Cruel Summer | SIMBAR

4... And if I bleed, you'll be the last to know...

A.N: Hey, everyone. If you don't follow me on Tumblr or simply don't know, you might be noticing this is a different chapter 4 than the one I originally posted months ago. The reason for this is that I realized I wasn't happy with how the first version had turned out, to the point that it was impossible for me to continue the story— Nothing sounded right, everything felt forced. So, I found myself obliged to change it. I'm very sorry for the inconvenience; I hope you know I felt terrible making you wait just for a re-write of a chapter, but it was necessary. The lesson for me? Never go with the first idea that came to mind just because it'll mean you'll update faster. Turns out, you'll only end up frustrated and delaying the updates even more.

Having said that, I hope you enjoy this new path to the story.

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Simón Álvarez was in love, and he didn't know what to do with that information.

If things were simpler, it would be a beautiful thing. He would already be planning his next meet-up with Ámbar, excited to see her again and to bask in the happy feelings that swept over him whenever he was near her.

But things were definitely not simple and they hadn't been from the very beginning. He knew that what he had with Ámbar wasn't wise, he knew that he was fanning the flames of feelings that were better left forgotten, but he kept going anyway, kept diving deeper and deeper, and now... now what?

What did he want to do? Did he want to be with Ámbar? Even after everything she'd done?

No, said his brain.

Yes, screamed his heart.

Simón ran his hands through his hair, pacing his room, trying to make some sense of the conflicting feelings.

For starters, when had this happened? When did he fall in love with Ámbar? He knew he liked her— which, again, should've been a deterrent for him not to start this ambiguous thing with her, but alas, that did not stop him— liked her a lot, if he was being honest with himself, but he had believed, rather naively, perhaps, that it couldn't possibly be more than that with how little time they'd managed to spend together before all hell broke loose.

What if the feeling had been there from the beginning? What if it'd been there even before they started this whole truce and it just took him this long to figure it out?

Simón went through all their interactions, trying to pinpoint the moment when he lost his heart. Their conversations back in Buenos Aires, the time they sang together, their first kiss. Could it be possible that it came from back then? It seemed like too soon, but maybe that was why he couldn't write a single word or conjure a melody after he found out about everything she did, because he had to push Ámbar away, and she took his heart with her.

Or maybe, like all his current problems, it had started on that beach. When he saw again the Ámbar he had feared had been all lies to manipulate him, the one who felt deeply and seemed to be begging for someone to love her. Maybe just learning that not everything had been a lie was all it took. Maybe it was true what people said about absence making the heart grow fonder. And hadn't he felt, that night, the frantic urge to take all of her pain and absorb it into himself if that meant she wouldn't have to hurt anymore? What was love if not wanting to put someone before yourself?

Maybe it was the moment he held those guitar strings that really cemented it for him. Maybe that was the first sprout of the seed and then it just kept growing after that, with every kiss, every look, every smile, until it bloomed into the very rose he gave her, until it overflowed and he couldn't pretend not to see it anymore.