Aurelia grew up without much love from her mother, and she never thought her real dad would ever come into her life. But then, he did. Now, she wonders if it's too late for him to rescue her from the darkness her parents left her in, or if there's s...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
The next morning, the air felt heavier thicker somehow as if the house itself had absorbed everything that had happened the night before and didn't quite know what to do with it. The sunlight filtering through the kitchen windows was pale and watery, catching on floating dust motes that looked like tiny ghosts drifting between us.
Nobody mentioned the night before. Not the song. Not the tears. Not the moment I had fallen apart in Santiago's arms.
Lorenzo was the first one I saw. He was hunched over a bowl of cereal at the counter, tapping his spoon against the rim in a rhythmic little beat, eyes unfocused. Usually he'd say something ridiculous to make me laugh, but today he just offered me a crooked half-smile before going back to staring into his milk like it held answers.
"Morning," I said softly.
"Morning, birthday girl," he replied, but the joke didn't quite land. It hung in the air, fragile, and I didn't know how to respond, so I just poured myself some coffee I didn't really want.
Christìan came in next, already dressed for work, his shirt sleeves rolled up, the smell of aftershave trailing after him. He gave me a brief nod stern, but not unkind. "You sleep alright?"
I nodded, even though it wasn't true. I had lain awake for hours, replaying every second of last night, from Santiago's steady voice to the moment I'd blown out the candles. That warmth had stayed with me, like a small fire burning low in my chest, but so had the fear.
What if I didn't deserve this? What if they realized I was too broken to fit here?
Christìan didn't push. He just reached for his keys and left, the door closing behind him with a soft click that sounded louder than it should have.
Fernando passed through next, quiet as ever, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips when he saw me. He set down a small plate toast with jam, the good kind they usually saved for weekends. He didn't say a word, but the gesture said enough. I whispered a thank you, and he gave a small nod before slipping out again, like silence was his native tongue.
Ramón was the last to appear, bleary-eyed and grumpy, muttering something about coffee. His gaze flicked toward me and then away. I wasn't sure if he was avoiding me or just tired. With Ramón, it was always hard to tell. There was something in him that watched me too closely, something he didn't quite want to feel but couldn't turn off either.
For a while, the only sound was the soft clink of dishes and the low hum of the refrigerator. It was suffocating and comforting all at once like standing in the eye of a storm.
When Santiago finally entered, the room seemed to straighten around him. His presence had that effect calm but commanding. His eyes met mine briefly, and the corner of his mouth lifted. Not quite a smile, more like a quiet reassurance: I remember too, but we don't have to speak it aloud.
"Morning," he said, his voice even. "Everyone good?"
A chorus of mumbled affirmations followed. No one mentioned the night before.
