Sorry

I wake up to the soft sound of breathing, my head pounding like a drum against my skull. The room is dim, the early morning light seeping through the thick hotel curtains. For a second, I don't know where I am. Then it all comes back—the club, the tequila, the way I practically stumbled back here with Valeria.

I shift, and that's when I see her.

Valeria is asleep on the floor next to the couch, one arm tucked under her head, the other resting lazily over her stomach. Her breathing is slow and even, her face peaceful. She looks comfortable there, like she doesn't mind crashing on a hotel floor for the night.

I let out a slow breath and sit up, wincing at the dull ache in my body. My mouth is dry, my skin feels sticky, and my stomach is a swirling pit of exhaustion and regret.

Stefani.

The sound of her voice from last night still lingers in my head. The way she grumbled "yeah, right" before slamming her door. I don't know why it's bothering me so much. I shouldn't care. I've made my stance clear.

I groan, pushing myself up and making my way to the bathroom, closing the door behind me.

The mirror doesn't do me any favors. My mascara is smudged, my lips are swollen, and my eyes—bloodshot and tired—stare back at me like they belong to someone else.

I turn on the shower, letting the water run hot before stepping in.

The heat is almost unbearable at first, but I let it scorch me, hoping it'll burn away the shame, the guilt, the nagging feeling that I've fucked everything up. I tilt my head back, water cascading down my face, and exhale.

I need to talk to Stefani.

By the time I step out, wrapped in a towel and feeling slightly more human, Valeria is stirring awake.

She blinks up at me sleepily, then stretches, groaning as she sits up.

"Morning," she murmurs, voice thick with sleep.

I smirk. "Morning."

I move toward the small coffee maker in the corner of the room, setting it up. The rich, warm scent fills the air as it brews, and I grab two cups, handing one to Valeria as she pushes her hair back from her face.

She takes a slow sip and sighs. "Damn. You're good at this. Are you sure you're a dancer and not a barista?"

I snort. "I'm from Puerto Rico. Good coffee is a survival skill."

Her eyebrows raise slightly. "Puerto Rico, huh? Do you miss it?"

I hesitate, staring down into my cup, watching the steam rise.

"Yeah," I admit. "All the time. The beaches, the food, my family... Sometimes I wonder if I made the right choice leaving." I pause, then shake my head. "But dancing is my dream. I couldn't stay. I had to go after it."

Valeria watches me carefully. "I get that," she says after a moment. "I left home too. Different reasons, but still. Sometimes I wonder if the sacrifice is worth it."

I look at her, studying the way she twirls her cup in her hands. "Where's home for you?"

"Mexico City," she says, leaning back against the couch. "I came here for school, stayed for work. It's not the same, but... I make it work."

There's something easy about talking to her. She doesn't ask too many questions, doesn't push too hard. She just listens.

It's comforting.

Valeria tilts her head, considering me. "Can I see you again?"

I don't hesitate this time. "Yeah."

She smiles, a soft, knowing look passing over her face. We exchange numbers, and when she stands to leave, she places a hand on my arm briefly. "Take care of yourself, Lena."

I nod, watching as she steps out of the room, disappearing down the hallway.

And now it's time.

I brace myself before making my way to Stefani's room.

I knock a few times before I hear movement on the other side.

The door opens slowly, and there she is.

Her eyes are glazed over, dark circles smudged beneath them. She looks exhausted, like she hasn't slept. Her platinum hair is messy, falling in waves over her shoulders, and she's wearing an oversized shirt that hangs loosely on her frame.

For a second, neither of us speaks.

Then, finally, I clear my throat. "Can we talk?"

She exhales, leaning against the doorframe. "Yeah."

I step inside, and she closes the door behind me.

The room is dimly lit, the curtains still drawn. She moves toward the couch and sits down, and I hesitate before joining her, keeping a small distance between us.

The silence is suffocating.

I exhale sharply and force myself to start. "I'm sorry," I say, my voice quieter than I intend. "For everything."

She doesn't respond right away. Just stares at the floor, her fingers picking at a loose thread on her shirt.

"I'm a mess," I continue. "And I... I don't think we should've done what we did."

Stefani lets out a hollow laugh, shaking her head. "You don't think we should've done it?"

I swallow hard. "I care about you. A lot. And I can't lose you, but..." I trail off, my voice barely above a whisper. "I can't do this. Anything more than friends, it's just... it's not good for either of us."

I force myself to look at her, expecting her to be angry. But instead, there's something else there—something raw, something vulnerable.

