The air in Ciudad Bruma was thick that night—26°C, but the kind of heat that stuck to your skin like guilt. A warm wind rustled through the open balcony of Nico’s apartment, stirring the blinds just enough to cast ghostlike shadows on the wall. He lay shirtless on his bed, phone in hand, scrolling through Instagram reels with the brightness turned all the way down.
He double-tapped a video of a girl dancing. Didn’t think much of it. The glow of his screen reflected briefly in his dark eyes, flat and unreadable. He wore the same expression Lucía once called “vacío”—empty. Like he was always somewhere else, even when he was with her.
A message pinged.
Lucía: “Hey… can you eat something tonight? I know you skipped lunch again.”
He didn’t open it. Just stared at the preview, thumb hovering over her name. Another ping.
Lucía: “I love you.”
He sighed audibly, tossing the phone face-down onto his pillow. “Again with that shit,” he muttered, rubbing his forehead. The room smelled faintly of beer and cologne. In the corner, a half-empty takeout container sat on the desk from the night before. He hadn’t touched it.
Lucía had always been like that. Sweet. Repetitive. Annoying in a soft, unbearable way. Always checking in. Always saying te amo like it was air. Nico used to tease her for it. “You say it so much it doesn’t mean anything anymore,” he once told her. She’d gone quiet for a long time after that.
His phone buzzed again. This time it was a call. Her name on the screen.
He let it ring out.
Then another.
He groaned and picked up the phone just to block her for the night. “I need fucking peace,” he said out loud, though no one was listening.
He went back to scrolling. Bikini photos. Football memes. The girl he had a thing for back in high school just posted a mirror selfie. He watched her story twice.
Outside, the wind died down.
At 2:07 a.m., he finally fell asleep with one leg out from under the sheet. He dreamed of nothing. Not even her.
The next morning, sunlight broke through the windows like a slap. It was too bright, too loud. Birds were chirping—how cliché, he thought—and his phone was buzzing violently on the nightstand.
Ten missed calls.
Two from Diego, his best friend. One from Malena, Lucía’s closest friend. Seven from Teresa.
He stared at the screen, blinking.
Then he noticed the voicemail icon.
His heart didn’t race. It didn’t do anything, actually. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and played the message without thinking.
Teresa’s voice cracked before she even said his name. “Nico… she’s gone. Lucía’s gone.” She took a sharp breath like she’d been drowning. “She killed herself last night. My baby is gone. It’s all your fault. She tried calling you. She—she called you.”
He didn’t move.
The sound of the street below his window—the bus passing, someone whistling for a cab—continued like nothing had changed.
He sat there with the sheet bunched at his waist, sweat drying on his neck.
His mouth opened, but no sound came out.
He unlocked his phone and went to her messages. Nothing new. Just her last three unread texts:
“Hey… can you eat something tonight? I know you skipped lunch again.”
“I love you.”
“Nico… please answer.”
The last one was timestamped 1:47 a.m.
He had blocked her at 1:49.
His chest tightened, but it wasn’t grief yet. It was disbelief. Shock. His hands were shaking as he went to Instagram. Her profile was still there. Her last post: a picture of the riverwalk at sunset. Captioned “sometimes it’s just too much.”
Two hundred likes. Ten comments. One from Malena: “Luce… are you okay?”
He got dressed slowly. Stiff movements. Grey shirt, jeans, no socks. He didn’t brush his hair. At the funeral home, Malena wouldn’t look at him. Diego said nothing, just gave him a nod that felt more like a warning.
Lucía’s casket was closed.
Teresa sat with her face buried in a handkerchief that looked like Lucía’s. It was pale blue, embroidered with little daisies. Nico had seen it before in her bag, crumpled up next to her pills.
He remembered once asking her why she took them.
“To keep the fog away,” she’d said.
He told her, “You’re just dramatic.”
There were flowers everywhere—roses, lilies, white carnations. The room smelled like guilt disguised as grace.
He stood over her casket and didn’t say a word. He didn’t cry. He didn’t touch it. He just stood there until Teresa whispered, “Leave. Now.”
And he did.
Back at his apartment, everything was the same. The bed still unmade. The takeout still rotting. Her toothbrush was still on the sink, a faded pink with worn bristles. She used to joke he never changed it.
Her hoodie was still hanging off the chair. The cream-colored one with the frayed sleeves. She used to wear it when she stayed the night. He had always hated how it smelled like lavender.
He sat on the floor and stared at the text thread.
He tried to type something, knowing it would never go through.
“I’m sorry.”
“I should’ve answered.”
“Please come back.”
He sent them anyway.
A month passed. Then two. Her profile stayed frozen in time. He didn’t delete her contact. He couldn’t.
Malena blocked him. Diego stopped inviting him out.
Some nights, he scrolled through her old photos, watching the way she smiled like she had hope. Like she still believed in people. In him.
There were nights he’d think he heard his phone buzz and pray—just for a second—that it was her.
He’d check.
And it never was.
One day, he walked along the riverwalk she’d posted. The air smelled of damp leaves and cigarette smoke. A girl passed him who looked a little like Lucía from behind. His breath caught in his throat.
But it wasn’t her. It never was.
She had said “I love you” too many times.
And now he’d never hear it again.
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