A beat of silence passes. Then, from upstairs—barely audible—a faint sound. A breathy gasp. A moan.
We freeze.
Her eyes meet mine, wide. And then, like the tension breaks all at once, we both burst into dramatic, over the top laughter.
“Oh my god,” she whispers, laughing so hard she has to stop and wipe under her eyes. “This house has no soundproofing.”
“Apparently not.”
She takes another sip of tea, then sets the mug down. “God,” she says with a sigh. “I miss sex.”
It’s so sudden, so honest, that it stuns us both. Her face goes red in an instant, and even in the dim light, I can see how it reaches the tips of her ears. “Dios. I didn’t mean to say that out loud.”
But I’m still laughing. Not at her—but at the realness of it. “You kind of did.”
“I really didn’t.” There’s a tiny squeak at the end of her sentence, and then she buries her face into her hands, lightly chuckling into them. I don’t know if she’s also buzzed like I am, but she’s definitely relaxed, guard down. “I didn’t. I swear.”
“Well.” I pause, contemplate my next few words. We are the only single people in this group, and we will, most likely, be partnered up for all activities that require a buddy on this trip. “Same.”
She turns toward me, blinking. “Yeah?”
I nod. “It’s been a few months.” Seven, to be exact. But who’s counting, really?
There’s a pause. She doesn’t make it awkward at all, but she studies my face, looking for whatever answer she’s been after since this morning.
In this moment, I don’t even think it’s about sex—not really. At least, not for me. It’s not about getting off or scratching an itch. It’s about what it could mean. The chance to be close to someone, to let myself be seen for once instead of performing.
I don’t know if she feels any of that. Maybe it’s just attraction for her. Maybe it’s nothing more.
The silence sits between us, just like it has all day. Heavy and rough around the edges, yet comforting and stable.
Then Manuela says, “Can I ask you something?”
I nod.
Her gaze skims the table, like she’s debating whether to risk it.
“What’s… going on with you and Athena?” The words come out carefully, almost like she’s afraid they’ll break something.
For a second, my chest tightens. I keep my eyes on the tea swirling in my mug, willing my face to stay neutral. “We broke up seven months ago.”
She doesn’t jump in, but it looks like she wants to say something along the lines ofduh, it’s obvious since you haven’t been with her and she was always dragging you around.But she doesn’t. Manuela waits patiently for me to be ready to say something.
“She wanted more structure. A plan and timelines. I get it; she deserved to know where it was all going after so many years together. And I couldn’t give her that.” I shake my head, trying to find the words I haven’t uttered to a single soul because it makes me uncomfortable to divulge so much of myself and to lose control of the narrative that threads my life.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve lived like everything depends on what people see when they look at me. If I stayedon script, people nodded with approval. If I strayed, even for a second, it felt like the floor tilted under me.
Telling the truth about Athena means opening the door to everyone else’s version of the story—my parents’ disappointment, my friends’ pity, the quietwhat’s wrong with himwhispers I’ve heard my whole life about other people. And once those versions exist, mine would stop mattering.
“I built my whole life on plans,” I admit, almost to myself. “Every move mapped out five steps ahead. I used to have a five-year plan.” A hollow laugh slips out before I can stop it. “Now even the next five weeks feel blurry.”
Her brows draw in.
“I thought I knew what I wanted. A lot of what I wanted had to do with familial expectations—a career, a stable relationship, marriage, and kids. And then I got half of that and… I don’t know.” I shrug. “It felt like someone else’s life.Feelslike someone else’s life.”
Manuela is quiet, but her presence is grounding. She moves her body in my direction, switching her angle enough so that now I’m the center of her attention. She’s nodding along like she totally gets it. And maybe she does, and I want to prod, but how do I even ask? What do I even ask?
“There’s this itch I can’t shake,” I say. “Like I should be doing something else, but I have no clue what. I keep waiting for a sign or a moment or something, and all I get is noise.”
