Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 110351 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 552(@200wpm)___ 441(@250wpm)___ 368(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 110351 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 552(@200wpm)___ 441(@250wpm)___ 368(@300wpm)
Santi’s name flashes across the screen for the third time in fifteen minutes, but I can’t bring myself to answer.
I’m pretty confident that I already know what he’s going to say. That this is all just a misunderstanding, that Javier will issue a statement, that I need to give it a few weeks and the media will move on to something - or someone - else.
But none of that feels like enough.
I pace the small space between the counter and the couch, the walls of the apartment closing in on me. My thoughts are spiraling, twisting into themselves like a never-ending loop.
The article, the school being named, Claire and Javier seeing me as some sort of media puppet…
It’s all too much.
I grab my phone and unlock it, my thumb hovering over Santi’s name in my messages.
I want to speak to him so much. I’m going against every natural instinct not to answer his calls, or to call him myself. I want to tell him how I feel. More than that, I want to hear his voice; to have him tell me that everything will be okay, that he’ll take care of it and make it right.
But even thinking about it makes me feel weak. Like I’m relying too much on him to fix something I should’ve had control over from the start.
Five months of Valencia - five months of Santi - and I’m lost. A shell of the woman I was when I boarded that plane to Madrid.
Which means my mother was right.
It is time to take a step back, to reflect on everything and find myself again.
∞∞∞
I stand under the cool spray of the shower, staring up at the water as it streams over my face, mixing with the salty remnants of tears I haven’t realised I’m still crying.
The tiles beneath my feet feel cold, grounding me in a way my racing mind refuses to. My chest rises and falls in uneven breaths, but no matter how many times I try to inhale deeply, it feels like I can’t get enough air.
My brain won’t shut off, replaying every moment that’s led me here.
The interview. The article. The headline that painted me as nothing more than Santi’s girl. The way they twisted my words to make me sound bitter and weak.
And the moment I realized they’d crossed the line. The moment I read my school’s name in black and white, knowing my students and colleagues would now be dragged into this mess.
I close my eyes, the water running over my hair and down my back as I press my palms flat against the shower wall. I don’t even feel the spray of water anymore. All I feel is the pressure mounting in my chest, the suffocating weight of it all pressing down on me.
Santi has always been so patient, so understanding, but I can’t shake the feeling that I’m destined to fail in his world. His world. It’s a world of bright lights and cameras, of whispers and stares, of headlines dissecting your every move.
A world that demands perfection and punishes anyone who falls short.
I’m not built for this kind of scrutiny. I’m not like him - charming, confident, able to brush off the media’s lies as if they’re nothing. He’s so steady and unshakable in the face of it all, while I’m here, drowning in the tide.
I thought I could handle it. I thought I could adapt and grow into someone who could thrive in his world.
But I can’t.
I let out a shaky breath - the kind that feels like it’s being ripped from the depths of my chest - and rest my forehead against the cool tiles. The water washes over me, but it doesn’t bring the clarity I’m so desperately seeking.
By the time I finally step out of the bathroom and wrap myself in a towel, I know what I have to do to resolve this.
I’ve made my decision, and the weight in my chest has been replaced by a quiet determination, a resolution that feels both terrifying and necessary.
I need to leave.
Not forever - maybe not even for long - but I need space. I need to breathe without the weight of the media pressing down on my shoulders, without the whispers and stares, without the constant reminder that I’m no longer just me.
My reflection in the fogged-up mirror stares back at me, pale and uncertain. My blonde hair clings to my damp shoulders, my eyes red-rimmed and tired despite the early hour.
This isn’t who I want to be.
I walk into my bedroom and reach for my phone from where it’s sat face-up on the bedside table. My hands shake as I unlock the screen, ignoring the missed calls from Santi and Javier and I scroll through my contacts.
I land on the name that feels like home and stare at it for a moment, my thumb hovering over the call button.