Paper Lanterns at Dawn

[paper-lanterns-at-dawn]

✵ Welcome to Paper Lanterns at Dawn ✵

Hi! I'm Chloe.

This is my fanfic blog where I'm gonna write about whomever I want.

I'm in uni so I write in my free time, meaning that things will be slower sometimes.

Currently working on: BAILE INoLVIDABLE

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[paper-lanterns-at-dawn]

Little Update

I’ve just broken up with my boyfriend of almost two years so I don’t think I’ll able to write ESPECIALLY romance for a little while, unless I use this to escape reality but I guess we’ll see.

Thanks for understanding and all the love you’ve shown on this fic.

Love you guys 🫶🫶🫶🫶🫶

[paper-lanterns-at-dawn]

BAILE INoLVIDABLE | Chapter Nine

Previous chapter  |  Masterlist  |  Next chapter coming soon (ish)

word count: 6,2k words

a/n: this is a long one guys, hope you like it :) also, Im confused about why em dashes only work 5% of the time so ignore that

BAILE INoLVIDABLE | Chapter Nine

Toronto in May was soft around the edges. Winter had finally let go, but spring still carried traces of exhaustion from the months before it. The sidewalks stayed damp after sudden afternoon rainstorms, and the air constantly shifted between warm sunlight and cold wind rolling off the lake. Trees had begun filling out properly now, green spreading across the city almost overnight, climbing through neighborhoods that had looked gray only weeks earlier. Patios reopened even when it was barely warm enough to justify it. People walked slower. Lingered outside longer. Everyone seemed relieved without admitting it aloud.

Marivella had always like May. There was something comforting about a city in transition. Nothing heavy enough to keep you trapped indoors anymore, but not quite summer either. Just the feelings of things beginning again.

The train from New York had pulled into Union Station late Monday evening, a few days after the encounter. By then, the nerves from seeing him again had finally started wearing off, leaving behind exhaustion and something far more dangerous beneath it.

Longing.

The entire ride back, she'd tried very hard not to think about Benito, which naturally meant she'd thought about little else. Evelyn had slept through almost half of the trip curled against the train window with her headphones halfway falling off while Marivella sat awake beside her watching cities blur past in muted greys and washed-out greens.

Every so often she glanced at her phone.

Nothing.

No message.

Not that she expected one.

Still, her stomach tightened every time the screen lit up anyway.

By the time they dragged their suitcases through downtown Toronto beneath drizzling rain and cold wind, Madison Square Garden already felt strangely unreal. Like something had happened to another version of her somewhere far way.

VIP entrances, arena lights, twenty thousand screaming people.

Benito standing under white stage lights looking directly at her like the years between them had collapsed for ine suspended second.

It didn't belong beside her actual life.

Her actual life was student libraries and research deadlines and reheated coffee at midnight while journal articles blurred together in front of her eyes. Her actual life was this apartment--small, quiet, cold near the windows no matter how high she turned the heat.

Marivella unlocked her door Monday night and immediately got hit with a familiar radiatior smell unique to old buildings trying their hardest.

The apartment looked exactly how she had left it. A mug still beside the sink. Books spread across the desk near the window. A sweater hanging half-off the arm of the couch.

Nothing had changed.

Which somehow made her feel worse.

Because she had.

She could feel it. Some internal balance she had spent years building had tilted slightly off-center during that concert, and now she didn't know how to straighten it again.

Outside, rain tapped steadily against the windows. The skyline glowed softly beyond the glass--streetcars rattling through intersections, headlights stretching long across wet roads, a part windows flickering gold against the blue-gray evening.

Home.

Usually coming back grounded her immediately.

This time, it did not.

Because part of her still felt stuck in New York. Still standing at that barricade, staring up at Benito while the entire arena disappeared around them.

She wandered aimlessly through the apartment pretending to settle back in. She washed the mug in the sink, slowly unpacked her suitcase, and rearranged papers on her desk. Marivella then poroceeded to sit down on the couch and turned on the lamp beside it, then turned it off and got back up.

Maybe taking a shower and having a snack would help a little.

Nothing helped.

By midnight, she was sitting cross-legged on her bed staring at her phone.

Benito.

No recent messages beneath the contact, just silence stretching back years. Her thumb tapped the screen once.

Edit.

The cursor blinked patiently beside his name.

His contact name disappeared letter by letter until the line sat empty.

She typed:

Benito Antonio Martínez Ocasio

Marivella stared at it for a second, then let out a soft horrified laugh.

"No."

Backspace. Backspace. Backspace.

The long name vanished.

Benito

Simple. Clean. Distant.

She hated it.

Because Benito looked too formal on the screen. Too impersonal. As if he was somebody she didn't know anymore.

And that felt like a lite.

Her fingers started typing almost automatically his time.

Beno <3

She froze the second she saw it appear.

The stupid heart.

The same nickname she'd use when she was seventeen.

For a moment she just looked at it, her chest tightening unexpectedly.

Her thumb hovered over the keyboard before she locked the phone immediately and tossed it onto the mattress beside her.

No.

Absolutely not.

Texting him felt dangerous because it would make this real, and once something became real, it could hurt you much more.

The worst part was that seeing him again had felt too easy. That was what kept unsettling her. She had expected awkwardness after all these years. Distance. Some sense that time had fundamentally changed things between them.

Instead, the second she saw him onstage, her body recognized him immediately. Like muscle memory. Like instinct.

Like home.

That frightened her more than anything else. She knew exactly how loving Benito felt, and she knew exactly how impossible it would be to stop once she let herself start again.

The days after returning to Toronto settled back into routine externally, but internally she remained completely wrecked.

Tuesday morning she went to camppus and sat through a three-hour seminar while barely absorbing a single word. Wednesday she spent nearly six straight hours in the graduate library annotating research papers while rain streaked sideways across the massive windows overlooking the courtyard. Thursday, she taught a room full of undergrads who looked personally offended to be in class so early.

Everything looked exactly the same as it had before New York.

But nothing felt settled anymore.

Benito had slipped back into her thoughts too easily. That was the problem.

A song playing from somebody's speaker while she waited for coffee would ruin her concentration for twenty minutes. Once, while walking home from school, a car drove by blasting "MIA" loudly enough to echo between buildings, and she actually stopped walking for a second.

It was ridiculous how instantly she recognized him.

Not Bad Bunny.

Benito.

Though even that wasn't entirely ture anymore.

His voice had changed over the years. Fame, age, experience--all of it had settled into it somehow. The boy she used to sit beside on beaches in Vega Baja had once spoken too fast when he got excited, words tumbling into each other while his laugh cracked halfway through sentences. Back then, when he sang quietly to himself, his voice had been lighter too. Rough around the edges in a young way.

Now it carried weight.

It was deeper live than she expected at MSG, fuller in a way recordings never quite captured. More controlled. More certain. Like the years had carved something steadier into him.

But underneath all of that--

underneath the fame and the microphones and the thousands of people screaming his stage name--

she still heard him.

Benito.

And maybe that was the problem.

By Friday night, she was genuinely angry at herself over it.

Marivella sat at her desk, wearing oversized sweatpants, surrounded by unread articles that she had been skimming for the past hour.

Her phone rested face down beside her notebook. She'd been trying not to check it constantly.

Trying being the important word.

Because every few minutes, her brain betrayed her and whispered maybe now.

Maybe now he texted.

Maybe now.

Her phone buzzed suddenly.

She grabbed instantly.

Then immediately wanted to throw herself into traffic.

Evelyn:

you alive?

Marivella sighed dramatically.

Marivella:

Barely

Evelyn:

still yearning?

Marivella:

I hate you

Marivella dropped the phone back onto the desk and leaned her head against the chair.

Unfortunately, Evelyn was correct.

Badly.

The most frustrating part was that the more she tried to ignore it, the stronger it became. Now her thoughts had moved beyond replaying the concert itself. Now they'd started imagining things.

What if he called?

What if her texted?

What if she saw him again?

That last thought settled differently in her chest. Softer. More dangerous.

Underneath all the anxiety and overthinking and panic, there was one simple truth she kept trying not to look at directly.

She wanted to see him again.

Not accidentally. Not across an arena. Actually see him.

Talk to him.

Sit beside him somewhere quiet and figure out what still existed between them after all these years.

And maybe the scariest part of all--some instinct deep in her chest kept whispering that whatever existed between them had never fully disappeared in the first place.

By late Saturday afternoon, during exam season, the campus had become too crowded and loud to focus in, so she packed her things and walked home instead. The city smelled like thawing pavement and coffee drifting from open café doors. Streetcars rattled through intersections while cyclists weaved recklessly through traffic like they had a death wish.

And somehow, beneath all of it, Benito stayed quietly present in the back of her mind.

Constantly.

By the time she got home, sunset had started bleeding pale gold between buildings outside her apartment windows.

The silence inside felt heavier than usual.

Marivella dropped her bag near the couch and crossed toward the kitchen automatically before stopping halfway there.

Her phone sat in her hand.

Unlocked.

The contact open.

Benito.

She stared at it for a long moment before locking the screen again.

She's just gonna check up on him, that won't hurt.

No, Marivella. Don't do this.

She moved toward the window instead.

Outside, evening settled slowly across Toronto. The CN Tower glowed faintly in the distance against the darkening sky. Apartment windows lit up one by one across surrounding buildings. Headlights streamed through intersections below in long ribbons of white and red.

Somewhere out there, normal people were probably behaving rationally.

Meanwhile, she was standing motionless in her apartment debating whether reconnecting with the only love she's ever known was emotionally survivable.

Cool.

Fantastic.

Marivella leaned her forehead lightly againsst the cold glass.

And finally--finally-- she admitted the real problem to hersef.

If Benito asked to see her again, she would say yes.

She wanted him to come here.

Desperately.

The realization hit hard enough that she actually closed her eyes.

Because that changed everything.

Seeing each other again casually in New York was one thing. Inviting him into her actual life here meant something entirely different.

Toronto was hers. This apartment. This routine. This version of herself she'd built carefully over years without him.

Letting Benito into it would matter.

And maybe that was exactly why she wanted it so badly.

Despite all the years apart, despite all the fame and distance and silence between them, some part of her still felt unfinished without him in the room.

Marivella did not call him.

Not then.

Instead, she forced herself to be sensible about it, which mostly meant suffering quietly and pretending she wasn't thinking about him every twenty minutes.

Over the next week, Marivella functioned normally.

She answered emails, finsihed papers, and so on. She met Evelyn for coffee in between study sessions.

"You're quiter," Evelyn observed immediately after sitting down.

"I'm drinking coffee."

"You're emotionally drinking coffee."

"That isn't a thing."

"It absolutely is."

Marivella looked out the café wondow instead of answering.

Streetcars rattled past outside beneath pale gray skies. A couple hurried through the crosswalk holding one umbrella badly between them. Somewhere near the counter, somebody laughed loudly enough to turn heads.

Normal.

Everything around her kept feeling frustratingly normal while internally, she felt like someone had cracked her open slightly and forgotten to put her back together correctly.

"You've checked your phone six times," Evelyn said.

"I have not."

Marivella isghed and dropped the phone onto the table facedown.

Nothing was happening.

That somehow made everything worse.

Every silence from him felt deliberate even though, rationally, she knew it probably wasn't. Benito had a life. A massive one. Endless people around him constantly. Interviews. Meetings. Flights. Music.

And yet--

some rational part of her kept wondering why he hadn't reached out after the phone call in New York.

Then immediatly another part reminded her she hadn't reached out either. Which made the entire thing deeply hypocritical.

She started sleeping badly. Not badly badly, just badly enough that she noticed it. She'd wake up around three or four in the morning and lie there staring at shadows moving across the ceiling while her brain replayed her encounter with her first love in relentless detail.

Sometimes it was the way he loked at her.

Sometimes it was the tiny stumble before he caught the next lyric during the concert.

Sometimes just hearing him say Bella again in her memory.

That was was particulary rough.

Nobody called her Bella anymore.

Somewhere between Puerto Rico adn university and adulthood, the nickname had disapeared from her life.

Only Benito ever called her Bella.

And hearing it again after all these years had done something awful to her emotionally.

By the end of the week, she was starting to genuinely resent herself.

It was raining again when she left campus that evening, rain blowing sideways hard enough to make umbrellas almost useless. She shoved her hands deeper into her coat pockets while hurrying toward her apartment building, exhausted from a day of grading and seminars and pretending to pay attention during meetings.

The lobby smelled faintly like somebody’s burnt dinner.

Her upstairs neighbor’s dog barked the second she stepped off the elevator.

Routine.

Everything was routine.

And maybe that was why Benito suddenly felt impossible to ignore inside it.

Because she had spent years building this version of her life carefully. Quietly. Deliberately. She had learned how to exist without him even when she didn’t particularly want to. She built routines around the absence. Learned how not to think about Puerto Rico too often. Learned how not to let songs or memories or certain beaches hurt quite so badly.

Then one concert had undone all of it.

By the time she got inside her apartment, her hair was damp from rain despite the hood pulled over her head. She kicked off her shoes near the door and dropped her bag heavily beside the couch before standing motionless in the middle of the living room.

