Last Night

Elena leaves at 2 AM. She kisses my cheek and thanks me for the night, her voice light and unbothered. I nod, watching her disappear down the hotel hallway, the door clicking shut behind her. The room is quiet again, except for the faint hum of the city outside. I take a deep breath, dragging my hands down my face before heading to the bathroom. There's still a little powder left on the counter from earlier. I stare at it. Consider it.

Instead, I splash cold water on my face, pressing my palms against the sink. My eyes look empty in the mirror.

I climb into bed, lying on my back, staring at the ceiling. My body is exhausted, but my mind won't stop. I think about Stefani, the way her eyes burned into mine as I led Elena away, the way her voice cracked when she told me to leave. I wonder if she's still with Taylor. If she's still in his arms.

The thought makes me sick.

And then—at 3 AM—there's a knock at my door.

At first, I think I imagined it. But then it comes again, a little more insistent.

I already know who it is.

I move slowly, peeling back the blankets and padding across the floor. When I open the door, she's standing there in an oversized hoodie, her blonde hair in a messy bun, her eyes glassy with something unreadable.

Stefani doesn't say anything at first.

Neither do I.

She exhales sharply, as if trying to steady herself, before whispering, "Tell me you don't want me, and I'll walk away."

I freeze.

My throat tightens, my chest caves in, and my nails dig into the doorframe. She's standing there like a question, like a plea, and I can't give her an answer that will fix either of us.

I could lie. I could tell her I don't want her, that none of it mattered, that we were just playing pretend.

But I don't.

I step back.

She walks inside.

The door shuts behind her, and suddenly, we're inches apart, alone in the dim glow of the hotel room. There's something raw in the way she looks at me, something desperate in the way she fists her hands in the sleeves of her hoodie.

"I don't know how to do this," I admit, my voice barely above a whisper.

She shakes her head. "Neither do I."

And then she's kissing me.

It's not like before. It's not frantic or reckless or fueled by anger. It's slow, deliberate—like we're memorizing each other, like we finally understand just how deep this goes. Her hands slide into my hair, pulling me closer, and I melt into her touch.

I taste salt.

She's crying.

I pull back slightly, brushing a tear from her cheek with my thumb. She leans into my touch, closing her eyes for a second, like she's savoring it.

"I hate you," I whisper, but there's no malice behind it. Just exhaustion. Just longing.

"I know," she breathes, her forehead pressing against mine.

We don't speak after that.

We just fall into each other, into the bed, into something we can't name but can't deny. Our limbs tangle, our mouths find familiar places, and for the first time in a long time, I don't feel completely numb.

For now, I let myself have this.

Even if it destroys me in the end.

I wake up alone.

The sheets are tangled around my legs, the scent of last night lingering on the pillow beside me—faint traces of perfume, salt, something softer underneath. But she's gone.

I knew she would be.

The room is dim, only a sliver of morning light slipping through the thick hotel curtains. I don't move at first. I just lay there, staring at the ceiling, feeling the weight in my chest settle deeper, like it's trying to root itself inside of me.

Last night was tender but dark. It was slow, aching, filled with salty kisses and swollen lips, with quiet desperation and the understanding that this was the end. I felt it in every touch, in the way she held me, in the way she clung to me even after, her fingers tracing slow, ghosting patterns over my skin as if she was trying to memorize me.

"There's a heaviness that cannot be lifted."

Tía's words echo in my head, and I realize how true they are.

This—whatever it was—was never meant to last.

I sit up, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, and force myself out of bed. The cold floor sends a shock up my spine, but it wakes me up, reminds me that the night is over and the world is still moving forward, even if I feel stuck in place.

I reach for my phone and stare at the screen for a long moment before dialing.

Elena answers on the third ring.

"Lena?" Her voice is warm, light, like she's genuinely happy to hear from me.

I clear my throat. "Hey."

"Didn't expect to hear from you so soon," she teases. "Not that I'm complaining."

I exhale a small, humorless laugh. "Yeah, well... I figured we should talk."

"Talk," she repeats, drawing the word out. "Sounds serious."

I shake my head, even though she can't see me. "Not really."

There's a pause, and then, "You okay?"

No.

But I don't say that.

Instead, I force out, "Yeah. Just... trying to get my head straight."

Elena hums softly. "I get that. If you need to talk, I'm here. Or if you need a distraction, I'm very good at those too."

She's giving me an out. Letting me decide what I need.

I hesitate, then say, "Dinner. In a few days?"

A beat of silence. Then, she grins through the phone, "I thought you'd never ask."

I manage a small smile. "Yeah, well. Here we are."

"Here we are," she echoes. "It's a date, then?"

I hesitate just a second too long, and she picks up on it. But instead of pushing, she just says, "We'll call it whatever you want, Lena."

I appreciate that more than I can say.

After we hang up, I sit there for a long time, staring at my phone, trying to understand why my chest feels so heavy.

I already know the answer.

But knowing doesn't make it easier.

⸻

I go through my routine like I'm on autopilot.

I work out. I dance. I run until my lungs burn and my legs threaten to give out. I let the music swallow me whole during rehearsals. I push my body harder than I should, trying to chase the feeling I used to get when I danced—before everything got complicated.

Before her.

The show comes and goes. I move through it mechanically, hitting every step with precision, but there's no fire behind it. No passion. It's just muscle memory now.

Stefani and I don't speak.

Not out of anger, but out of understanding.

We stay on opposite sides of the dressing room, exchanging nothing but glances. There's no tension, no lingering resentment. Just silence.

And maybe that's worse.

She knows.

I know.

It could never be more than hidden corners and stolen moments under the cover of night. It could never be something real, something lasting.

She belongs in the light, and I... I don't know where I belong anymore.

By the end of the night, Stefani is back by Taylor's side. His arm is draped around her shoulders, and she leans into him, smiling softly, whispering something in his ear that makes him chuckle.

I watch them from across the room, and for the first time in a long time, I don't feel angry.

I don't feel jealous.

I just feel... tired.

Maybe this is what grief feels like. Not just sadness, not just loss, but exhaustion. The kind that settles in your bones, making every step forward feel impossible.

But I move forward anyway.

Even if I have to drag my feet the whole way.