Sofía opens the door before you even knock, hair in a claw clip, oversized T-shirt, no makeup, all urgency. She takes one look at the suitcases and says, “Tell me you didn’t leave the air fryer.” You blink at her. She grabs your arm and pulls you into the apartment. “I’m joking. Mostly. Come inside before I go to war on your behalf.”
Her place smells like espresso and cinnamon candles and a life with too many throw pillows. You put your bags down in the guest room, which is really an office with a daybed and a printer that hates joy, and sit on the edge of the mattress. Sofía doesn’t ask you to explain immediately. She just hands you coffee in your favorite chipped mug, the one you left here months ago after a movie night and forgot to take home.
That almost breaks you.
Not the breakup. Not even the leaving. The mug. The fact that someone remembers what helps before asking what hurts. You wrap both hands around the warmth and stare at the steam until your eyes sting.
“Did he stop you?” Sofía asks eventually.
“No.”