The apartment was dim except for city light filtering weakly through the windows.

And suddenly the loneliness of it hit harder than usual.

Not loneliness exactly.

Absence.

There was a difference.

Marivella moved automatically toward the kitchen, pulling leftovers from the fridge without really looking at them. The microwave hummed softly while rain streaked across the windows outside.

Her phone buzzed once against the counter.

Her heart jumped before she could stop it.

Then she looked down.

Evelyn.

Again.

Evelyn:

you should just text him yk

Marivella stared at the message.

I hope you fall down stairs

Evelyn:

i already did once today my tomatoes got kinda smushed

Marivella muted the conversation immediately.

Then stood there for a long moment staring at her own reflection faintly visible in the dark kitchen window.

“You’re being insane,” she told herself quietly.

Unfortunately, it no longer sounded convincing.

Because the truth was becoming increasingly difficult to avoid.

She missed him.

Not in the vague nostalgic way she had for years.

Not the softened ache she carried quietly in the background of her life.

This felt immediate.

Present tense.

She missed hearing him. Missed the way conversations with him always felt effortless no matter how serious or stupid the topic became. Missed how carefully he listened when she talked about things she cared about. Missed the version of herself that existed around him naturally without needing effort.

And maybe worst of all—

she missed being known by him.

That thought unsettled her enough she stopped pacing entirely.

Nobody knew her the way Benito once had.

Not even close.

Not Evelyn. Not the people at school. Not the men she’d dated briefly over the years who always seemed vaguely intimidated by her independence or distracted by their own lives.

Benito had known every version of her. Angry Marivella. Seventeen-year-old Marivella. Homesick Marivella. The version who cried from stress halfway through exams and then got embarrassed about crying afterward.

He knew things about her nobody else even noticed.

And somehow after all these years, some instinct deep in her chest still believed he probably remembered them.

That was the dangerous part.

Not the history.

The familiarity.

It lingered everywhere now.

Wednesday night she found herself sitting cross-legged on the couch scrolling absentmindedly through social media when a clip from his final concert appeared on her screen.

She should’ve kept scrolling.

Instead she watched it.

Then replayed it immediately.

The stadium lights washed everything gold and white while the crowd screamed lyrics loud enough to drown him out completely for a moment. Benito stood near the edge of the stage in oversized black clothes and sunglasses despite it being nighttime, moving with that same loose confidence he’d somehow always had even before fame.

But it was his voice that got her. Not the performance, his actual voice between songs. Laughing at something someone threw onstage, thanking the crowd, breathing hard from performing.

The apartment felt impossibly quiet afterward.

And suddenly—

abruptly—

she knew.

Not gradually.

Not after overthinking herself into circles again.

Just knew.

She wanted to talk to him.

Actually talk to him.

Not someday.

Not maybe eventually when enough years had passed for it to feel emotionally safe.

Now.

The realization hit with enough force that she stood up immediately and started pacing.

“No,” she muttered aloud. “No, no, no.”

Because this was a terrible idea.

A truly terrible idea.

Reconnecting with Benito meant reopening parts of herself she’d spent years carefully trying to close.

But every argument her brain produced kept collapsing against one simple fact:

she already wanted him back in her life.

Maybe he never really left emotionally.

Maybe that was the real issue.

Marivella stopped pacing.

Looked at her phone on the couch.

Looked away again immediately.

Then back.

Her heartbeat climbed hard enough she could feel it in her throat.

This was ridiculous.

She was twenty-five years old acting like a nervous teenager over a phone call.

But then again—

Benito had always had this effect on her. W

hen he used to grin at her across classrooms and somehow make her forget entire conversations halfway through them.

Marivella grabbed the phone abruptly before she could lose her nerve.

Her fingers hesitated only briefly before opening his contact again.

Beno <3

God.

She almost laughed from sheer humiliation.

Then pressed call.

The ringing started immediately.

Once.

Twice.

Her stomach flipped harder with every second.

By the third ring panic surged through her chest sharp enough that she nearly hung up entirely.

What if he didn’t answer?

Worse—

what if he did?

The line clicked suddenly.

“Bella?”

His voice hit her all at once.

Warm. Deep. Sleepy around the edges in a way that made her immediately picture him half-sprawled somewhere comfortable, one hand rubbing tiredly over his face while he answered.

For one terrible second her brain stopped functioning entirely.

“Hi,” she managed finally.

Smooth.

Incredible work.

There was the faintest pause on the other end before he laughed quietly under his breath, and the sound of it curled warm straight through her chest.

“Hola,” he said again, softer this time.

God.

She had forgotten how much hearing his actual voice affected her. Recordings were one thing. Concerts were another. But this--this was just Benito speaking to her normally, no crowd screaming around him, no stage lights, no cameras.

Just him.

She sat down slowly on the edge of her bed because her knees suddenly felt unreliable.

“Está bien?” he asked. (You okay?)

The concern sounded immediate. Natural. Like checking on her was still instinct for him after all this time.

“Sí,” she answered quickly. Too quickly. “Lo siento, sólo--” (Yeah. Sorry I just--)

Didn’t know why I called you after spending a week trying not to think about you.

“No te desperté, verdad?”(I didn’t wake you up, right?)

“Nah.” She heard fabric rustle softly through the speaker, like he shifted positions somewhere. “Estaba despierto.” (I was awake.)

“Pareces cansada.” (You sound tired.)

“Estoy cansado” (I am tired.)

There was a smile in his voice anyway.

Marivella tucked one leg beneath herself against the couch cushions and stared out at the rain streaking down the windows.

The silence that settled between them should have felt awkward.

It didn’t.

That was the problem.

Even now, after years apart, silence with Benito still felt lived in. Familiar. Like they’d only paused a conversation instead of losing entire years of each other’s lives.

“Has vuelto a Miami?” she asked quietly. (You back in Miami?)

“Mhm.”

She could hear faint city noise somewhere behind him now. Distant traffic maybe. Wind.

“Estás feliz de estar en casa?” (You happy to be home?)

A soft exhale crackled through the phone.

“Sí,” he admitted. “Necesitaba un descanso.” (Yeah, I needed a break.)

She smiled faintly to herself.

He had always worked himself into exhaustion without realizing it until somebody else pointed it out. Back in Puerto Rico it used to happen with music constantly. Benito would stay awake until four in the morning working on beats or lyrics or recording things badly into his phone before school.

Then he’d show up the next day looking half-dead and insist he was completely fine.

“Aún no duermes lo suficiente,” she said before thinking. (You still don’t sleep enough)

A small pause.

Then another quiet laugh.

“Aún te das cuenta.” (You still notice.)

The words landed somewhere deep enough to hurt.

Marivella looked down at her hands instead.

Her apartment suddenly felt very warm.

On the other end of the line, Benito was quiet for a second before asking softly, “Qué tal Toronto?” (How’s Toronto?)

She huffed out a laugh immediately.

“Lluvioso.” (Rainy.)

“Es mayo.” (It’s May.)

“Es Canadá.” (It’s Canada.)

“Eso suena falso.” (That sounds fake.)

“It is fake. Estoy convencido de que nadie pertenece realmente aquí biológicamente.” (I’m convinced nobody actually belongs here biologically.)

He laughed properly then, louder this time, and the sound startled a smile out of her before she could stop it.

There it was.

That exact laugh.

Older now maybe. Rougher around the edges. But still unmistakably him underneath it.

And suddenly she missed him so intensely it nearly stole the breath from her lungs.

Not the idea of him.

Not Bad Bunny.

Just Benito.

The boy who used to sit beside her at the beach long after midnight talking about life like time itself didn’t matter.

The boy who used to drum rhythms against tabletops absentmindedly while she studied.

The boy who kissed her like she was something precious even when neither of them had any idea what they were doing yet.

Marivella swallowed hard.

“Estás callada,” he said eventually. (You’re quiet.)

The words settled softly between them.

Not accusing.

Just noticing.

Marivella stared out at the rain sliding down the windows. “So are you.”

A small laugh crackled through the speaker.

“He estado intentando no molestarte.” (I've been trying not to bother you.)

Her chest tightened unexpectedly at that.

Because somehow that felt worse.

Benito had never been cautious with her before. Not when they were younger. Back then he used to show up unannounced at her parents’ house, climb through her bedroom window when her father locked the front door too early, call her three times in a row if she ignored him out of stubbornness.

The carefulness now felt unfamiliar.

“,No me molestas” she said quietly. (You don’t bother me.)

Silence settled briefly on the other end.

Not empty silence.

The kind that meant he was thinking carefully about whatever he wanted to say next.

“Estás seguro?” he asked finally. (You sure?)

The softness in his voice nearly undid her.

Marivella leaned her head back against the couch cushions and closed her eyes for a second.

Because no, actually.

He bothered her enormously.

He had been bothering her for nearly two weeks straight without even being physically present.

A song would come on somewhere and ruin her concentration instantly. She’d catch herself checking her phone for no reason. She’d remember the exact look on his face at MSG and lose entire minutes of thought staring blankly at nothing.

Benito had always had the ability to consume her attention too completely.

That was part of the problem.

“Tú también podrías haber llamado,” he said after another moment, quieter this time. (You could’ve called too.)

Marivella let out a soft groan and dragged one hand over her face.

“Lo sé.” (I know.)

“Por qué no lo hiciste?” (Howcome you didn't?)

Because I’ve spent years trying to survive missing you.

Because seeing you again made all of that worse.

Because I don’t know what happens if we start this again.

Instead she looked around her apartment--the untouched readings scattered across the coffee table, the mug of tea gone cold beside the couch, the rain-darkened city outside the windows--and laughed softly under her breath.

“Creo que he estado intentando mucho actuar con normalidad con todo esto.” (I think I’ve been trying very hard to act normal about all this.)

Benito laughed immediately.

“Y cómo te va eso?” (And how’s that going for you?)

“…mal.” (Badly.)

That pulled a real laugh from him.

Warm. Full. Familiar enough that her chest physically ached afterward.

God.

There it was again.

That awful warmth spreading through her every single time she made him laugh.

“¿Estás bien por ahí?” he asked after a moment. (You doing okay over there?)

“Yeah.”

“Qué tal es realmente?” (How is it really?)

She leaned her head back against the couch, staring at the ceiling this time instead of the rain. The apartment felt smaller suddenly, like the walls had moved in slightly while she wasn’t paying attention.

“Está... bien,” she said. Then corrected herself immediately. “En realidad, eso es mentira. Ha sido raro.” (It’s fine. Actually, that’s a lie. It’s been weird.)

“¿Extraño cómo?” (Weird how?)

She hesitated. That was the problem. Explaining it meant admitting things she’d been trying very carefully not to name.

But it was him.

So it came out anyway.

“Como si hubiera vuelto y todo pareciera igual, pero no,” she said quietly. “Y no sé qué hacer con eso.” (Like I came back and everything looks the same, but I don’t. And I don’t know what to do with that.)

Silence again--but this one shifted differently. He didn’t rush to fill it.

When he spoke again, his voice was lower.

“Conozco ese sentimiento.” (I know that feeling.)

That surprised her a little.

“You do?”

“Mhm,” he said. “La gira termina, se apagan las luces, todos se van a casa, y tú simplemente… allí otra vez. Como si tuvieras que recordar cómo ser una persona fuera de todo ese ruido.” (Tour ends, lights go off, everybody goes home, and you’re just… there again. Like you have to remember how to be a person outside of all that noise.)

Marivella stared at the window, rain blurring the skyline into something abstract.

“Eso suena un poco solitario,” she said. (That sounds kind of lonely)

A small exhale through the speaker.

“Es,” That word settled between them heavier than the others. “Pero ahora mismo es mejor hablar contigo.” (It is. But it’s better while talking to you right now.)

Her grip tightened slightly on the phone.

There it was again. That same ease. That same inability he had, even now, to say things that went straight through her defenses without asking permission first.

“Benito,” she said quietly, warning in her tone without knowing exactly what she was warning him about.

“Qué?” he replied, too innocent. (What?)

“You can’t just say things like that.”

“Por qué no?” (Why not?)

“Porque estoy intentando funcionar.” (Because I’m trying to function.)

That made him laugh under his breath again. “No recordaba que fueras tan dramática.” (I didn't remember you being this dramatic.)

“No estoy siendo dramática.” (I am not being dramatic.)

“Claro que sí.” (You absolutely are.)

She opened her mouth to argue, then stopped. Because the truth was she had no energy left to pretend she didn’t know exactly what he meant.

Instead she exhaled slowly.

“Y tú?” he asked. “Qué tal la uni?” (What about you? How's uni?)

“Va muy bien. Cansado pero bueno. Lo estoy disfrutando," she replied. (It's going very well. Tiring but good. I'm enjoying it)

“Me gusta oírte así." (I like hearing you like this.)

She frowned slightly. “Como cuál?” (Like what?)

“Solo… normal.” (Just… normal.)

That word hit something in her chest she didn’t expect.

Normal.

As if she hadn’t spent the last week feeling completely rearranged from the inside out.

As if he wasn’t the reason.

She shifted on the couch, pulling her knees up slightly.

“No me ayudas en nada, ¿sabes,” she said. (You’re not helping my situation, you know.)

