Javier’s words fell into the bar like a glass shattering, but the only ones who seemed to hear it were me and the bartender, who pretended to keep drying glasses. His friends burst out laughing, slapping him on the back as if he had just scored a goal for Real Madrid.
I was holding a glass of white wine. I noticed my fingers trembling, so I tightened my grip on the glass. I wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction of seeing me break.
I smiled. That cold smile you only bring out when there’s nothing left to lose.
“Why wait a year?” I said, looking straight at him. “Let’s end it today.”
The table fell silent for a second—the kind of awkward silence that not even the music in the Malasaña bar could cover. Sergio let out a nervous chuckle. Diego, Javier’s best friend since high school, looked away uncomfortably.
Javier raised an eyebrow, drunk on ego and beer.
“Don’t be dramatic, Lucía, it was a joke,” he said, lifting his hand. “See? She’s sensitive. That’s what I mean—she doesn’t match my pace.”
