I narrow my eyes, pressing the unmelted candy harder into my cheek until a brief spark of pain shoots through me. As I inhale, the shards finally dissolve, and I swallow the fading sweetness with a twinge of disappointment.
It’s strange—hurting myself doesn’t feel the same anymore. The pain gives me something for a split second, then slips away, leaving the same hollow space behind.
Just like everything else in my life.
“You okay?” a deep voice rumbles beside me.
“I’m fine,” I cut flatly, rolling my tongue to chase what’s left of the sugary taste.
Without glancing at him, I step closer and nearly bump into the table. Every stall here looks like a treasure chest cracked open under the city’s sun, but this one—this one feels alive. A chaos of colors, textures, and eras spills in every direction. The air hums with the faint rustle of fabric as I run my fingers along the hangers, each creak whispering of another time.
Clothes—especially old, vintage ones—were never just fabric to me. They’re a language, a declaration. There are millions of choices, and somewhere in that chaos, you can find the one that screams your truth.
It’s fascinating.
“What do you think of these jeans?” I ask, tilting them by the legs so Dante can see the worn pattern in the soft, lived-in weave.
A woman behind the stall begins to explain where the piece came from, but I’m not listening. I’m watching him, curious about what he’ll say and choose. It feels like a new game we’ve started.
“I’m not comfortable in denim,” he says, his hand reaching for a pair of khaki cargo pants. He asks if he can feel the fabric, and the woman nods, so he carefully presses the cloth between the pads of his fingers. “What do you think about these?”
He unfolds them, and I lean in, my own fingertips ghosting across the cloth. I let the corner of my mouth lift. “Still boring, but comfortable. I like the loose fit.”
“Loose, huh?” He smiles, setting the pants back on the stall. “I was thinking of wearing my skinny jeans for the next mission.”
A cold slip of panic snakes down my spine, icy fingers tracing each vertebra as if marking their territory. I press my eyes shut, tuning out the world for a fraction of a second, and draw a slow, deliberate breath through my nose, letting it hiss quietly past my clenched teeth.
“Then don’t complain if you never even make it to the target,” I threaten.
He laughs before moving to the next rack, eyes flicking over jackets. He plucks a brown-and-green plaid fleece and holds it out to me. “Will this work?”
I shrug. “Maybe in the mountains.”
He studies the jacket as if the answer could be read from its stitching. “What if the next mission truly is in the mountains?” he probes softly. “But since you don’t havethatscary gleam in your eyes, and your lips aren’t pursed inthatthin line, I’ll assume I did well.”
“Tan observador.So observant,” I tease. “But you’re right. This one works for the start.”
Hope flickers across his face, a bright, almost naïve light that makes him look impossibly young. He casts me a lingering glance, a silent acknowledgment passing between us, before shifting his focus to the woman behind the stall and the ritual of paying for his new clothes.
The sun softensinto that honey-colored haze Barcelona wears so well, the kind that melts the edges of buildings and makes everything look dipped in gold. By now, the city hums with a slower rhythm; the afternoon rush has faded, replaced by the lingering voices of people who, like us, aren’t ready to go home just yet.
What was supposed to be a quick shopping trip has turned into an entire day of wandering and buying anything that catches our eyes. Our bags are heavier now, proof of our lack of restraint. I can never stop myself when it comes to clothes and trinkets—if something calls to me, it’s mine. And once it is, I can’t help but admire it.
I peek into the first bag, my heart lifting with the same curiosity I felt while shopping, as if I might discover surprises I hadn’t chosen myself: a silk blouse with tiny pearl buttons, a pair of mismatched gold earrings, and a linen blazer I didn’t need but couldn’t leave behind.
A smile tugs at my lips, a thread of hope vowing inside me that this happiness will last longer than it usually does, that it won’t become another fleeting moment I’ll fold away and forget.
The sky slowly deepens to mauve as we sit across a quiet street in a small square lined with palm trees and balconies draped in ivy. One by one, the streetlights flicker on, their soft glow brushing the pavement, still warm from the sun.
My feet dangle under the table as I stretch my shoulders, feeling the ache from walking all day. We’ve stumbled onto a small restaurant, its tables spilling onto the street beneath an awning striped in sun-faded terracotta. The scent of grilledseafood and lemon drifts through the air, tangy and warm, and I close my eyes, letting it wrap around me.
Dante’s fingers trace the chalk-written menu, even though our order was sent off long ago. I watch him, studying the way the light catches his jawline and the faint shadow under his eyes. He looks different from this morning—softer somehow, or maybe just more tired.
The city has left its mark on both of us. A thin veil of weariness hangs in our eyes, a subtle glow clinging to our skin. The clinking of glasses, the laughter of neighbors at nearby tables—it would normally irritate me, grind my patience down, but now, I don’t have the energy to fight it. I just want to watch.
A thought drifts through me, stubborn and sharp. Dante’s exhaustion isn’t just from today. It’s from everything he’s carrying, all the things still unfolding in his life. Maybe that’s why he’s so quiet, so observant—watching the world instead of letting himself dive in.
I can understand that.