“Tu situación?” (Your situation?)

“Sí,” she said flatly. “Tú.” (Yes, you.)

He laughed softly. “No intento ser una situación.” (I’m not trying to be a situation.)

“Bueno, pero lo eres.” (Well, you are.)

“Quieres que cuelgue?” (Do you want me to hang up?)

The question came gently, but it still made her stomach tighten.

Marivella stared at the dim reflection of herself in the window. Rain slid down the glass in uneven lines, distorting her face into something softer, less certain.

Did she want him not to call?

No.

That was the problem.

She closed her eyes briefly.

“No,” she said honestly. “No quiero eso.” (I don’t want that.)

“Okay,” he said immediately, like he had been waiting for that answer without realizing it. “Yo tampoco.” (Me neither.)

Silence again--but this time it wasn’t heavy.

It was… full.

Too full.

Marivella shifted slightly on the couch, suddenly aware of how late it was. How quiet the apartment had become. How far away Miami felt in that moment and how close he somehow still sounded despite the distance.

“Estás solo en casa?” she asked. (You’re home alone?)

“Sí,” he said. “Solo yo.” (Yeah, just me.)

“Deberías estar dormida.” (You should be asleep.)

“Intenté” (I tried.)

“Y?” (And?)

“Y mi cerebro es ruidoso.” (And my brain is loud.)

She snorted softly. “Eso me suena familiar.” (That sounds familiar.)

“También?” (You too?)

“Siempre,” she admitted. (Always.)

Another pause.

Then, almost absentmindedly, he asked, “Qué estás haciendo ahora mismo?” (What are you doing right now?)

She looked around her apartment again like she might find a better answer hidden somewhere in it.

“Sentado,” she said. “Hablando contigo. Intentando no darle demasiadas vueltas al hecho de que estoy sentado hablando contigo.” (Sitting, talking to you. Trying not to overthink the fact that I am sitting and talking to you.)

A soft laugh.

“Es mucho pensar para alguien que intenta no pensar.” (That’s a lot of thinking for someone trying not to think.)

“Gracias por su análisis.” (Thank you for your analysis.)

“En cualquier momento,” he chuckled. (Anytime.)

She should have let the conversation drift there. Let it stay light. Let it end naturally while it still felt safe.

But something in her chest had been building for days now, quietly, insistently, refusing to be ignored.

And hearing his voice like this--warm, close, familiar--was making it worse.

Before she could talk herself out of it, she said it.

“Alguna vez te lo perdiste?” (Do you ever miss it?)

There was a pause on the other end.

“Perder qué?” (Miss what?)

She hesitated.

“Nosotros,” she said quietly. “como antes” (Us. Like before)

The silence that followed was different.

Longer.

Not empty--but careful.

When he finally spoke, his voice had changed slightly. Less joking now.

“Todo el tiempo,” he admitted. (All the time.)

Her breath caught in her throat.

That answer was too honest. Too immediate.

It made something inside her shift, like a door she hadn’t realized was still slightly open.

She swallowed once.

The rain outside the window felt louder suddenly, like it had moved closer to her apartment.

Marivella pressed her fingers lightly into the couch cushion beneath her.

Then, before she could stop herself from spiraling into all the things she shouldn’t say, she heard herself speak again.

“Sabes qué es raro?” (You know what’s weird?)

“Mhm?”

“No dejo de pensar en lo que habría pasado si simplemente…” she hesitated, searching for the right shape of the thought, “si me hubiera quedado después del concierto. O si lo hubieras hecho.” (I keep thinking about what would’ve happened if I just ...if I’d stayed after the concert. Or if you had.)

A soft inhale on his side.

“Sí,” he said quietly. “Yo también pensé en eso.” (Yeah, I thought about that too.)

That landed heavier than anything else so far.

Because it meant she wasn’t alone in it.

And that made everything more dangerous.

Marivella stood up suddenly, needing movement, pacing slowly across the apartment while still holding the phone to her ear.

“Odio seguir haciendo esto,” she muttered. (I hate that I keep doing this.)

“¿Hacer qué?” (Doing what?)

“Pensando en ello.” (Thinking about it.)

A small pause.

“Quizá se supone que deberías hacerlo.” (Maybe you’re supposed to.)

She shook her head even though he couldn’t see her.

“Eso no ayuda.” (That's not helpful.)

“Sé,” he admitted softly. “Lo siento.” (I know. Sorry.)

But she didn’t want him to stop.

That was the problem.

She stopped pacing near the window again, resting her forehead briefly against the glass. Cold seeped through immediately.

“Beno,” she said quietly.

“Sí?”

There was something in her chest now that had been building for too long to ignore. Not panic exactly. Not excitement either.

Something in between.

“No creo que quiera que esto simplemente… volver al silencio,” she said. (I don’t think I want this to just… go back to silence.)

He didn’t respond immediately.

She rushed forward before she lost the nerve.

“Quiero decir, no quiero que hagamos eso de fingir que esto no pasó y luego desaparecer durante años,” she said quickly. “Porque no puedo hacer eso.” (I mean, I don’t want us to just do that thing where we pretend this didn’t happen and then disappear again for years. Because I can’t do that)

Silence.

Then his voice, lower than before:

“No pensaba desaparecer.” (I wasn’t planning on disappearing.)

That made her pause.

“No lo estabas?” (You weren’t?)

“No,” he said simply. “Es solo que… No sabía si querías que volviera a estar en tu vida.” (No. I just… didn’t know if you wanted me in your life again.)

Her chest tightened sharply.

That was it.

The thing neither of them had said out loud until now.

All of this hesitation. All of the overthinking. All of the almost-messages.

It had been that.

Marivella turned slightly, leaning her back against the window now instead of her forehead.

“No sé lo que quiero,” she admitted quietly. (I don’t know what I want.)

A soft breath through the phone.

“Está bien,” he said. “Podemos averiguarlo.” (That’s okay. We can figure it out.)

We.

That word again.

It should have scared her more than it did.

Instead it just made her quieter.

Outside, Toronto stretched out beneath her--wet streets, glowing intersections, apartment windows like scattered constellations against the dark.

And suddenly, without fully planning it, she said the thing that had been sitting at the edge of her thoughts for days.

“Podrías venir aquí.” (You could come here.)

Silence.

Immediate, sharp silence.

Marivella closed her eyes briefly.

Oh no.

But she didn’t take it back.

“Quiero decir,” she added quickly, “si quisieras. No como - para siempre. Solo… por un poco. Dijiste que estás en descanso y que estabas interesado en venir. Y tengo espacio. Mi lugar no es enorme, pero está bien, y puedes alojarte aquí en lugar de estar solo en Miami pensando demasiado.” (I mean, if you wanted. Not like--forever. Just… for a bit. You said you’re on break and you were interested in coming. And I have space. My place isn’t huge but it’s fine, and you could stay here instead of just being alone in Miami thinking too much.)

She stopped, realizing she was rambling.

God.

She pressed her forehead lightly against the window again.

“Que salió mal,” she muttered. (That came out wrong.)

“No,” his voice came quickly this time. Softer. “No lo hizo.” (No, it didn’t.)

Her eyes opened slightly.

“Really?”

A pause.

Then, carefully, like he was testing whether the moment was real:

“Me estás pidiendo que venga a Toronto?" (You’re asking me to come to Toronto?)

She swallowed.

“Supongo que sí.” (I guess I am.)

Another pause--longer this time.

When he spoke again, his voice was different. Less tired. More awake.

“Bella,” he said softly, like he was tasting the idea of it. “Are you sure about that?” (Are you sure about that?)

Her heart thudded hard against her ribs.

Was she?

No.

Yes.

She didn’t know.

But she knew she didn’t want to be sitting in this apartment alone imagining him anymore.

“Yo no lo diría si yo no lo decía en serio,” she said quietly. (I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it)

Silence stretched between them again, but it felt different now. Charged. Real in a way nothing else in the conversation had been yet.

Then, finally, she heard him exhale.

“Okay,” Benito said.

Just that.

Okay.

And somehow, that single word changed everything.

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[paper-lanterns-at-dawn]

BAILE INoLVIDABLE | Chapter Eight

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word count: 2,6k words

BAILE INoLVIDABLE | Chapter Eight

The call ended and Benito immediately threw his phone somewhere into the blankets beside him like getting it out of his hands would somehow stop whatever the hell was happening in his chest.

It didn't.

Obviously.

"Diablo," he muttered, staring up at the ceiling.

Everything felt weird.

Not bad weird, just... off. Like somebody had shifted the ground underneath him a few centimeters and now nothing sat properly anymore. His body was exhausted--his legs still heaving from performing, adrenaline not fully gone yet, and now his heart felt a little heavier--but his brain, however, seemed to have decided that sleep was no longer a realistic option.

Because of her.

Again.

Which felt unfair, to be honest.

The room was too warm now. Or maybe he was; he couldn't tell. One of the lamps near the window cast a dim gold light across the bed, catching the chain around his neck every time he moved. His hoodie was twisted underneath him. One sock was still on; the other was somewhere near the door. Absolute disaster.

And somehow the only thing his mind kept replaying was her hesitation.

Not the words.

The hesitation.

"I don't know, I need a second to process."

She didn't say no.

But she hesitated and didn't say yes either.

If she had said it cleanly, firmly, without a pause, maybe he could've accepted it normally. Maybe this entire thing would have stopped right there. Okay. She moved on. She doesn't want this reopened. Fine.

Painful? Sure.

But clear.

Instead she paused first. So she certainly considered it a little. And now he was spiraling because what was he supposed to do with that?

"Coño," he groaned and dragged both hands over his face.

Maybe he imagined it.

Actually, no, maybe he definitely imagined it.

That would make more sense.

Because hearing what you want to hear after seeing someone you used to love? Extremely common phenomenon. Probably studied by sociologists and psychologists. He should google it. Maybe there was a scientific explanation for why one tiny pause had completely rearranged his emotional stability in 10 minutes.

But the thing was--

he knew her.

Or at least he used to.

And Marivella hesitated when she felt conflicted. Always had. Not dramatic hesitation either. Tiny ones. Barely noticeable unless you knew her well. A second too long before answering. A slight inhale. As if she was editing herself in real time because part of her wanted to say something else first.

And tonight there had been a pause.

Definitely.

Unless he invented that too.

Fuck.

He rolled onto his side violently and shoved his face into a pillow.

This was embarrassing.

Actually humiliating.

He was twenty-five years old, internationally famous, lying in a luxury hotel suite in New York City losing his mind over vocal inflection.

Meanwhile she was probably getting ready for sleep right now like a normal person.

Or worse--

talking about him.

The thought hit him so suddenly he sat back up halfway. What if she was talking about him right now? What is she was sitting there talking about how weird it was to see him again?

Weird.

That word alone made his stomach twist.

Because what if it only felt massive to him?

That possibility had been hovering around the edges of his thoughts all night and he kept avoiding it, because, honestly? Terrifying.

What if this was just nostalgia hitting him like a truck because she represented a version of his life he missed? What if she was already emotionally somewhere else entirely while he was over here contemplating flights to Toronto like a lunatic?

His chest tightened painfully, because the truth was he had absolutely no idea what she felt. None whatsoever. And that uncertainty made everything worse. If she hated him and didn't want to see him ever again, fine. At least hatred was clear. If she still had some sort of feelings for him, terrifying, but at least that was something solid. But this in between thing? This careful, hesitant, emotionally loaded uncertainty of anything? It was driving him insane.

His thumb hovered over her name for a second her contact name for a second before he clicked on her contact thinking it might suddenly contain answers now.

It did not, in fact, contain any.

Her old number was still there. She had shared her new Candian one when she first arrived. Before they got lost in their new lives, where they didn't have time to stay in touch. But he still kept her Puerto Rican one, just because.

There was still the same nickname.

The same picture.

Her birthday was still there, and both of her addresses, the one back home in Vega Baja and her old dorm in Toronto.

It hadn't changed, even if they stopped talking for years. People usually delete things eventually. Or at least change them enough that the past stopped sitting there untouched. But hers was still intact, sitting quietly in his phone like no part of him had ever fully committed to letting it go.

And now he was overanalyzing a contact name.

Amazing.

Actually, incredible behavior from him tonight.

He dropped backward against the pillows again with a frustrated groan, one arm over his eyes now. His thoughts kept moving too fast, tripping over each other before he could settle into any single one fully.

Every time he convinced himself, she probably moved on, he remembered the way her voice softened when she said goodbye. And every time he convinced himself that it meant something, another voice in his head immediately replied: “Maybe she’s just being nice; it is Marivella, after all.”

No, but she hesitated.

That doesn't mean anything.

What if it does?

Chaos.

Utter chaos.

He laughed once under his breath, exhausted by himself. This was why reconnecting with people was dangerous. Especially people like her.

People you don't realize still had access to parts of you until suddenly they were standing in front of you again and every emotional wall you have built over the years turned out to be drywall.

He stared at the ceiling again, breathing slower now, though not calmer. Just tired.

And underneath all the confusion, one truth kept refusing to leave him alone:

he wanted to see her again.

Badly.

