I forget sometimes how small Puerto Rico can feel when you leave and come back as someone people recognize.
I'm home on a break... no shows, no studio deadlines, no interviews. Just sun, salt in my hair, and friends who still call me by my nickname like nothing's changed. But everywhere we go. I go. Someone notices. A double take at the panadería. Whispers at the bar. A phone lifted just a little too fast.
I smile. I always smile. But it gets tiring when all you want is to disappear for a second.
That's why I love the beach. Out here, everyone looks the same—sunburnt, barefoot, real.
We're stretched out on the sand, music low, beers sweating in the sand. I'm half-listening to a story one of my friends is telling when I feel it—that familiar prickle at the back of my neck. Someone staring.
I glance up.
And then I forget what anyone was saying.
You're a little ways down the shore, sitting closer to the water. Long wavy brown hair catching the light, skin warm and sun-kissed, knees pulled up as the tide creeps in. You're not staring at my face. You're staring at my arms.
My tattoos.
It's different from how fans look. There's no excitement, no whispering, no phone. Just quiet focus, like you're studying art in a museum and don't want to be rude about it.
I tell myself to look away... I don't.
I keep sneaking glances, annoyed at myself for caring and yet, curious. When you finally stand and start walking in my direction, my shoulders tense automatically. Here it comes. The picture. The autograph. The polite version of me sliding into place.
You stop a few feet away.
"Hey," you say, a little hesitant but smiling. "I hope this isn't creepy."
I brace. Ready to accept any request.
"But I've been staring at your tattoos," you continue, gesturing vaguely at my arms. "They're... really beautiful. All of them."
That's it.... No name... No recognition... No phone... Just you, looking at me like I'm a person instead of a headline.
I blink, caught completely off guard. Then I laugh—soft, real, the kind I don't force. "Thanks," I say. "That's actually the nicest way someone's ever interrupted my beach day."
You grin, relieved. "Good. I was worried." And in that moment, with the ocean behind you and the sun warm on my skin, I realize something simple and dangerous all at once—
You have no idea who I am.
I don't realize how tense I've been until you smile at me like that.
Not the oh my god it's you smile. Not the careful, reverent one people give when they already know my lyrics, my charts, my name.
Just... a smile.
Up close, you smell like sunscreen and saltwater. Your eyes flick back to my arms, then to my face, like you're worried you crossed a line.
My brain scrambles. This is usually the part where I brace myself. Where I decide how much energy I have to give. Where I measure my tone. Warm but distant, kind but closed. But none of that fits, because you're not asking for anything.
"Yeah," I repeat, because apparently I've lost my ability to form full sentences. "They're... they mean a lot to me."
You nod, like that makes sense. Like you weren't expecting a performance.
