Morning goes on autopilot. Coffee brewing, shower running, eggs sputtering in the pan. The routine is the same, but everything inside it feels slightly out of place. Every little motion reminds her of the space Valeria isn’t filling, of how easy it was to have her there. The house feels a few sizes too big now, as if it stretched overnight. Even Miso seems quieter than usual.
Work is its usual blur of paint, putty, and trying not to inhale dust. By the time Camila gets home that evening, she’s tired enough that muscle memory kicks in. She opens the door and calls out for Valeria. Silence answers, and she remembers—she’s not there. Camila stands in the doorway for a second, keys still in hand, feeling a sick emptiness settle in the pit of her stomach. She tells herself she’soverthinking, that a few weeks with someone isn’t enough time to miss them like this, but she does, even if she can’t explain it.
They’ve been texting all day, but it hasn’t felt like enough. So when Valeria suggests they FaceTime later and watch their show together, Camila feels this wave of relief wash over her. Maybe she isn’t the only one missing what they had; maybe Valeria missed it too, missesher, too.
As the house settles into its usual nighttime clicks and sighs, Camila begins making dinner with a bit more excitement than usual. By six o’clock, she’s finished preparing pasta with meat sauce. She plates her food, carries it to the couch, and settles in before opening her laptop to call Valeria.
The line rings twice before Valeria’s face pops onto the screen, her damp blond hair hanging loosely over Camila’s oversized gray hoodie—a hoodie Valeria apparently stole. The sight of it tightens Camila’s chest, and her heart hammers against her ribs—a frantic rhythm that echoes in the quiet of her home. Somehow it makes her feel closer, like she’s holding Valeria by proxy.
“Is that my sweater?” Camila smiles widely. So widely, in fact, she’s worried she looks ridiculous, but she can’t help it, even as her cheeks ache with the effort.
A flush creeps up Valeria’s neck. “Maybe.”
“You’re a thief!”
“I amnot!It was in my bag when I opened it. I washed it, meaning to give it back, but then I saw it today folded on my dresser, and I remembered how soft it was, and I couldn’t help myself.”
Camila shakes her head. “You can have it; it looks better on you anyway.”
“Really?” Valeria smiles, the corners of her eyes crinkling into soft crow’s-feet.
Camila nods—happy to be a small reason for that smile.
They briefly catch up on their day. Camila tells Valeria all about the painting she’s restoring, now that she’s done with Ella’s project, and Valeria recounts in detail all her appointments.
“You ready?” Valeria asks, already grinning, thumb hovering over the play button.
“Yeah,” Camila says.
They count down together.Three, two, one.The show’s intro echoes through Camila’s phone, perfectly synced, and she feels a small, irrational victory bloom in her stomach.
Ten minutes in, Valeria pauses the episode.
“Nope,” she says. “Back it up. What did that note say?”
They both investigate, and when neither can figure it out, they move past it. The episode rolls on, but Camila catches herself watching Valeria’s face more than the screen, the way her eyebrows knit when something doesn’t add up, and the way her nose scrunches when she laughs. It’s ridiculous how much relief lives in this moment, even through the phone.
The night continues like this, one of them pausing, both of them dissecting every little moment until the episode is done and they’re forced to say goodbye.
But neither of them hangs up right away—just a quiet stretch of soft breathing on the line,
“So ... next episode tomorrow?” Valeria says, breaking the silence.
“Tomorrow,” Camila answers, trying to sound casual. Doing her best to pretend this won’t become the highlight of her days.
They draw out their goodbyes, saying it multiple times because one never feels like enough until the call ends.
The next morning, Camila is dragged out of sleep by her phone buzzing against her chest. She needs to stop lying on the couch wrapped in Valeria’s blankets—her back is already threatening to make her regret it.
Camila doesn’t check the screen, still half-tangled in blankets and a dream she vaguely remembers.
“Hello?” Camila’s voice is rough, sleep-soaked.
“Wow. I didn’t think you would pick up.” That tone snaps her awake. Camila sits up and looks at the screen.
Mom.
“Hi, Mom,” Camila says, a little more awake now.