He wanted more of her attention. More conversation. More moments where she looked directly at him like she still recognized the version of him underneath everything else. He wanted to sit across from her somewhere normal and ask her questions he didn't even know how to form yet.

What happened after they ended.

Whom she became without him.

Whether she ever missed him too.

The last thought hit hardest.

Because despite the years and the success and the life he built afterward, some part of him still wanted to know if losing him hurt her the way losing her hurt him. Even with all the chaos in his head and despite how badly he wanted to see her again, he still cared more about not hurting her than about getting what he wanted.

He swallowed hard and rubbed his chest absently like that pressure there annoyed him. He then reached back to his phone and opened flights to Toronto.

Still available.

Still easy.

One click away from becoming real.

What would he even say once he got there?

Hi, sorry but I think I still may be in love with you but also maybe I'm just emotionally unstable right now.

Insane.

Absolutely insane.

He dropped the phone onto his chest again and laughed helplessly into the empty room.

"Fuuuuck..."

The city lights glowed faintly through the curtains beside him while his thoughts kept spinning in useless circles.

She didn't want to see him.

No--that wasn't true.

She said she didn't think it was a good idea.

Different.

Important difference.

Or maybe not.

Fuck.

He covered his face with both hands again. He genuinely had no idea anymore.

The call ended and Benito immediately threw his phone somewhere into the blankets beside him like getting it out of his hands would somehow stop whatever the hell was happening in his chest.

It didn't.

Obviously.

"Diablo," he muttered, staring up at the ceiling.

Everything felt weird.

Not bad weird, just... off. Like somebody had shifted the ground underneath him a few centimeters and now nothing sat properly anymore. His body was exhausted--his legs still heaving from performing, adrenaline not fully gone yet, and now his heart felt fairly heavier--but his brain, however, seemed to have decided that sleep was no longer a realistic option.

Because of her.

Again.

Which felt unfair, to be honest.

The room was too warm now. Or maybe he was; he couldn't tell. One of the lamps near the window cast a dim gold light across the bed, catching the chain around his neck every time he moved. His hoodie was twisted underneath him. One sock was still on; the other was somewhere near the door. Absolute disaster.

And somehow the only thing his mind kept replaying was her hesitation.

Not the words.

The hesitation.

"I don't know, I need a second to process."

She didn't say no.

But she hesitated and didn’t say yes, either.

If she had said it cleanly, firmly, without a pause, maybe he could've accepted it normally. Maybe this entire thing would have stopped right there. Okay. She moved on. She doesn't want this reopened. Fine.

Painful? Sure.

But clear.

Instead she paused first. So she certainly considered it a little. And now he was spiraling because what was he supposed to do with that?

"Coño," he groaned and dragged both hands over his face.

Maybe he imagined it.

Actually, no, maybe he definitely imagined it.

That would make more sense.

Because hearing what you want to hear after seeing someone you used to love? Extremely common phenomenon. Probably studied by sociologists and psychologists. He should google it. Maybe there was a scientific explanation for why one tiny pause had completely rearranged his emotional stability in 10 minutes.

But the thing was--

he knew her.

Or at least he used to.

And Marivella hesitated when she felt conflicted. Always had. Not dramatic hesitation either. Tiny ones. Barely noticeable unless you knew her well. A second too long before answering. A slight inhale. As if she was editing herself in real time because part of her wanted to say something else first.

And tonight there had been a pause.

Definitely.

Unless he invented that too.

Fuck.

He rolled onto his side violently and shoved his face into a pillow.

This was embarrassing.

Actually humiliating.

He was twenty-five years old, internationally famous, lying in a luxury hotel suite in New York City losing his mind over vocal inflection.

Meanwhile she was probably getting ready for sleep right now like a normal person.

Or worse--

talking about him.

The thought hit him so suddenly he sat back up halfway. What if she was talking about him right now? What is she was sitting there talking about how weird it was to see him again?

Weird.

That word alone made his stomach twist.

Because what if it only felt massive to him?

That possibility had been hovering around the edges of his thoughts all night and he kept avoiding it because, honestly? Terrifying.

What if this was just nostalgia hitting him like a truck because she represented a version of his life he missed? What if she was already emotionally somewhere else entirely while he was over here contemplating flights to Toronto like a lunatic?

His chest tightened painfully, because the truth was he had absolutely no idea what she felt. None whatsoever. And that uncertainty made everything worse. If she hated him and didn't want to see him ever again, fine. At least hatred was clear. If she still had some sort of feelings for him, terrifying, but at least that was something solid. But this in between thing? This careful, hesitant, emotionally loaded uncertainty of anything? It was driving him insane.

His thumb hovered over her name for a second her contact name for a second before he clicked on her contact thinking it might suddenly contain answers now.

It did not, in fact, contain any.

Her old number was still there. She had shared her new Canadian one when she first arrived. Before they got lost in their new lives, where they didn't have time to stay in touch. But he still kept her Puerto Rican one, just because.

There was still the same nickname.

The same picture.

Her birthday was still there, and both of her addresses, the one back home in Vega Baja and her old dorm in Toronto.

It hadn't changed, even if they stopped talking for years. People usually delete things eventually. Or at least change them enough that the past stopped sitting there untouched. But hers was still intact, sitting quietly in his phone like no part of him had ever fully committed to letting it go.

And now he was overanalyzing a contact name.

Amazing.

Actually, incredible behaviour from him tonight.

He dropped back against the pillows again with a frustrated groan, one arm over his eyes now. His thoughts kept moving too fast, tripping over each other before he could settle into any single one fully.

Every time he convinced himself, she probably moved on, he remembered the way her voice softened when she said goodbye. And every time he convinced himself that it meant something, another voice in his head immediately contradicted him: “Maybe she’s just being nice; it is Marivella, after all.”

No, but she hesitated.

That doesn't mean anything.

What if it does?

Chaos.

Utter chaos.

He laughed once under his breath, exhausted by himself. This was why reconnecting with people was dangerous. Especially people like her.

People you don't realize still had access to parts of you until suddenly they were standing in front of you again and every emotional wall you have built over the years turned out to be drywall.

He stared at the ceiling again, breathing slower now, though not calmer. Just tired.

And underneath all the confusion, one truth kept refusing to leave him alone:

he wanted to see her again.

Badly.

He wanted more of her attention. More conversation. More moments when she looked directly at him like she still recognized the version of him underneath everything else. He wanted to sit across from her somewhere normal and ask her questions he didn't even know how to form yet.

What happened after they ended.

Whom she became without him.

Whether she ever missed him too.

That last thought hit him hardest.

Because despite the years and the success and the life he built thereafter, some part of him still wanted to know if losing him hurt her the way losing her had hurt him. Even with all the chaos in his head and despite how badly he wanted to see her again, he still cared more about not hurting her than about getting what he wanted.

He swallowed hard and rubbed his chest absently like that pressure there annoyed him. He then reached back to his phone and opened flights to Toronto.

Still available.

Still easy.

One click away from becoming real.

What would he even say once he got there?

Hi, sorry but I think I still may be in love with you but also maybe I'm just emotionally unstable right now.

Insane.

Absolutely insane.

He dropped the phone onto his chest again and laughed helplessly into the empty room.

"Diablo, Benito..."

The city lights glowed faintly through the curtains beside him while his thoughts kept spinning in useless circles.

She didn't want to see him.

No--that wasn't true.

She said she didn't think it was a good idea.

Different.

Important difference.

Or maybe not.

Fuck.

He covered his face with both hands again. He genuinely had no idea anymore.

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[paper-lanterns-at-dawn]

BAILE INoLVIDABLE | Chapter Seven

Summary: Marivella Roy-Rivera grew up with Benito in Vega Baja, best friends turned high school sweethearts who thought they'd last forever. But she wanted degrees, stability, and a future she could plan; he wanted music, stages, and a life bigger than the island could hold. They moved on--or at least tried to. Now Marivella is back in Puerto Rico for a few months after finishing her PhD, engaged to a kind, steady man who can give her everything she once said she wanted. The problem? Benito's home too... and he's finally offering her the stability she always needed--but it might be too late.

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disclaimer:** I don't speak Spanish so I'm using Spanish Dictionary to write dialogue in Spanish and it's proofread BUT i'm dyslexic so forgive me for errors. word count: 2.7k

BAILE INoLVIDABLE | Chapter Seven

“So how did it end?”

The question hung quietly between them.

Marivella looked down at her hands.

And once again the memory of the hug outside Madison Square Garden returned like an echo in her chest.

“That,” she said softly, lifting her glass for another sip, “is a much longer story.”

Across from her, Evelyn sat with a curious frown on her face. One that started the second Marivella and Benito started talking to each other and hasn’t left since.

She stayed exactly where she was, legs tucked under her, one hand wrapped loosely around her wine glass. Her eyes, though—those had not softened.

“Uh.... nope, uh-uh, nope. You,” she said, pointing at Marivella with accusation, “You are not doing that. You are not going to leave me on a cliff hanger.”

Marivella leaned her head back against the padded headboard, the soft fabric pressing into damp strands of hair. The room still carried the warmth of her shower, mingling with the cooler air from the vent near the ceiling. Somewhere outside, faint through the thick glass, the city hummed--distant traffic, a horn, something metallic clanging far below.

It all felt... far away.

"It's so late," she murmured.

"You said you'd tell me," Evelyn said.

"Yes, I did," she replied, quieter now. "Just not right now."

Evelyn stared at her.

Really stared.

She was trying to figure out where the shift had happened. Because something had shifted--subtle, but there. Not in what Marivella was saying, but in the way she was holding it.

"...Why not?" Evelyn asked.

Her words weren't sharp this time. Just curious.

Marivella didn't answer immediately.

She looked down at her glass instead, watching the surface of the wine tilt slightly as she adjusted her grip. The deep red caught the warm light from the lamp beside the bed, reflecting it in soft, uneven flickers.

"It's not even that complicated," she said after a while.

"Your face says otherwise."

"No, I mean--" she pauses, searching for the right words, not because she doesn't have them, but because she wants them to land correctly. "It's not confusing. It was... clear."

Evelyn's expression shifted again. Less defensive now, more attentive.

Marivella inhaled slowly, steadying something in her chest that didn't feel unstable; it was just exposed.

"We didn't end because we didn't care," she continued. "We ended because we wanted completely different things."

The words came out clean.

No hesitation.

No wavering.

"And there wasn't a version of the future where both of us fit into each other's," she added, her voice quieter but no less certain. "Not without one of us giving something up that we weren't willing to."

Evelyn didn't interrupt.

She didn't react right away either.

She just watched her, eyes narrowing slightly--not in suspicion, but in understanding, as if she was turning the words over in her mind, testing their weight.

"...So you chose yourselves," she said after a moment.

Marivella gave a small shrug, but it wasn't dismissive.

"We chose what made sense."

Evelyn leaned back against the pillows behind her, exhaling slowly as she tipped her head toward the ceiling.

"Do you regret it?"

A quiet laugh escaped Marivella before she could answer.

"No." There was a pause. "The only thing I do regret is not staying in touch. Because yes, we broke and it needed to happen in order for our lives to advance, but I still lost my best friend in the mix."

Evelyn reached for her glass again, taking a longer sip this time, and her eyes kept drifting back toward Marivella every few seconds like she still hadn't decided whether to keep pushing or let it be.

Marivella, for her part, didn't move much at all. She stayed where she was, one leg tucked under the other, shoulders resting against the headboard, drink still in hand. Her mind wasn't racing.

It wasn't spiraling.

If anything, it felt strangely still.

It was as if something that had been sitting untouched for a long time had finally been acknowledged out loud--and now that it had, it didn't need to fight for space anymore.

Across the room, the lamp cast a warm, golden light over the bed, softening the edges of everything--the crumpled sheets, the open suitcase near the wall, the faint outline of their jackets draped over the chair by the door.

It felt temporary. It was.

This is a place for passing through.

And yet--

that night, it didn't.

"...So, are you gonna finish?" Evelyn asked after a while, her voice gently cutting through the quiet.

Marivella huffed slightly. "We're postponing the rest of the story."

"It sounds more like you're avoiding it."

"I'm not," she replied, though her tone held just enough amusement to soften the denial.

Evelyne eyed her. "Fine, but we're circling back at some point."

"If you say so," Marivella said, nodding. She was grateful for the pause even if she knew it wouldn't last long.

Evelyn was not one to let go of things.

They sat like that for another minute or so, until Marivella's phone started ringing.

The sound cut through everything, through the soft hum of the air vent, through the low city noise, and through the fragile quiet that had settled after Marivella's last words.

Her phone.

Ringing.

At 12:04 am.

The vibration in sync with the music buzzed lightly against the wooden surface of the nightstand, a small, mechanical tremor that somehow felt louder than it should have.

Marivella's body reacted before her mind fully caugfht up. Her gaze had shifted, almsot instincively, drawn to the light blooming across the dark screen.

The name was already there.

BEnOoOoOOO😌🤓😒🙀♥️

Her breath hitched--barely.

Not enough to be obvious.

Just enough for her to feel the slight interruption in the rhythm of her chest, the way her lungs paused for a fraction of a second before continuing.