She turns to me slowly, her eyes searching mine. And then, a single tear slips down her cheek.

Her voice is rough when she speaks. "Why are you so fucking afraid to feel something?"

It's not an accusation. It's a plea.

And for the first time in a long time, I don't know how to answer.

I break eye contact. I can't answer that question.

Instead, I let out a sharp exhale and press the heels of my palms against my eyes, trying to steady myself. "It's not about being afraid," I say, but even I can hear how weak that sounds.

Stefani lets out a bitter laugh. "No? Then what is it, Lena? Because from where I'm sitting, it sure as hell looks like fear."

I shake my head. "It's—" I stop myself before I can lie. "It's complicated."

"Bullshit." She leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees. "You act like you don't care, but then you look at me like that, and I know you do. I know you do."

I stay silent.

"Just say it," she presses. "Say you feel something. Say you don't want this to be over."

My chest tightens. I do want her. I do feel something. But if I say it, it becomes real, and if it's real, then what? Then I have to admit that I'm capable of more than casual, that I might actually need someone, and I don't know how to do that without ruining everything.

I shake my head again. "I can't."

Stefani's jaw clenches, and she lets out a harsh breath, leaning back against the couch. "Right. Of course, you can't."

Tension thickens between us, an invisible rope pulling taut.

I feel like I'm being split in two.

Every part of me is screaming to run—to get up and leave before I make this worse—but my body won't move. My hands are trembling in my lap, my throat is tight, and suddenly, I can't hold it in anymore.

I move without thinking.

I crawl toward her on the couch, hesitating only for a second before I close the space between us.

She doesn't move away.

My hands shake as I reach for her face, fingers ghosting over her cheek. She's so warm, so steady, and I feel like I'm unraveling just being this close.

When I kiss her, it isn't desperate or rushed. It's pleading. A silent apology, a confession I can't bring myself to say out loud.

Stefani inhales sharply against my lips, her body tensing for just a second before she melts into me. Her hands move up, gripping my arms as she kisses me back just as softly, just as desperately.

It's not about lust.

It's about needing to be understood.

It's about wanting something real, even if I don't know how to hold onto it.

When we finally pull away, she rests her forehead against mine, her breath warm against my skin.

Neither of us speaks.

Stefani is the first to pull away. She exhales slowly, her fingers still gripping my arms like she doesn't want to let go just yet. Her eyes search mine, looking for something—maybe an answer, maybe a reason. But I don't have one to give.

She leans back against the couch, rubbing a hand over her face. "This is so fucking confusing."

I nod because I feel it too.

I should leave. I should stand up and put distance between us before I do something even more reckless. But I don't move. I just sit there, my legs folded beneath me, watching her, waiting for her to say something else—something that might make this all make sense.

Stefani lets out a dry laugh, shaking her head. "You say you don't want anything serious. Fine. I can be casual. But you don't believe me. And then you throw it in my face that you can be casual—with girls whose names you don't even know."

I flinch, guilt settling deep in my chest.

She shakes her head, eyes burning into me. "Why is it okay when you do it, but the second it's me, you act like it's impossible?"

"It's not the same," I mutter.

Stefani scoffs. "No? Then tell me, Lena. What's different?"

I press my lips together, willing myself to stay calm, but the words rip out of me anyway. "You have a boyfriend, Stefani."

She blinks, like she didn't expect me to actually say it.

"You're my boss," I add, voice sharp. "You're my friend."

Stefani's jaw tightens. "And those are the real reasons, huh?"

"Yes!"

She stares at me for a long moment, then exhales through her nose, shaking her head with a bitter smile. "No. They're just excuses."

I feel my stomach twist. "That's not—"

"Because if that was really it, you wouldn't be here right now. You wouldn't have kissed me. You wouldn't keep doing this."

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.

She leans forward, eyes searching mine, voice softer but no less intense. "Tell me the truth, Lena. Just once. What are you actually afraid of?"

I feel like she's peeling back layers of me, pulling at something I've tried so hard to keep buried.

I can't do this.

I push off the couch, standing too fast. "I should go."

Stefani watches me, and for a second, I think she's going to stop me. But then she just nods, leaning back against the couch like she's already exhausted.

"Yeah," she says, her voice unreadable. "Maybe you should."

The words shouldn't hurt, but they do.

I walk to the door. I don't look back.

But as I step into the hallway, I feel it settling in my chest—the cold, heavy weight of something I don't want to name.

And for the first time in a long time, running doesn't feel like freedom.

It just feels like losing.