Nate talks about me?
Constantly?
"Sorry, I need to take this," he says, glancing at the screen.He steps away, his voice dropping to that careful tone he uses for important calls.
Javier watches him go with the expression of someone who's witnessed transformation firsthand.
"He was an empty shell when he first came here," he tells me, his voice gentle but matter-of-fact."Hollow eyes, hollow chest, like someone had scooped out everything that made him human and left only the hurt behind."
I find myself straightening my shoulders, that automatic response to hearing about someone I care about in pain.
"He looks good now."
"Time and the Spanish sunshine does that to a person.But he's worked for his happiness.Learning that healing isn't about making the pain disappear—it's about making yourself bigger than the pain."Javier's eyes are kind but serious.
"The demons, they don't leave, niña.They learn to live quietly in the corners while you build a life worth living around them.Things don't get easier—you just get better at carrying them.Nate has gotten better at letting go of what he cannot control, especially when he feels like he needs to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders.That's a lot for anyone."
Nate returns, sliding his phone back into his pocket with a slight frown.
"Luiza can't make it tonight.Something came up."
My heart performs a complicated dance—relief and disappointment tangling together in ways I don't want to examine.Luiza.I still don't know who or what she is to Nate and truthfully, I don't know why I haven't just asked him.
It's strange, isn't it, how we can dissect strangers' lives with surgical precision but struggle to ask the simplest questions about the people who matter most?
The name that seems woven into every corner of Nate's new life, present even in her absence.
The days blurtogether like watercolors bleeding into each other, each one revealing new facets of this version of Nate I'm still learning to recognize.He's softer here, the sharp edges worn smooth by Spanish sun and Javier's patient presence.
Most mornings we head down to the markets where vendors call out prices for tomatoes that taste like summer and olives cured in families for generations.
The simplicity of it strikes me—how happiness can be found in the weight of fresh bread in your hands, in the way Señora Maria saves the best apricots for Nate because he always asks about her grandchildren.
I watch him navigate these interactions with genuine warmth, see how the locals have absorbed him into their daily rhythm like he's always belonged here.There's something profound in witnessing someone discover that joy doesn't have to be complicated.
That contentment can live in the space between choosing the perfect apricot and sharing a laugh with the fishmonger who insists on practicing his English.
We stop at a stall where an elderly man with paint-stained fingers displays an eclectic mix of handmade goods and vintage treasures.
Among the ceramic bowls and woven scarves sits an old film camera, its metal body worn smooth by decades of hands.Nate picks it up, examining it with the careful attention he gives to instruments.
"¿Cuánto cuesta?"he asks the vendor, who quotes a price that makes Nate nod immediately.
Money changes hands, and suddenly the camera is being pressed into my palms.
"Why did you—?"I ask, turning the substantial weight over in my hands.It's beautiful in the way old things can be—functional and elegant, built to last.
His smile is soft, almost shy.
"Your dad always loved taking photos.He loved capturing moments, so maybe you should try capturing your favorite moments too.Like your favorite songs, you know?"
The thoughtfulness of it hits me like a physical blow.How much he remembers, how carefully he's been paying attention to the things that matter to me.
This is why it's so hard to hate him, I realize.
Because deep down, when he loves, he loves so hard it could kill him.
And he'd gladly let it.