Beside her, Evelyn leaned forward quickly, her hand catching onto Marivella's forearm to steady herself. Her eyes flicked to the screen.

And then widened.

"Oh my--" the words couldn't even come out. The rest of the sentence dissolved into silent shock as her grip tightened.

The phone kept ringing.

Steady.

Unhurried.

Marivella's eyes remained fixed on the name, on the simple familiarity of it. It wasn’t a contact she'd recently added; it wasn't something new. It had always been there. Saved. Unchanged.

The same name that used to light up her phone years ago--late nights, random afternoons, conversations that didn't need a reason.

And now--

this.

Evelyn's voice dropped to a whisper, barely contained.

"He's calling you."

Duh.

Marivella's throat felt dry. She took a sip of her drink. Two sips. She poured herself another half of a glass and drank it in one gulp.

The ringing continued.

"Pick it up," Evelyn whispered, her fingers now curled tightly arond Marivella's arm, like she might actually shake her if she didn't move soon.

Marivella exhaled slowly.

The air left her lungs in a controlled, measured breath, but it didn't ease the tension sitting just beneath her ribs.

She lifted her hand to reach over, letting her fingers hover over the screen for half a second--long enough to register the weight of what she was about to do, the shift from thinking to acting.

From past to present.

From distance to whatever this was now.

Then, she pressed accept.

The ringing stopped instantly.

The silence that replaced it was thicker.

Closer.

"...Hello?"

Her voice was quieter than before.

Lower.

There was a brief pause, a breath.

Then--

"Hola Bella."

The word came through the phone warm and unfiltered, the sound of it carrying something familiar and immediate that no amount if time had managed to dull. It had always been his nickname for her-- one no one else used, one that had somehow stayed his even after everything else hadn't.

It went through her chest before it reached her thoughts.

Her spine straightened slightly, her shoulders pulling back just enough to shift her posture without her intending to. Her grip on her phone tightened, fingertips pressing lightly into the edges of the case.

She didn't need to think.

"Hi Beno," she said.

Her voice was steadier as it left her, but there was something quieter beneath--something softer and more contained.

On the other hand, there was a subtle shift.

Not in a sound, though. Not exactly.

It was more like the absence of one.

Like Benito had been waiting to hear her voice and, now that he had, something in him had settled.

"Soy yo." (It's me.)

A small breath escaped her.

"I know."

Another pause followed.

But this time it wasn’t empty; it wasn’t awkward either. It was peacefully familiar.

The kind of pause that didn't need to be filled immediately. The kind that used to exist between them without pressure, without expectation--just space.

Beside her, Evelyn's body angled toward Marivella fully, completely still except for the way her fingers kept righteneing and loosening around her arm in small, repititive movements.

Waiting.

Listening.

Barely breathing.

"Has vuelto bien?" (You got back okay?) he asked.

Marivella's gaze dropped slightly, focusing on the edge of the nightstand, on the faint reflection of the lamp in the polished surface.

"Sí," she said. "Estamos en el hotel.." (Yeah, we're at the the hotel.)

"Bueno." (Good.)

She could hear something faint on her end-perhaps movement. The subtle shift of fabric, the quiet creak of a chair or mattress adjusting under weight. Small, ordinary sounds that made the distance between them feel less abstract.

"Y tu?" she asked. (And you?)

"en mi habitación." (In my room.)

She could picture it wihtout trying.

Different part of the city.

Different view.

Different building.

But the same kind of space.

A hotel room that didn't belong to anyone who stayed in it. Muted colours, very soft or very bright lights.

"No estaba seguro de si debía llamar," he admitted. (I wasn't sure if I should call.)

Marivella's fingers tightened slightly around the phone.

"Por qué me llamaste entonces?" she asked. (Why did you call me then?)

There was a quiet exhale on the other end. She could hear it clearly this time. It was unsteady for just a second.

"No me parecía bien no hacerlo." (It didn't feel right not to.)

Beside her, Evelyn mouthed something exaggerated and frantic--WHAT IS HE SAYING-- her eyes wide, her entire body leaning forward like she might actually climb on top or Marivella if it could help her hear better.

"yeah..." she said quietly, not sure how to respond.

"Estaba pensando," he started. (I was thinking)

Her breath slowed and her attention sharpened. She didn't move, didn't interrupt, she just listened.

"Después de Pensilvania, tengo tiempo libre." (After Pennsylvania, I've got time off.)

Her heartbeat quickened.

"Podría venir a Toronto." (I could come to Toronto.)

The words settled into the space between phones. They were simple words, direct, uncomplicated in delivery. But not in meaning.

Beside her, Evelyn physically jolted. She understood those words. Her entire posture snapped upright like she had just witnessed something incredible--which she had.

Marivella closed her eyes for a brief second.

Because hearing it--hearing it like that-- made it real in a way that thinking about it never could. When she opened them again, her gaze stayed unfocused.

"Podías," she said. (You could.)

Not an answer.

Not a decisison.

Just acknowledgement.

On the other side of the call, he didn't rush. Didn't reinterpret. Didn't push her into filling the space. She was thinking about it and he knew that. He had learned over the years not to worry about the moments of silence coming from Marivella.

"Si quieres que lo haga," he added. (If you'd like me to.)

And that changed something. Because it wasnth assumption, it wasnt expectation, it was simply consideration.

Marivella exhaled slowly. "No sé," (I don't know) she said, honest, unfiltered.

Noext to her, Evelyn made a muffled, strangled noise into her own hand.

Marivella ignored it.

"Nos acabamos de ver por primera vez en años," she ocntinued, her voice more grounded now. "Creo que necesito un momento para procesarlo." (We just saw each other for the first time in years. I think I need a second to process that.)

"Sí," he said. He knew not to expect anything from this phone call, yet he couldn’t help but feel a small, quiet disappointment settle somewhere in his chest. "Yo también, probablemente." (Yeah, me too probabaly.)

The room suddenly felt smaller. The air had thickened just enough to make everything slower--her breathing, her toughts, the way time seemed to stretch between each word.

Beside her, Evelyn hadn’t moved.

Not really.

She was still sitting too close, still leaning in, her entire body angled toward Marivella like she was physically tethered to the conversation. Her wine glass sat forgotten on the nightstand, condensation pooling faintly beneath it, untouched.

Waiting.

Always waiting.

On the other end of the line, there was a faint shift--fabric brushing, maybe the quiet sound of movement as he adjusted where he was sitting.

“No iba a decir nada,” he admitted after a moment. (I wasn’t gonna say anything)

Marivella’s gaze lifted slightly, unfocused, fixed somewhere ahead but not really seeing anything in front of her.

“Sobre Toronto?” she asked. (About Toronto?)

“Sí. Pero seguía dándole vueltas.” (Yeah. But I kept thinking about it.)

There was no hesitation in the way he said it. No attempt to soften it or take it back.

Marivella swallowed. Her throat felt tight again, but not in a way that hurt. More like something pressing gently against the inside of her chest, asking to be acknowledged.

“No tienes que decidir ahora mismo,” he added. (You don’t have to decide right now)

“Sé.” (I know)

“--” he hesitated, just slightly, like he was choosing how to phrase it, --.” (And I’m not--I’m not trying to complicate anything.)

That made her let out a quiet breath.

Because that word, complicate, didn’t fit. Not with them. Not with what they had been.

“No es complicado,” she said softly. "Simplemente, no lo sé." (It’s not complicated. I just, I don't know)

On the other end, he went quiet.

"Yeah," he said.

And that was it. No argument, no psuhing back, no trying to reframe it.

Beside her, Evelyn’s expression softened for a fraction of a second, like even she could feel the shift in the conversation, the movement away from tension and into something quieter, something more honest.

Marivella let out a slow breath, her shoulders relaxing just slightly.

The silence that followed didn’t feel heavy anymore.

“No tenías que llamar,” she said after a moment. (You didn’t have to call.)

“Lo sé,” he replied. “Quería.” (I know. I wanted to.)

Marivella’s grip on the phone tightened slightly, her fingers curling more firmly around it as she looked down at her lap. For a second, she didn’t trust herself to speak. Didn’t trust that whatever came out wouldn’t carry more than she intended.

“Me alegro de que lo hiciste,”she said finally. (I’m glad you did.)

Quiet.

But steady.

There was a shift in his breathing. Subtle but there.

“Sí?” he asked.

She nodded slightly, even though he couldn’t see it.

“Sí.”

“,Deberías dormir,” he said. (You should get some sleep.)

“Tú necesitas más que yo,” she said. (You need to more than me)

She could feel Evelyn turning toward her again, watching closely, waiting for something that might hint at what she was feeling.

Marivella kept her gaze down.

“Buenas noches, Bella.” (Good night, Bella.)

"Buenas noches, Beno." (Good night Beno.)

Then, after a few more seconds, the line clicked. Gone.

Reality slowly started returning in pieces. And then Evelyn exploded.

"WHAT WAS THAT."

"It was a phone call."

Evelyn stared at her like she had jsut committed a crime.

"A phone calle," she repeated, her voice rising. "From him. Who casually said he might FLY TO TORONTO to see you."

Marivella pressed her lips together, g=fighting the small smile threatening to form.

She fialed. Miserably.

Evelyn leaned forward immediately, pointing at her.

"This is serious Marv. You childhood best friend and first love just offered to come visit you. All while hes in the middle of a world tour, might I add."

"I said I'd think about it."

"Thats not a no. I'll take it."

"That is also not a yes."

Evelyn leaned back slowly, like she was reassessing the enitre situation from a new angle.

"...He still calls you Bella."

Marivella's fingers started fidgeting with her ribe.

"Yeah."

Evelyn tilted her head.

"And you didn't even react."

Marivella huffed softly.

“I did react.”

“No,” Evelyn said. “You absorbed it.”

That made her laugh.

A small, quiet sound that didn’t fully match the weight sitting in her chest.

“I don’t know what you want me to do.”

“I want you to acknowledge that this is insane.”

Marivella looked at her.

Really looked this time.

“It’s not insane.”

Evelyn sat up straight again.

“HE JUST SAID HE MIGHT FLY TO ANOTHER COUNTRY TO SEE YOU.”

“I heard him.”

“And you’re just--” Evelyn gestured vaguely at her entire existence, "--this about it?”

"I guess so."

Her gaze dropped to the phone still resting in her lap. To the contact name she hadn’t changed. To the conversation that had just happened. To the feeling sitting quietly in her chest, not overwhelming, not confusing, but present. Not new, it was just back.

“…I don’t know,” she said.

And this time, it wasn’t avoidance.

It was the truth.

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[paper-lanterns-at-dawn]

BAILE INoLVIDABLE | Chapter Six

Summary: Marivella Roy-Rivera grew up with Benito in Vega Baja, best friends turned high school sweethearts who thought they'd last forever. But she wanted degrees, stability, and a future she could plan; he wanted music, stages, and a life bigger than the island could hold. They moved on--or at least tried to. Now Marivella is back in Puerto Rico for a few months after finishing her PhD, engaged to a kind, steady man who can give her everything she once said she wanted. The problem? Benito's home too... and he's finally offering her the stability she always needed--but it might be too late.

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*disclaimer: I don't speak Spanish so I'm using DeepL to write dialogue in Spanish and it's proofread BUT i'm dyslexic so forgive me for errors. word count: 3.2k

BAILE INoLVIDABLE | Chapter Six

The door of the car shut with a dull, heavy thud. For a second, it was the loudest thing in the world.

Then--

Nothing.

Not real nothing. The city was still there, of course. Engines, distant horns, the low hum of traffic bleeding through the tinted windows. But compared to the arena, it felt like silence. The kind that presses in. The kind that makes you aware of your own breathing.

Benito leaned back against the seat, head tipping slightly against the leather, eyes unfocused as the car pulled away from the venue. Just minutes ago, everything had been noise. But now, it was just him. And that was worse.

The driver mumbled something. He didn't catch what. Or maybe he did and he just didn't process it. Either way, he didn't respond. His body was still coming down from the show--adrenaline flickering through him in uneven waves, like his system hadn't decided whether it was over yet or not. His chest still felt tight, his hands still restless, his heartbeat just slightly too fast. He should've been riding the high. He knew how this was supposed to feel. After a show like that, you should feel invincible, untouchable, as if the world is exactly where it's supposed to be.

But that was not what this was.

His brain kept replaying the same thing. Not the performance, not the crowd, not the moment the lights dropped or the the way the arena screamed his name like it meant something bigger than him. None of that.

Her.

It didn't even come back in full memories but in fragments, just pieces. The way she looked when she saw him. The way her face changed in that split second. The way she said his name. Benito. Not "Bad Bunny." Not anything else. Just Benito. Like it hadn't been years, like it still referenced her best friend.

He shifted in his seat, dragging a hand over his face. "Coño…"(Fuck) he muttered under his breath. The world felt too small for what was sitting in his chest.

The car turned onto a wider street, lights stretching out in front of them in long lines with their reflection sliding across the window beside him. He stared at them without really seeing them. Everything blurred.

The hug.

That's what his mind kept drifting back to, not even intentionally. It just stayed. He could still feel it. The pressure of her against him. The exact way she fit, like something familiar enough that his body didn't hesitate, didn't question, didn't need to adjust. It was muscle memory, something that had been waiting.

