“I was helping my aunt move… but she said, ‘Let’s take a different kind of break… and love me.’
That sentence completely paralyzed me.”
My name is Mateo. I’m 25 years old and I live in an old apartment building on the outskirts of Guadalajara. The building isn’t anything special: the walls are so thin I can hear the neighbors arguing, the hallways always smell like reheated food, and the carpet is worn out. But the rent is affordable, and most importantly, it’s my place.
My life usually follows a predictable rhythm. I work as an IT technician at a small tech company near Zapopan; after work I grab some tacos to go, watch a few episodes on Netflix, and occasionally go out with friends to a bar on Avenida Chapultepec.
Lately everything had been quiet… perhaps too quiet.
Then one humid Tuesday afternoon, just after a summer rain, I found a small envelope in my mailbox with the crest of my old school. It was an invitation to the 10-year high school reunion at Instituto Hidalgo.
I was never popular back then. I wasn’t captain of the football team or the guy surrounded by people at every party. I was used to staying on the sidelines.
A knot formed in my stomach, not from seeing old colleagues, but from a name on the guest list that left me frozen.
Valeria.
Valeria was my first true love. The only person I ever imagined marrying. We were together during our last years of high school, went to graduation together, and then studied at the same university in Monterrey.
But in the last year, everything fell apart. She was the one who broke up with me. She said she wanted something different, someone more ambitious, with a clear future and a solid path ahead. And apparently, she found him.
A few months ago I heard that Valeria was dating a wealthy businessman named Alejandro, owner of a famous restaurant chain in Jalisco.
And now, their names were clearly printed on the invitation.
I sat in the small kitchen of my apartment staring at the card for so long that the coffee in front of me got cold. Bitterness rose in my throat. How could I stand in front of it and pretend nothing affected me?
The following night, while I was still obsessed with the image of Valeria and her “perfect” man, I ran into my aunt Camila.
She lives in the same building as me. She’s 40, elegant, sophisticated, and got divorced about a year ago. She always walks with confidence, her black hair perfectly styled, and wearing a soft but expensive perfume that leaves a subtle trail in her wake.
We rarely speak beyond a few pleasantries. She is everything I am not: serene, self-assured, and naturally magnetic.
I entered the elevator just as she was selecting her floor.
Her eyes met mine, accompanied by a slight, deep, and enigmatic smile.
—Hello, Mateo —she said in a warm, deep voice.
—Hi, Aunt Camila. Long day? —I asked.
She nodded gently, brushing a strand of hair away from her face.
—More than I expected.
I hesitated for a moment, still holding the invitation. Perhaps it was an impulse, or simply my social awkwardness, but I heard myself say:
—Could you do me a big favor?
She raised an eyebrow, a mixture of curiosity and caution in her voice.
