I may not know what to say, but I know what I need. Who I need.
Analyse.
By the time she knocks on my door, the sun’s dipped low enough to stain the sky a bruised gold. I’ve changed into sweats and a clean T-shirt, but I still feel like I’m wearing the day. It’s in my bones. My lungs. My silence.
I open the door, and there she is—Analyse, in a faded hoodie and leggings, her curly hair framing her face, holding two bags: one from the grocery store, one from Mariana’s bakery, The Rolling Pin.
God, she’s beautiful. I look at her and feel like I should be on my knees.
“Hey,” she says softly.
“Hey.” It’s the only word I can manage right now, and it comes out a little rough.
She holds up the bags in her hands. “I didn’t know what you’d be in the mood for, so I brought a few things. Comfort food. And snacks. Obviously.”
“Obviously,” I echo, stepping aside so she can come in.
She brushes past me, and suddenly, I feel like I can breathe. A gust of air creeping into my lungs.
She heads straight to the kitchen, and I quickly follow. She starts unpacking the bags—containers from The Rolling Pin, a small tray of arroz con gandules, pastelitos wrapped in foil, chocolate-covered almonds, sour gummies, and a bag of plantain chips.
“This is all very nutritionally sound,” I say, leaning against the counter.
She glances over her shoulder with a small smile. “I’m told emotional damage can be reversed with carbs and salt. I’m just testing the science.”
I huff a quiet laugh. “Thanks for this. For coming.”
“You don’t have to thank me,” she says, softer now. “You needed someone. You called. I came.”
She says it so simply. As if her being here for me at this moment, no questions asked, is completely normal. As if she’d show up for me whenever I need her. I watch her for a moment as she sets the last container down. And I think…I think maybe she would.
I grab two plates from the cabinet, and she begins piling them with food. We eat on the couch, shoulder to shoulder, plates balanced on our laps, and the TV on low.Law & Order: SVU, obviously. The moment I handed her the remote, she put it on like muscle memory.
“You’re predictable,” I murmur, nudging her lightly with my elbow.
She doesn’t take her eyes off the screen as she replies, “It’s called comfort TV. Some people meditate. Some people do yoga. I watch Stabler beat up bad guys.”
I huff a quiet laugh and take another bite. “I didn’t realize how hungry I was,” I murmur.
“Well, I’m glad I’m here to remind you that you’re human. Eat up,” she says, nudging at my knee playfully.
I clear my throat. “This was really good. All of it.”
“Next time you’re spiraling,” she says casually, “I’ll bring flan and wine.”
“You’re already planning the next time?”
She gives me a look. “Uh yeah, Mateo. You’re a man who bottles his emotions and thinks working out before the sun even rises will fix all your problems. There’s going to be a next time.”
I let out a soft snort. “Brutal.”
“Honest,” she says, eating another spoonful of rice.
The silence stretches between us. It’s nice. Comfortable. After a while, she grabs the bag of plantain chips and holds it open toward me. I take a few, and she rests her hand between us, bag crinkling slightly.
“Look, I’m not going to ask what’s wrong,” she says softly. “I don’t need to know. But I’m here. I’ll always be here for you. And when you need me again—yes, I said when—I’ll be here again. No questions asked.”
My throat tightens. Analyse. She’s exactly what I needed today. She doesn’t even realize what she’s done for me. I stare down at the chips in my hand, and then I let my eyes meet hers. There’s no pity in them. There’s just understanding.