He closed his eyes for a second--big mistake. Because it came back clearer that way, slower. Her hands on his back, warm and steady. Not pulling away too quickly, not stiff, not awkward. She didn't hesitate one bit.

His eyes opened again before he could picture it too much. He stared straight ahead, jaw tightening slowly. That part didn't make sense. Or maybe it did--and that was the problem. Years had passed. Years. That wasn't something you just ignored, it wasn't something you just stepped around like it didn't exist. People changed, lives moved forward. Marivella, she learned how to live without certain people.

So why hadn't she hesitated?

That question sat with him. Heavy. Unanswered. "Everything good?" The drivers voice cut through just enough for him to register it. Benito blinked, like he had been pulled back from somewhere far away. "Yeah," he answered without thinking. It came out flat, unconvincing, but the driver didn't push. He just nodded and kept driving, turning his attention back to the road.

Benito let his head fall back against the seat again, eyes drifting toward the ceiling. The car moved smoothly through the city, stopping and starting with the rhythm of traffic lights, but he barely noticed. Time felt strange--too slow and too fast at the same time, stretched thin in places and compressed in others.

He tried to think about something else. The next show before the break. The schedule. The setlist. Anything that would ground him back into something familiar, something structured.

It didn't work.

Every thought circled back. Her face, the softness, that recognition. There had been no awkward pause, no visible calculation, no moment where she seemed unsure of what do to with him or say to him. She had just stepped forward. Like it was obvious. Like it was natural. Like there was no version of that moment where she didn't end up in his arms.

His chest tightened again. That wasn't how this was supposed to go. If he was being honest--really honest--he had expected distance. Maybe politeness, or something controlled and careful, the kind of interaction people have when too much history sits between them. That would've made sense. That would've been easy to understand. But this felt like something unfinished, and unfinished things do not stay quiet. They sit. They wait. They make themselves known in the worst moments, in the quietest spaces, where there's nothing left to distract you from them.

Benito exhale slowly, turning his head slightly to look out the window again. The city kept moving, indifferent, unaware of whatever had just shifted inside him. People crossed streets, cars passed in steady streams, lights flickered and changed without hesitation.

Everything continued to move on. Except him. He assumed she didn't think much of it. That sounded logical, reasonable, and safe.

For her, it could've been just a moment. Something brief and contained that didn't carry the same weight it did for him. That would make sense. It should've made her feel better, but it didn't. Because if it meant nothing to her, then why did it feel like this to him?

His jaw tightened slightly as the thought settled deeper. The car slowed at a red light, the glow spilling into the interior, painting everything in a muted, artificial warmth. Benito stared at it, unfocused, his reflection faint in the glass.

In two days, she would be back home. She would be back to her life, to her routine, to her world that didn't include him anymore. He dragged a hand over his hair, exhaling sharply through his nose.

He was still here.

Stuck in something that should have ended years ago.

The light turned green, and the car moved again. His phone buzzed in his hand. He hadn't even realized he had picked it back up. Notifications stacked across the screen--messages, updates, people reaching out, expecting something from him.

He didn't open any of them. Didn't have it in him to pretend he was present. Instead, he locked the screen and let it rest against his thigh, his gaze drifting back out the window as the city blurred past. The rest of the ride passed without him fully registering it.

By the time the car had pulled up to the hotel, the only thing that had settled clearly in his mind was the feeling that something had shifted, and he didn't know how to put it back.

And maybe, he didn't want to.

He stepped out of the car without really thinking about it, the cool night air hitting him just enough to register as a change but not enough to ground him. The driver said something, good night proabbly, but Benito just nodded, already moving toward the entrance, one hand oushing through his hair like he could physicaly shake the thoughts loose.

The hotel lobby was quiet in that artificial way with soft yet harsh lighting, polished floors, the faint hum of air conditioning and distant conversation blending into something easily forgettable. It should have felt calm, it usually did. A buffer between the chaos of the night and the solitude that followed.

Tonight, it felt like a pause that stretch too long. He crossed the lobby quickly, barely glancing at the front desk, barely noticing the elevator doors sliding open in front of him. Inside, the mirrored walls caught his reflection from every angle, multiplying him in a way that felt disorienting.

He looked tired.

The elevator doors closed with a soft chime, and the quiet pressed in again. He leaned back against the wall, arms loose at his sides, staring straight ahead at his reflection wihtout really seeing it.

For a second, he tried to imagine what it must have looked like from the outside. The show. The energy. Him. Confident, controlled, completely in command of the room like he always was. Like he was supposed to be. He pictured the version of himself the crowd saw--the one who moved like everything made sense, like every decision had been intentional, like there were no gaps, no hesitations, no unfinished pieces trailing behind him. Because that version of him didn't exist in this moment. Not here, not in the quiet, not in the stillness where there was nothing left to perform for.

The elevator slowed, then stopped. The doors slid open with a soft mechanical sound, and he pushed himself off the wall, stepping out into the hallway without breaking stride. The carpet muted his footsteps, the lighting low and warm in a way that made everything feel temporary, like the space wasn't meant to hold anything real. Every door looked the same. Every turn felt interchangeable. He walked on autopilot, pulling the keycard from his pocket, barely registering the numbers on the doors as he passed them.

When he reached his room, the silence was immediate. He didn't move right away, just stood there for a second, setting it settle around him. It felt different from the silence in the car. Heavier somehow. More contained. There was nowhere for it to go except inward.

He shut the door behind him and dropped his keycard onto the table without looking. His shoulders lifted with a slow breath, then fell again. This was supposed to be the easy part. The reset. The moment where everything slowed down enough for him to come back to himself. Usually, he liked this part. Needed it, even.

Tonight, it didn't feel like a reset.

It felt like being left alone with something he didn't knwo how to turn off.

He crossed the room slowly, stopping near the edge of the bed before sitting down, elbows resting on his knees, hands hanging loose between them. For a moment, he just stayed there, staring at the floor like it might give him something to hold onto. It didn't. His mind kept moving away, circling back to the same place no matter how many times he tried to redirect it.

Her face.

It came back clearer now, without the noise of everything else around it. The way she had looked at him--not surprised in the way he expected, not distant, not guarded. There had been something open there, something unfiltered that didn't match the time that had passed. It didn't make sense. It didn't line up witt he versoin of reality he had built in his head over the years, the one where she existed firmly in the past, in a place that couldn't reach him anymore.

But she had reached him.

Effortlessly.

Like nothing had changed.

He exhaled slowly, dragging a hand over his face before letting it rest against the back of his neck. If she had kept her distance, smiled politely, treated him like someone she used to know instead if someone she still recognized, he could've walked away from it clean. He could have done those things too. He could have told himself that what they had was over in the way things are supposed to end--with time, with space, with enough distance that it stops mattering.

But she hadn't done that. And neither had he.

She had stepped into him.

Like it was natural.

Like it was expected.

Like there had never been another option.

What they had existed in a different version of his life, one that didn't line up with where he was now.

So why did it feel like it did?

He reached for his phone, unlocked it, and stared at the screen. His thumb went to the notes app. He didn't overthink it, he just typed.

Toronto

The word sat there, simple and immediate.

He looked at it for a second longer than necessary, his expression unreadable even to himself. It didn't feel like a decision yet. Not fully. More like the outline of one. A possibility that hadn't been examined closely enough to fall apart.

He stayed like that for a moment, phone in his hand, eyes fixed on the word like it might shift into something clearer if her started at it long enough. It didn't. It stayed exactly the same--simple, neutral, almost meaningless on its own. But it didn't feel meaningless. It felt like something waiting.

He exhaled slowly and leaned back, resting against the headboard, one hand still holding his phone. This didn't make sense. That thought came back again, quieter now but still there, still trying to ground him in something logical. You don't fly to another city beceause of a moment. Because of a hug. Because soemthing feels unfinsihed in a way you can't explain.

But this didn't feel like a moment.

That was the porblem.

It felt like something that had been paused, not ended. Like something that had been left exactly where it was and now, suddenly, he was standing right back in front of it again.

He looked down at the screen again, at the word sitting there as if it had been placed deliberatly, as if it had always been the answer even before he realized there was a question.

Toronto.

He let out a quiet breath, something almost like a laugh but without any humor in it. “Qué loco,” (That’s crazy) he muttered under his breath.

It was.

But he still hadn’t deleted it.

His thumb hovered just slightly above the screen, like he might erase it, like he might undo the thought before it turned into something real. Instead, his grip on the phone tightened a fraction, his jaw setting as something in him shifted again, small, but definite.

"Sólo por verla" (Just to see her) he said quietly, more to test the words than anything else.

If he kept it simple, it didn’t feel as heavy.

Just to see her.

Not to fxi anything. Not to reopen something that had already been closed. Not to step back into something that didn’t exist anymore.

Just to see.

He sat with that for a second, turning it over in his head, waiting for it to settle into something that felt stable enough to hold onto.

It didn’t.

Because he knew it wasn’t that simple.

If it were, it wouldn’t feel like this.

He leaned forward again, elbows resting on his knees, phone hanging loosely between his hands as his mind moved ahead without him meaning it to. Not the logistics, just the idea of it. Seeing her again. Not in passing this time. Not in a moment that ended before it could even begin. Something longer. Something that couldn’t be dismissed afterward.

The thought made something in his chest tighten just enough to make him aware of it.

Familiar.

That was the word that came to him.

Too familiar.

He shook his head slightly, like he could physically push the thought away, but it didn’t leave. It stayed, steady and persistent, the same way it had been since he stepped off that stage.

He had expected distance.

That part kept coming back.

Expected it. Prepared for it, even, in the way you prepare yourself for something uncomfortable but necessary. Something that confirms what you already know that time has passed, that things have changed, that whatever existed before doesn’t carry into the present the same way.

But she hadn’t given him that.

She had looked at him like she still knew him.

He glanced back down at his phone again, the word still there, unchanged but heavier now.

Toronto.

He opened his schedule almost without thinking, his thumb moving automatically as the familiar layout pulled up. Dates. Cities. Venues. Everything mapped out with the kind of precision his life depended on.

April 27 - New York.

April 28 - Reading.

His eyes moved down, expecting the next city, the next show, the continuation of the same pattern.

Instead--

Nothing.

A gap.

He frowned slightly, scrolling just to be sure, just to confirm what he was seeing.

The next show wasn’t until June.

He sat back a little, the realization settling in slowly.

That wasn’t a few days.

That wasn’t tight.

That was time.

Real time.

He stared at the screen for a second longer, something shifting again, more noticeably this time. Because now there was no excuse. No reason to dismiss the thought before it could fully form.

If he wanted to go, he actually could.

Easily.

Now it wasn’t about whether it was possible.

It was about whether he would.

He locked his phone again, but he didn’t put it down this time. Just held it loosely, his gaze unfocused as his mind caught up to what his body had already started deciding.

A month.

He could go for a few days.

Come back.

No one would question it.

It wouldn’t interfere with anything.

It wouldn’t--

He stopped himself.

Because that wasn’t the point.

The point wasn’t whether it fit.

The point was why he wanted to go at all.

He closed his eyes for a second, and immediate.

Her.

Again.

Her voice.

The way she said his name.

The way she didn’t hesitate.

His eyes opened again, sharper this time, like the thought itself had pulled him back.

That hadn’t been nothing.

He knew that.

Even if he didn’t know what it was.

He let out a slow breath, his jaw tightening slightly as the hesitation started to thin out, replaced by something more certain.

If he stayed here, if he let it go, let it settle back into something distant and undefined, he would never actually know.

And that didn’t sit right.

Toronto.

This time, it didn’t feel like a possibility.

It felt like a decision waiting to be made official.

“Fuck it," he said quietly.

The words landed differently now.

Not impulsive.

Not rushed.

Certain.

He tapped out of his notes and moved to his contacts, scrolling until he found the number he needed. His thumb paused for a second, not out of doubt, but because he recognized what this was.

The point where it became real.

He could still stop.

Still close the phone.

Still leave it exactly where it was.

He didn’t.

He pressed call.

The ringing filled the room, steady and clear against the silence.

He leaned back slightly, one hand resting against his thigh, his gaze fixed somewhere ahead of him but not really focused on anything.

Outside, the city kept moving.

Inside, something had already shifted. And this time, he wasn’t trying to stop it.

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[paper-lanterns-at-dawn]

What do you guys like to read better when having dialogue be translated?

“Blablabla,” he muttered under his breath or something. (Translation of blabla)

“Blablabla,” (translation) she replied.

“Blablabla (translation,” they gasped in response.

Voting ended onApr 2

[paper-lanterns-at-dawn]

Today is the best day of my life i logged on to my tumblr and bam two new chapters of Baile InoIvidable since I last checked, log back in for some night reading BAM CHAPTER FIVE! Thank youuuuuu!! ✨✨✨

I've been writing this instead of assignments, i'm so excited for the rest of this, and it's gonna be MUCH longer than I originally thought

[paper-lanterns-at-dawn]

BAILE INoLVIDABLE | Chapter Five

Summary: Marivella Roy-Rivera grew up with Benito in Vega Baja, best friends turned high school sweethearts who thought they'd last forever. But she wanted degrees, stability, and a future she could plan; he wanted music, stages, and a life bigger than the island could hold. They moved on--or at least tried to. Now Marivella is back in Puerto Rico for a few months after finishing her PhD, engaged to a kind, steady man who can give her everything she once said she wanted. The problem? Benito's home too... and he's finally offering her the stability she always needed--but it might be too late.

