I'm not sure I do.

  The light of Sunday morning wakes me up. I open my eyes already feeling Daniel's smell — warm skin and yesterday's shampoo. He's already half-awake, scrolling through his phone with that quiet smirk he always has in the mornings. I shift slightly. He turns to me, eyes still sleepy.

  "Hey," he says, brushing hair from my face. "You look so cute when you sleep."

  He leans in to kiss my neck, his hand trailing under the blanket, searching for skin. I want to want it — but I don't. My stomach is tight. My head is louder than my body.

  "Wait," I say, pulling his hand away gently.

  He pauses. "You okay?"

  I sit up. "I wanted to ask you something."

  He props himself on his elbow, pretending to be fully engaged, but I can see the flicker of dread cross his face — like I was about to say something

  "Who was that girl from the bar you were talking to on Friday? The one with the ponytail."

  His brow furrows slightly, and then smooths. "Oh. Her. That's Zoey. She's new."

  "Why didn't you tell me about her before?"

  He shrugs, laughing a little. "I dunno, babe. She just started. Honestly, I didn't even think she'd last the weekend. She already messed up a couple of orders and the manager's getting tired of her."

  I nod, lips pressed together.

  He leans over and kisses my shoulder "You're not jealous, are you?"

  "No," I say. "I was just... curious.”

  He grins. "Come on, Em. You know you're the only one I'd be laughing with like that."

  I let myself believe him. But something lingers. The way she looks at him. The way he smiles back. Not threatening, but—I just shake it off.

  We get up and it's almost twelve, so we order pad thai for brunch. After eating, we decide to lie on the couch to watch a movie. My legs are thrown over his, some sci-fi movie on Netflix playing in the background. I'm not really watching, just scrolling on my cellphone randomly. His fingers are tracing the inside of my thigh absentmindedly, like a rhythm he knew without thinking.

  "You smell like sleep and cinnamon," he murmurs, pressing a kiss on my knee.

  I laugh. "What does sleep even smell like?"

  He grins. "You, apparently."

  He leans in, nuzzling my neck, the kind of slow, lazy affection that makes my skin warm before anything else does. I can feel his hands start to wander, but there was no urgency in them. Just touch. Familiar. Teasing.

  I wrap my arms around his neck, and kiss him. Deep and soft. His hands pull me onto his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world.

  "I missed this," he says against my mouth.

  It's been a while since I've felt this intimacy between us. He pulls my shirt over my head slowly, kissing the line between my breasts, sliding his fingers down my back like he remembers exactly how to melt me open.

  I start to grind against him slowly, feeling his cock stiffen beneath his sweats. My hips move without thinking — lazy at first, then deliberate.

  He pushes my bra up, exposing me, and sucks one nipple into his mouth, then the other — teasing, pinching, tugging enough to make me moan. His hands are busy, carefully squeezing, sliding, holding me down so I could move against him harder. The heat is already soaking through my underwear.

  He grabs my ass in both hands and stands up with me still clinging to him, making me gasp and laugh at the same time. He walks us to the bedroom, kissing me as he moves. I hold on, lips swollen, legs wrapped around him.

  He drops me gently on the bed, peels my panties down, and looks at me like he might eat me alive.

  Then he pushes inside.

  It hits deep — fast, full, hot — and I gasp, back arching.

  "God, yes—" I moan, gripping his shoulders.

  He moves like he knows exactly what I need — strong, controlled, deliciously rough. His hands pinned mine above my head. His mouth is on my neck, my collarbone, my mouth. He fills me completely, his rhythm building until I can barely breathe.

  I’m close — gone in it. Drenched in heat, slick, loud.

  He tenses. Moans deep. Slows. And comes.

  Just like that. He lets out a long breath, resting his forehead against mine, trying to catch himself.

  I kiss his jaw, still panting, trying not to feel the drop.

  Then he pulls out, rolling onto his back with a contented sigh.

  "You want me to finish you?" he asks lazily, hand already reaching between my legs.

  I nod. "Yeah."

  His fingers find me and it feels good— slow and familiar, just enough pressure, just enough rhythm. I follow it, hips moving gently, chest rising, eyes fluttering. Where's the other hand? Why isn't he eating my breasts? I open them and he isn't looking at me.

  His eyes are somewhere else— unfocused, half-lidded, like he is replaying something in his head or calculating what time he had to leave for the bar.

  He is just… going through the motions.

  I close my eyes again. But something has shifted. I'm not in my body anymore. I try to stay with it. Force a deeper breath, try to draw again in the motion and the heat, but it's gone. Just the pressure of him waiting for me to finish and not enjoying any of it, just…

  So I fake it.

  Soft moan. Deep breath. Hand on his chest. A small shudder. Just enough for him to believe it. He smiles, kisses my forehead, and pulls me into his arms.

  "You're the best," he mumbles.

  I let him hold me. Maybe the problem isn't him. Maybe it's me. He gets up to go to the toilet. Lying there, I realize I've been performing pleasure the same way I perform everything else — giving people what I thought they wanted instead of discovering what I actually needed.

  I close my eyes just to focus on the noise of the shower, but growing from inside my head, a familiar tick tock tick tock. I get up to take my medicine. Do a small exercise routine in front of the tv to feel better about myself, while Daniel finishes his shower, changes and leaves for work.

  There’s something so peaceful about being alone. Giving all your time to a series or a video game. Some people would feel like it’s a waste, but I feel bad for them. Like, are you telling me that the only moment you feel good or satisfied about yourself it’s when you are doing something ‘productive’? On that note, I fall asleep in bed, notebook on my lap, surrounded by my cats. I'm watching some true crime but I know I'm not going to survive until the end.