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Waiting.
I could say more.
I don’t.
I’ve said enough.
I inhale slowly.
Then—
“Adiós, Señor Cortés.”
A beat.
Then, quieter?—
“—Papá.”
The word slips out before I can stop it.
Soft.
Unpracticed.
Dangerous.
I pull the phone away immediately.
End the call.
The screen goes dark.
And just like that?—
it’s done.
There’s no taking it back.
No rewriting it.
No hiding from it.
I sit there on the bench, my heart still racing, my chest tight, my whole body buzzing like I just stepped off the court after a five-set match.
Except this?
This wasn’t about winning.
This was about being seen.
And for the first time in a long time?—
I didn’t wait.
I didn’t hold back.
I didn’t play safe.