Previous chapter  |  Masterlist  |  Next chapter

*disclaimer: I don't speak Spanish so I'm using DeepL to write dialogue in Spanish and it's proofread BUT i'm dyslexic so forgive me for errors. word count: 2.5k

BAILE INoLVIDABLE | Chapter Five

The subway ride to Brooklyn was quieter than the night before it. Not because the train itself was quiet--it rattled and screeched through tunnels like every late-night sibway did--but the adrenaline from the concert and seeing Benito again had finally started to drain out of Marivella's body.

The city outside the windows blurred into streaks of yellow and white lights as the train rushed past dark platforms and graffiti-covered walls.

From the corner of her eye, she could see Evelyn staring. Not casually, not curiously. She was staring like someone who had just discovered a life-altering secret and hadn't decided how to react yet.

Marivella pretended not to notice.

She leaned her shoulder against the metal pole behind her and closed her eyes for a moment, letting the rhythmic clatter of the train fill the silence.

For a few seconds, she almost managed to convince herself that the entire thing had been surreal enough to feel like a dream.

The concert.

The artist exit.

The burrito.

Benito.

The hug.

Her stomach twisted slightly at the memory.

Across from her, Evelyn shifted, still staring. Marivella opened one eye.

"Stop staring at me like that."

"I'm not looking at you like anything."

"You are absolutely looking at me like something."

Evelyn leaned back slightly in her seat, crossing her arms.

"Okay," she said calmly.

"Yes."

"I'm looking at you like you've been hiding an entire alternate life from me."

Marivella sighed.

"I'm sorry."

Evelyn blinked. The apology clearly wasn't something she was expecting.

Marivella rubbed a hand across her forehead, pushing a loose strand of hair back.

"I really am," she said. "I didn't hide in on purpose. It just... never felt like something that mattered anymore."

Evelyn tilted her head. "You didn't think it mattered that youre childhood best friend is Bad Bunny."

"Benito," Marivella corrected.

"You know what I mean."

Evelyn watched her for a moment. The irritation on her face softened slightly. But only slightly.

"You still could've told me."

"I know."

"You've known me for six years, we even lived together for one of those."

"I know."

"So you understand why I'm losing my mind right now."

Marivella slouched forward, putting her head down. "Yes."

"Good."

Evelyn grabbed the pole between them with both hands now, clearly bracing herself.

"I will be asking questions."

Marivella closed her eyes again. "I wasn't expecting anything less."

The train screeched into the station a few seconds later. The sudden braking threw everyone forward slightly, and Marivella instinctively grabbed the pole tighter to keep her balance.

Evelyn still hadn't taken her eyes off of her. Not once.

The doors opened with a metallic hiss.

Evelyn stepped out immediately, with Marivella following not far behind, already bracing herself.

The station was quieter than Manhattan had been, the platform lit with harsh fluorescent lights and scattered with a handful of tired commuters heading home for the night.

The climbed the stairs together.

By the time they pushed through the subway exit and stepped onto the street, the cool night air hit Marivella's face again. She shoved her hands into the pockets of her jacket as they walked.

Evelyn was still thinking. She could tell.

That particular silent meant Evelyn's brain was working overtime, rearranging every piece of information she had just learned.

"So," Evelyn said slowly.

"So."

"You said you said you grew up together."

"Indeed."

"Like, how close are we talking?"

"We were always together," Marivella replied.

"Like always? How does that even happen?"

"It's a small town. It's easy to know everyone."

Evelyn waited for more.

"Almirante is special," she said. "Everyone's outside all the time. Kids, neighbours, family... people sit on their porchs in the evening, music playing somewhere down the street."

As she spoke, the memories unfolded in her mind so clearly. Heat rising from the pavement in the late afternoon; the smell of fried food drifting out of someone's kitchen; a group of kids riding bikes in slow circles at the end of the street.

She hadn't thought about those evening in years.

"Half the time," she continued, "we'd just end up in the same place."

Evelyn looked at her.

"Doing what?"

Marivella smiled faintly.

"Nothing."

Evelyn frowned.

"Nothing?"

"Just... hanging around."

Another memory surfaced without warning.

Benito, sitting on the low concrete wall near the colmado, legs stretched out in front of him, a plastic bottle of soda balanced beside him. Marivella had been sitting next to him, swinging her legs while they talked endlessly.

"Sometimes we'd ride bikes," Marivella said.

"Where?"

"Nowhere specific," Marivella laughed softly. "There was this little road that went past the fields near my house."

The image sharpened in her mind. Late evening light turning grass gold. Benito would ride ahead of her, standing on the pedals, one hand off the handlebars while he tried to explain some ridiculous idea he had for a song.

Evelyn was quiet for a moment, listening attentively to her best friend reminiscing of childhood.

They reacherd the corner where the hotel stood. The lobby lights glowed warmly through the glass doors.

Marivella slowed slightly, her mind wandering back to the first time Benito showed her one of the songs he'd ever recorded. The sound quality had been terrible, but she remmeberd the way he had watched her face while he played it. Not confident, not cocky, just hopeful.

Evelyn nudged her shoulder. "You disappeared again."

"What?"

"You keep doing that, going somewhere in your head."

Marivella shook it off lightly. "Just remembering stuff."

Evelyn tilted her head with a smile.

"Just... being kids," she said quietly.

They pushed through the hotel doors, warm air wrapped around them immediately. The lobby was quiet, the soft hum of the front desk computer the only real sound.

Evelyn turned toward her in the elevator. "You miss it."

It wasn't a question. Marivella didn't answer right away. The honest answer arrived in her chest before she could stop it.

Yes.

It was'nt just the place she missed. It was him.

"You're reading way too much into this."

Evelyn raised an eyebrow. "I don't think I am."

The elevator hummed softly as it climbed. Neither of them spoke for a few seconds. Marivella leaned back agaisnt the wall, staring at the little digital numbers above the door as they ticked upward one by one.

Evelyn was watching her again.

Not accusing this time.

Just studying her carefully, like she was assembling pieces of a puzzle and wasn’t quite sure what the picture was yet.

“You look weird,” Evelyn said finally.

“Thank you.”

“You know what I mean.”

Marivella dragged both hands down her face, pushing strands of hair behind her ears.

“I’m just tired.”

“You just ran into your childhood best friend outside Madison Square Garden,” Evelyn replied. “Who also happens to be Bad Bunny.”

“Benito.”

“Benito,” Evelyn corrected automatically.

The elevator dinged softly.

The doors slid open.

They stepped into the hallway, the thick carpet swallowing the sound of their footsteps. The corridor smelled of laundry detergent and something floral from the cleaning supplies.

Neither of them spoke again until they reached their room.

Marivella slid the keycard into the lock. The door clicked open.

Evelyn stood in the middle of the room with her arms crossed. Waiting.

Marivella looked at her. "You like you're about to interrogate me."

"I am about to."

"I need a shower first."

"That's fine."

Marivella narrowed her eyes. "That's fine?"

"Yes."

She smiled sweetly. "You can shower while answering my questions."

Marivella laughed, "You are unbelievable, and I, am definitely not discussing this while I shower."

She grabbed a towel from the bathroom and shut the door behind her. A few seconds later, the water started to run. Hot water hitting tiles filled the small room, steam slowly creeping under the door.

Evelyn lasted about two minutes.

Then she pushed the door open.

"EVE!"

"What?"

"You're in the bathroom."

"Oh, sorry. I thought this was Wonderland."

Evelyn hopped up onto the bathroom counter, swinging her legs casually. "So, Bad Bunny."

Marivella groaned from behind the shower curtain. "You are genuinely insane."

"Yuppers!" She leaned slightly forward, "So I'm gonna say something."

"That sounds threatning."

"Bad Bunny--"

"Benito."

"Benito," correted Evelyn, "is clearly a player."

Marivella froze, "What?"

"You know what I mean."

"No I don't."

"He's charming, confident, performs on stage, writes songs--clearly he gets all the girls."

Marivella snorted.

"So," Evelyn continued, "I'm assuming he had a ton of girlfriends in high school as well."

There was a pause. The water kept running.

"...not really," Marivella said.

Evelyn frownded, "Not really?"

"No."

"That dosn't make sense."

Marivella said nothing.

Evelyn narrowed her eyes slowly.

"So either he didn't have any at all..."

She paused.

"... or he had just the one."

Marivella let out a small groan.

"Oh my god."

Evelyn sat up straighter.

"Wait."

"Eve--"

"It was you."

Marivella shut the water off, grabbed her towel from the hook next to the curtain, and then walked out.

"We were teenagers."

"You're not denying it."

"No I'm not."

Evelyn slapped the counter triumphly.

"I KNEW IT."

"You absolutely did not."

"I suspected it."

"You guessed."

Evelyn slid off the counter.

"How long."

"A while."

"How long."

Marivella hesitated.

"... three years."

Evelyn froze.

"Three years."

"Yes."

"You dated Bad Bunny for three entire years."

"Benito."

"BENITO."

Evelyn stared at her like her brain had just short-circuited. Marivella brushed past her and went back into the bedroom, rubbing a towel through her hair. Ten minutes later, they were both sitting on Marivella's bed.

Evelyn had claimed half the pillows and was staring at her like she was trying to solve advamced calculus. Marivella had pulled on an oversized t-shirt and a pair of loose shorts, her hair atill damp against her shoulders.

Evelyn blinked and pursed her lips.

She stood up abruptly. "Wait."

"What?"

"This conversation requires wine. I'll call room service."

Marivella laughed, "That's gonna cost a month's rent."

Evelyn had already dialed the room service number.

Once the bottle arrived, Evelyn held it up like a trophy

"You're acting like this is a crisis."

"It is a crisis, Mar," Evelyn replied, already twisting the cork out. "You have apparently been hiding an entire life from me for the past six years."

The cork popped. Evelyn poured two generous glasses. She climbed back onto the bed and janded one to Marivella.

"Drink up."

Marivella took the glass.

"You're enjoying htis way too much."

Evelyn took a long sip.

“Oh absolutely.”

Marivella leaned back against the headboard and took a small drink herself. The wine was cheap and a little too sweet, but it was cool and comforting in the quiet room.

For a moment neither of them spoke.

Evelyn stared at her again.

Then slowly said,

“Three years.”

Marivella groaned.

“You’re never going to stop repeating that.”

“THREE YEARS.”

“We were teenagers.”

“That is still insane.”

Evelyn took another drink of wine.

“So,” she said, settling deeper into the bed. “Start explaining.”

Marivella sighed and rested the glass against her knee.

“There’s not much to explain.”

“You dated for three years.”

“Yes.”

“You were inseparable before that.”

“Yes.”

“You lived two minutes apart.”

“Yes.”

Evelyn gestured dramatically.

“That is the definition of a childhood love story.”

Marivella laughed quietly.

“It wasn’t like that.”

“It absolutely was like that.”

Evelyn took another sip of wine and squinted at her.

“Wait.”

Marivella groaned.

“What now.”

“You said three years.”

“Yes.”

“So like… most of high school.”

“Pretty much.”

Evelyn stared at her.

Then took another long sip of wine.

“Holy shit.”

Marivella laughed.

“You’re being dramatic.”

“I am not being dramatic,” Evelyn said. “I am processing.”

She set the glass down on the bedside table and scooted closer.

“So how did it even happen.”

Marivella tilted her head back against the headboard, staring up at the ceiling.

For a moment she just listened to the quiet hum of the city outside.

“We didn’t mean for it to happen.”

“That’s suspicious already.”

Marivella ignored her.

“We were just… always together.”

Evelyn picked her glass back up.

“Yeah you mentioned the inseparable part.”

Marivella smiled.

“You know how when you see someone every single day,” she said slowly, “you stop thinking about it.”

Evelyn nodded.

“Sure.”

“They just become part of everything.”

Another sip of wine.

“And then one day something changes.”

Evelyn leaned forward.

“What changed.”

Marivella laughed quietly.

“I honestly don’t even know.”

Evelyn raised an eyebrow.

“That’s not helpful.”

“I’m serious.”

Marivella looked down at the wine glass in her hands.

“We were fifteen,” she said. “We’d been best friends forever. One day we were just sitting in hhis room and…”

She shrugged.

“…we kissed.”

Evelyn took another sip of wine.

“So what happened after that.”

Marivella smiled faintly.

“At first we pretended it didn’t happen.”

Evelyn snorted.

“That lasted what, three hours?”

“About that.”

Marivella laughed.

“And then we just… kept being together.”

Evelyn tilted her head.

“You make it sound very casual for something that lasted three years.”

Marivella shrugged again.

“It felt normal.”

Evelyn studied her carefully.

“Normal.”

“Yeah.”

Evelyn took another drink of wine.

Then she said softly,

“You were really in love with him.”

