Thirty-six hours later, Adrián was standing outside my apartment with flowers.

I was sealing my last box.

He knocked twice.

—Clara?

I stayed silent.

Then my phone rang.

—I’m outside. Open the door.

—I’m busy.

He laughed softly.

—Then let me help.

—I don’t need help.

There was a pause.

—What’s going on?

I looked around the apartment.

Bare walls.

Empty shelves.

My paintings already on their way to Charleston.

—Nothing.

That answer seemed to frighten him more than anger ever had.

—Open the door.

Before I could respond, another voice came through the phone.

Camila.

—Adrián, hurry. We’re going to be late.

I almost smiled.

Even now.

Even while standing outside my door trying to repair our relationship, she was beside him.

—You’re with Camila?

—She needed a ride.

Of course.

—Go, then.

—Clara, wait—

I ended the call.

Twenty minutes later, he sent me a photograph of the flowers left outside my door.

Underneath:

“Dinner tomorrow. No excuses. We need to talk about our wedding.”

I replied:

“I won’t be available.”

He immediately called again.

I turned off my phone.

The next morning, I handed my apartment keys to the landlord and went to the airport.

Lucía was already waiting for me in Charleston.

She hugged me so tightly I nearly cried.

—You actually came.

—I actually came.

—And Adrián?

I looked at the suitcase beside me.

—Still in New York.

That afternoon, I entered the studio that would be mine for the next year.

Huge windows.

White walls.

Sunlight everywhere.

For the first time in years, nobody was calling to cancel dinner because Camila needed something.

Nobody was asking me to understand.

Nobody was letting go of my hand.

At 7:16 p.m., I turned my phone back on.

Seventy-two messages.

Adrián had discovered the empty apartment.

“Where are you?”

“Clara, this isn’t funny.”

“Your landlord says you moved out.”

“Answer me.”

Then:

“Did you leave New York?”

And finally:

“WHAT ABOUT OUR WEDDING?”

I stared at that message for a long time.

Then I typed:

“There isn’t going to be one.”

He called instantly.

This time, I answered.

—Where are you?

—Charleston.

Silence.

—Charleston?

—Yes.

—Why?

—Because I accepted an artistic residency.

—Without discussing it with me?

I almost laughed.

—You mean like you discussed giving Camila every emergency before giving me one?

—Don’t do this.

—I’m not doing anything, Adrián. I’m leaving.

His breathing became uneven.

—I’ll come tomorrow.

—Don’t.

—We are engaged.

—Not anymore.

Another silence.

Then he said something I never expected.

—I’ll stop seeing Camila.

For years, some part of me had wanted to hear those words.

Now they meant nothing.

—You shouldn’t have to lose me before learning how to choose me.

—Clara—

I ended the call.

The next morning, Lucía entered my studio holding her phone.

—You need to see this.

Camila had posted a photograph.

She was sitting beside Adrián in a restaurant.

Her caption read:

“Some people leave. The right ones stay.”

I stared at it.

Lucía looked worried.

—Are you okay?

—Completely.

Then she showed me the second photograph.

It had been uploaded twenty minutes later.

Adrián was standing.

His chair had been pushed back.

Camila looked furious.

And according to someone who had been sitting nearby, Adrián had left in the middle of dinner after receiving a message.

My message.

Three hours later, he was apparently booking a flight to Charleston.

But he never boarded it.

Because before reaching the airport, something happened.

Camila collapsed at his apartment.

And once again, Adrián stayed.

When Lucía told me, I wasn’t surprised.

I simply returned to my canvas.

—Clara, aren’t you going to call him?

—Why?

—Because she’s in the hospital.

I dipped my brush into the paint.

—Then he’s exactly where he wants to be.

Two days passed.

Then three.

On the fourth morning, a courier delivered an envelope to my studio.

Inside was my engagement ring.

The one I had left in my empty apartment.

There was also a letter from Adrián.

Only four sentences.

“I finally understand why you left.

Camila lied to me about what happened after you almost drowned.

I found the video from the boat.

Clara, I didn’t let go of your hand to save her.

She made sure I believed you had already been rescued.”

I read the sentence again.

Then my phone rang.

Adrián.

I didn’t answer.

A second message arrived.

“Please watch the video before you decide you never want to see me again.”

An attachment appeared underneath.

I almost deleted it.

Almost.

Then I pressed play.

The footage showed the overturned boat.

People screaming.

Adrián pulling my fingers from his arm.

Swimming toward Camila.

Exactly as I remembered.

But then the camera angle changed.

Someone on another rescue boat had recorded what happened seconds earlier.

Camila was holding onto the side of the boat.

Safe.

A rescuer was already beside her.

And just before Adrián reached us, she looked directly at me…

and deliberately kicked away the life ring floating toward my hand.

I froze.

Then the video continued.

Camila shouted something to Adrián.

Something I hadn’t heard beneath the water.

The recording had subtitles added by the investigators.

“She already got into the other boat! Help me!”

It was a lie.

And Adrián believed her.

My phone rang again.

This time it wasn’t Adrián.

It was Camila.

I declined.

She immediately sent one message:

“You think the boat was the first time I made him choose me?”

Then another arrived.

“No, Clara.”

“I’ve been testing him for five years.”

And underneath was a folder containing twenty-three files.