Close your eyes.
She has just seen Rebeca. The thought strikes her with almost brutal clarity, and for a moment Martina feels a twinge in her stomach that makes her press her lips together. She slowly steps away from the door, running a hand through her hair to brush it from her face, her fingers still trembling.
“God…” she murmurs softly, and the word lingers in the entryway.
The echo of the scene still lingers in her memory. The way Rebeca looked at her, as if she couldn’t quite believe what she was seeing, with those dark eyes that had always known how to strip her bare without needing words. The slight step back when she took a step forward, as if her mere presence still hurt her and she hadn’t forgotten the pain she’d caused. The tension that settled between them with the same intensity she remembered.
She hadn’t seen her in six years. And yet, a single moment was enough for everything to come flooding back inside her.
Martina sets her bag on the hall table and walks toward the living room. The house is dimly lit, illuminated only by the gray light streaming in through the window facing the street. Outside, the sky over Santander has filled with thick clouds that promise rain, and the sound of the wind rustling through the nearby buildings seeps softly through the cracks.
Normally, when she gets home after work, there’s a simple routine that helps her slow down the pace of the day. She takes off her shoes, leaves her camera gear in the studio she set up in the small room, makes coffee, or opens a bottle of wine if it’s been a long day. Then she sits down at the computer and starts reviewing the footage. It’s a process she knows by heart.
However, that calm has been shattered into a thousand pieces today.
Martina runs a hand over her face with a weary expression, feeling the heat still burning on her cheeks.
“When Julia finds out… oh my God,” she murmurs, and the words slip from her lips before she has time to think.
Martina lets out a laugh devoid of humor, which sounds more like a gasp.
Years ago, the three of them spent many afternoons together. Long conversations in neighborhood cafés, book signings at small bookstores, photography exhibitions where the wine flowed all too freely. Julia had always had that knack for bringing people together, for weaving relationships with a naturalness that Martina found fascinating and, at times, unsettling.
It was Julia who introduced them.
She remembers it with a clarity that makes her stomach churn.
“Martina, this is Rebeca. She wanted to learn a little more about your work.”
Martina walks to the kitchen and leans on the counter for a moment, trying to sort through the torrent of thoughts flooding her mind. She inhales slowly, and the air tastes of nostalgia and the guilt she never managed to shake from her heart.
For a moment, the image of Rebeca returns to her mind with unexpected intensity. She remembers her exactly as she was on the landing just a few minutes ago, with her blonde hair tied back carelessly and a few stray strands falling over her forehead. But the worst part was those dark eyes watching her, with disbelief and, above all, with anger. A logical anger after the way things ended between them.
“Just wait until she finds out you’re with Julia.”
“This isn’t going to end well,” she murmurs and steps away from the counter with a determined gesture, as if the movement could push the memories away.
Thinking too much about it won’t do any good. She has work to finish and deadlines to meet, and in her profession, distractions aren’t a luxury she can afford. Martina walks toward the bedroom. There, on the large table by the window, lie several cameras, lenses, and her computer. The walls are covered with photographs printed in various sizes: portraits of anonymous people captured in moments of intimacy, urban scenes stolen in moments of carelessness, fragments of life frozen in time.
It is the documentary project she has been working on for several weeks. A series about daily life in the city’s coastal neighborhoods. Fishermen and women returning to the harbor at dawn with calloused hands, children running along the boardwalk with cheeks reddened by the wind, elderly people who sit every afternoon facing the sea as if gazing at the horizon were a form of silent conversation with the past.
They are simple images, but Martina knows that therein lies the power of the Cantabrian Sea.
She sits down at the computer and begins reviewing the latest photographs she has taken. Her fingers glide over the mouse, zooming in on frames, adjusting contrasts, discarding some shots, and marking others for a possible final selection. For a while, she manages to concentrate. Documentary photography has always had that effect on her. When she looks through the lens or analyzes a captured image, the world is reduced to shapes, light, and gestures. Everything else disappears.
Or it should.
However, today her mind keeps returning to the same place. To Rebeca’s gaze. To the way her name echoed inside her head when she saw her appear on the other side of the door, as if she had never stopped saying it in her dreams.
Martina presses her lips together slightly, feeling her pulse throbbing in her temples.
She thought she had gotten over it. That distance, time, and the decisions she’d made had been enough to put that chapter of her life where it belonged: in the past. But the past has a curious way of returning when you least expect it, disguised ascoincidence, with the same scent and the same voice that once set your heart racing.
She closes one of the images she was looking at and leans back in her chair for a moment, letting out a long sigh.
“Did you come alone?”
She remembers the exact moment Rebeca answered. “Yes.” A brief, simple word. And yet, Martina felt something akin to relief wash over her chest, warm and treacherous, immediately followed by a pang of guilt.
