Julia crosses her arms over her chest, a defensive gesture that fails to hide the slight tremor in her hands.
“Don’t you dare look at me like that. I proved to you that I loved you more than anything,” she retorts, her voice now trembling for real, heavy with memories and pain. “I supported you when you went to Milan, even though that meant staying here alone for months. And I followed you here when you got the offer from the magazine, leaving behind my life, my career, everything. And this is how you repay me?”
Martina lets out a laugh, devoid of joy, that sounds more like a gasp laden with bitterness.
“An offer you’ve benefited from too, haven’t you? Don’t pretend you sacrificed yourself just for me, Julia. You’ve always known how to take advantage of situations.”
The words make Julia clench her fists so tightly that her nails dig into her palms.
“You’re a manipulative bitch, Julia,” Martina blurts out before she can stop herself. “I don’t know how I could have married you. How I could have believed this would work.”
Julia stares at her for a long moment. She doesn’t seem surprised. There’s a resigned sadness in her gaze that, for a second, leaves Martina paralyzed.
“Because you loved me,” she replies in a strangely calm voice. “Even if you couldn’t see it. Even if you always compared our relationship to what you had with her.”
Martina shakes her head. The feeling that the ground beneath her feet has lost its firmness grows increasingly intense, as if she were standing on the edge of a cliff.
“No. I loved the Julia who was our friend. The one I met years ago. The one who was part of that small circle of complicity we shared with Rebeca. The one who seemed to understand me without needing explanations.” Martina swallows, trying to hold back the lump in her throat. “Not this version… cold and calculating, who doesn’t care about anything…”
The sentence trails off into the air. Martina runs a hand through her hair, ruffling it with a nervous gesture. She feels the exhaustion accumulated in every muscle of her body, the disappointment that weighs heavier than the anger, heavier than her wounded pride.
Finally, she sighs.
“I don’t care,” Martina says with a strange calm. “And I don’t care who you’re with now. This is over.”
Julia doesn’t respond. She doesn’t try to stop her, nor does she even try to argue. That silence feels almost more definitivethan any argument, like a door closing, but with no chance of turning back.
Martina turns around. She walks toward the bedroom, opens the closet, and pulls out a jacket without really looking to see which one it is. Her movements are quick, almost automatic, as if her body knew what to do before she could even think about it. She looks for her keys and her purse, and for a second she stands still in the middle of the room, breathing heavily, trying to draw the air deep into her lungs.
Then she returns to the living room.
Julia is still there, standing by the window now, looking out at the dark street. The two look at each other, but there is nothing more to say. Between them lies an abyss of years, of lies and half-truths that they will never be able to cross.
When Martina reaches the street, the Cantabrian breeze caresses her face, laden with salt and humidity, and for a moment it feels liberating. She walks without thinking too much about the direction. The lights of Santander cast golden reflections on the pavement. The city is quieter at this hour, but there are still people on some terraces, distant laughter that contrasts with the whirlwind inside her.
Martina crosses several streets without realizing it. She passes through Plaza de Pombo, where a group of young people is laughing around a table full of glasses. She continues down Hernán Cortés Street, feeling the weight of every step as if she were walking through a dream from which she cannot wake up. Her mind replays fragments of the argument: Julia’s evasive gaze, Rebeca’s name spoken like a weapon, the certainty that everything she believed to be solid has crumbled in a single night.
She keeps walking. She crosses the Pereda Gardens, where the murmur of the sea drifts in from the boardwalk. The salty breeze caresses her face, but it fails to lift the pressure she feels in her chest, that tightness that prevents her from breathing normally. The memory of Rebeca inevitably surfaces. Her intense gaze when they met at the party. Her warm hands. The way she held her when they embraced on the street just a few hours ago. And, at the same time, the feeling that everything she thought was certain has begun to crumble like a house of cards.
When she looks up, she realizes she has walked farther than she thought. She recognizes the streets. The old buildings with their iron balconies. The familiar doorway.
Almost without realizing it, she has arrived in front of Cora’s house again.
She stands there for a few seconds, staring at the door. The flood of emotions rises in her throat again in the form of tears she refuses to let fall just yet.
The seconds that pass before someone opens the door seem like an eternity.
When the door opens, Cora appears in the doorway, dressed in simple pajamas with her hair loose over her shoulders. Her expression changes immediately upon seeing her: from surprise to concern in a fraction of a second.
“Martina…” she murmurs, “What are you doing here?”
She doesn’t need to ask anything else. Martina’s face says it all, and soon, tears begin to slide down her cheeks before she can stop them.
Cora steps forward without hesitation and hugs her tightly, wrapping her arms around her. Martina collapses intoher embrace, burying her face in the crook of her neck, letting the familiar scent of Cora’s soap envelop her. For the first time all night, she lets the sob she’s been holding back escape freely, broken and deep, while Cora’s hands gently stroke her back.
“Shhh… you’re here now,” Cora whispers against her hair. “Breathe. Just breathe.”
And Martina clings to her as if she were the only solid thing in a world that has just turned on its axis.