Marivella didn’t answer right away.

Instead she watched the reflection of the lamp flicker slightly in the dark red wine in her glass.

In her mind she could see it again so clearly.

Benito at seventeen.

Sitting beside her late at night.

Sharing a pair of headphones.

Talking about music like it was the most important thing in the world.

She let out a quiet breath.

“Yeah.”

Evelyn leaned back against the pillows.

“Holy shit.”

They sat there for a moment, slowly working through the bottle of wine, the quiet of the room settling around them.

Then Evelyn turned her head toward her again.

“But wait.”

Marivella groaned.

“What now.”

Evelyn squinted at her suspiciously.

“You said three years.”

“Yes.”

“So how did it end?”

The question hung quietly between them.

Marivella looked down at her hands.

And once again the memory of the hug outside Madison Square Garden returned like an echo in her chest.

“That,” she said softly, lifting her glass for another sip, “is a much longer story.”

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[paper-lanterns-at-dawn]

BAILE INoLVIDABLE | Chapter Four

Summary: Marivella Roy-Rivera grew up with Benito in Vega Baja, best friends turned high school sweethearts who thought they'd last forever. But she wanted degrees, stability, and a future she could plan; he wanted music, stages, and a life bigger than the island could hold. They moved on--or at least tried to. Now Marivella is back in Puerto Rico for a few months after finishing her PhD, engaged to a kind, steady man who can give her everything she once said she wanted. The problem? Benito's home too... and he's finally offering her the stability she always needed--but it might be too late.

Previous chapter | Masterlist | Next chapter

*disclaimer: I don't speak Spanish so I'm using DeepL to write dialogue in Spanish and it's proofread but i'm dyslexic so forgive me for errors. word count: 3k

BAILE INoLVIDABLE | Chapter Four

After the show, the lights came back up slowly.

At first it was barely noticeable--a faint glow seeping down from the rafters of Madison Square Garden as the stage lights dimmed and the jumbotron screen faded to black. For a moment, the arena hovered in that strange in between state where the concert was technically over but the energy still pulsed through the building like an aftershock.

The bass form the final song still hummed faintly through the floor. Marivella could feel it in the soles of her shoes. Around her, forty thousand people were trying to process the same thing at once.

Then everything exploded into noise.

People surged toward the aisles, toward the exists, shouting over each other, laughing, replaying their favorite moments from the show. Phone screens lit up everywhere as people reviewed videos or tried to send shaky voice messages to friends.

Beside her, Evelyn grabbed Marivella's arm so suddenly she almost lost her balance.

"Oh my god."

Marivella blinked. "What?"

"That was insane."

Evelyn looked like someone who had just witnessed something supernatural. Her braid had come halfway undone, loose strands of hair sticking to her cheeks from sweat and humidity inside the arena.

"I mean I knew he was good live," Evelyn continued breathlessly, "but that was like--"

She gestured wildly toward the stage.

"--Insane."

Marivella forced a small smile.

"Yeah."

But her voice sounded far away, even to herself. Her mind wasn't replaying the show, it was replaying something else.

Benito walking down the long extension of the stage.

The moment he stopped.

The moment his head turned slightly.

The moment his eyes met hers.

Even now she wasn't sure if it had really happened.

It had only lasted a second. Maybe less.

But something about it had felt deliberate.

"Marv."

She looked up; she hated that nickname.

"You've been weird for a while now."

"What does that even mean?"

Evelyn leaned closer. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine."

"You look like you've just had a life-changing realization."

Marivella chuckled and responded, "I'm just tired. And hungry."

Evelyn snorted.

"Nothing new."

They joined the slow river of people moving down the stairs toward the arena corridors.

The hallway outside the main room was chaos. Fans packed shoulder to shoulder, everyone moving in slightly different directions while shouting conversations over the noise. The air smelled like spilled beer, popcorn, sweat, and stadium nachos.

Someone nearby was already blasting one of Bad Bunny's songs from their phone speaker.

Evelyn was still talking.

"Did you see when the dancers came out during the second set?" she asked. "I swear the whole floor shook."

Marivella nodded automatically. But her thoughts were drifting again. Back to the stage, that moment, the way Benito had looked when he paused.

"Hey."

Evelyn nudged her.

"You're doing it again."

"Doing what?"

"Disappearing."

"I'm not disappearing."

"You are mentally in another dimension right now."

Marivella rolled her eyes. "I'm literally walking beside you."

"That doesn't mean you're present."

They turned a corner into a quieter hallway.

Two security guards stood beside a door marked VIP exit. One of them glanced at their wristbands and nodded.

"You can head through here."

Evelyn froze.

"Wait, really?"

"Yes, ma'am."

They stepped through the door into a short corridor.

Evelyn looked like she might faint. "This is genuinely insane," she whispered.

"It's a hallway."

"It's the artist hallway."

Mariella shrugged.

Evelyn turned toward her dramatically.

"Bad Bunny has walked through this hallway. Michael Jackson has walked through this hallway. Lady Gaga, for fuck's sake, has walked through here, and you think it's just a hallway?"

"I get your point."

The corridor opened into a gated outdoor area behind the arena.

Compared to the chaos inside, it felt almost quiet. A few groups of fans lingered behind metal barricades nearby, clearly hoping to catch a glimpse of someone from the show. Several black SUVs were parked along the curb.

The cool New York night air hit Marivella's face.

Evelyn spun slowly.

"We just exited Madison Square Garden through the artist’s entrance."

Marivella shoved her hands into her jacket pockets.

"Apparently."

Evelyn suddenly turned toward the barricades.

Then she gasped. "Wait."

Marivella side immediately. "Nope."

"We should stay."

"Nope."

"Just for a few minutes."

"Nope."

Evelyn clasped her hands dramatically.

"What if he comes out? Please!"

Marivella started walking down the street.

Evelyn followed.

"Five minutes."

"Still no."

Evelyn stopped suddenly. "Fine."

Marivella turned suspiciously.

"Fine?"

Evelyn scanned the street . Her eyes landed on a nearby food truck.

"Stay right here."

"What are you doing?"

"Negotiating."

Two minutes later, Evelyn returned holding a giant foil-wrapped burrito.

She held it out triumphantly.

"If you stay here with me for fifteen minutes," she said, "this is yours."

Marivella stared at it.

"You're bribing me with food."

"Yes."

"That's manipulative."

"It's effective."

Marivella sighed and took the burrito.

"Fifteen minutes."

Evelyn grinned. "Fifteen. No more, no less."

Marivella unwrapped the foil and took a large bite. The burrito was enormous. And surprisingly good.

She hadn't realized how hungry she was until the first bite hit her stomach.

Evelyn, meanwhile, had already turned back toward the arena door.

Scanning it like a hawk.

"Relaxe," Marivella said through a mouthful of food.

"I am relaxed."

"Well, look who's lying now. You look like a surveillance camera."

"I'm observing our surroundings."

"You're stalking."

"I'm manifesting."

Marivella rolled her eyes.

Another bite.

Another.

Then Evelyn grabbed her arm.

"Marivella."

She frowned.

"Hm?"

Her mouth was so full she couldn't even speak.

"Don't turn around too fast."

That alone made her turn immediately.

Still trying to chew.

Still holding the burrito.

The artist door had opened.

Two security guards stepped out first.

Then Benito walked out behind them.

For a moment he looked toward the fans gathered behind the barricades.

Then his gaze shifted, and they landed directly on her.

He stopped walking. Marivella froze, burrito stuffed in her mouth.

They stared at each other, then Benito started laughing.

A real laugh.

The kind that bent his shoulders forward.

He approached closer to them as Marivella quickly chewed and swallowed her bite.

"Why are you laughing like that?" Marivella asked.

He shook his head, still smiling. "Debería haberlo sabido." (I should've known)

"Known what?"

"Que la primera vez que te vea en años," he said, gesturing toward her hands, "intentarías comer algo del tamaño de tu cabeza." (That the first time I see you in years you'd be trying to eat something the size of your head)

Marivella rolled her eyes.

"Tú eres quien interrumpió mi cena." (You're the one who interrupted my dinner.)

Benito grinned.

"Estás comiendo al lado de una calle en pleno Nueva York. Es difícil no ser interrumpido." (You're eating on the side of a street in the middle of New York. It's hard not to be interrupted.)

"I was hungry," Marivella shrugged. "Y Eve me sobornó para que me quedara." (And Eve bribed me to stay.)

Benito looked at the burrito. "Te sobornaron con un burrito?" (You got bribed with a burrito?)

"No actúes como si no lo hicieras." (Don't act like you wouldn't.)

He laughed softly. "Siempre tuviste debilidad por la comida." (You always did have a weakness for food.)

"And you always made terrible hair decisions."

He blinked. "Qué le pasa a mi pelo en la cabeza?" (What's wrong with my hair?)

"Never mind."

Evelyn stood frozen.

Because her best friend had just casually insulted Bad Bunny's hair.

Benito rubbed the top of his head defensively.

"Está bien." (It's fine.)

"Es amarillo. Beno amarillo neón." (It's yellow. Neon yellow Beno.)

He stared at her. "No me has visto en años y esto es lo primero que dices?" (You haven't seen me in years and this is the first thing you say?)

"No te dirán," (They won't tell you) she replied, gesturing toward the small crowd shouting his name.

He laughed again.

And Evelyn's brain finally reacted. "WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING?"

Both of them looked at her.

"How do you two know each other?"

Silence fell.

Marivella sighed.

"…We grew up together."

Evelyn's jaw dropped.

"AND YOU NEVER TOLD ME?"

"It didn't seem relevant."

"Not relevant?"

Benito smirked.

"She's always been like this."

Evelyn stared between them.

"You're telling me your childhood friend is Bad Bunny."

Benito reached out his hand to shake hers, "Nice to meet you."

Evelyn did not immediately shake his hand. Instead, she stared at it. Then she looked at Marivella. Then back at Benito. Then back at Marivella again.

Her brain was very clearly attempting to reboot.

"Nice to meet you," Benito repeated, hand still extended.

Evelyn slowly reached out and shook it. "Hi," she said in a brief huff.

Then she turned to Marivella again. "You grew up with Bad Bunny."

Marivella sighed.

"Yes."

"And you never told me."

"It never came up."

Evelyn blinked at her. "We've been best friends for six years."

"Yes."

"We lived together for a year."

"Yes."

"You helped me through a breakup."

"Yes."

"And you never thought to mention that you grew up with Bad Bunny?"

Marivella shrugged.

"It didn't seem relevant."

Evelyn stared at her in belief.

Benito snorted. "She's not lying."

Marivella shot him a look.

"You're not helping."

He lifted his hands innocently.

"Solo digo." (I'm just saying.)

Evelyn pointed between them again.

"How long did you know each other?"

Marivella and Benito both answered at the same time.

"Since we were kids."

"Since we were like five."

Benito paused, then frowned. "Four," Benito corrected.

Marivella scoffed.

"No, it was five."

"Éramos cuatro." (We were four.)

He looked at her incredulously.

"Te mudaste a la casa amarilla de la esquina de la mía cuando tenías cuatro años." (You moved into the yellow house down the street around the corner of mine when you were four.)

"That doesn't mean we met that year."

"We literally met that week."

"That's not true."

"Yes it is."

"No it isn't."

Benito said something teasing about how she was rewriting history. Marivella shot back immediately that he was the one exaggerating like always. They spoke over each other at times, like the way people do when they've been arguing about the same thing for years.

Benito laughed. "No tiene sentido discutir, sabes que ganaré. Siempre lo he hecho, siempre lo haré." (There's no point arguing, you know I'll win. Always have, always will.)

"I'm not losing this time."

"Yes you are."

"You're the one who started it."

"Tú fuiste quien sacó mi pelo." (You're the one who brought up my hair.)

"Because it's terrible."

"It's not that bad."

"It's neon yellow."

"Fashion."

"You like a dried up highlighter."

Evelyn blinked. Slowly.

"…Wait."

The two of them kept going.

"You've had worse hair."

"There's another lie."

"Remember the red pixie cut?"

"That was fashion, not whatever this is," she said, pointing at the top of Benito's head.

Evelyn raised her voice. "WAIT."

Both of them stopped and turned toward her. Evelyn was staring a Marivella.

"You speak Spanish?"

Maarivella blinked. "…Yes."

"Like that?"

Benito leaned against the barricade again. "She used to speak it much better."

Marivella shot him a glare and rubbed the back of her neck. "I told you that."

"You said you took Spanish classes."

"That was for grammar."

Evelyn waved her hands wildly between them.

"You two just argued in Spanish like it's your default setting."

Neither of them answered, because it kind of was.

Evelyn turned slowly in a circle like she needed to physically process this new reality.

"So let me get this straight."

Marivella sighed.

"My best friend secretly grew up with Bad Bunny. And she speaks fluent Spanish."

"Yes," confirmed Marivella.

"And somehow this never came up in ix years of friendship."

"Surprise?"

"You are unbelievable."

Evelyn stared at her like she had just discovered an entirely different version of her best friend--because she had. But before she could continue, one of the security guards standing a few feet away from Benito stopped forward slightly.

"Sir," he called. "We need to go."

Benito glanced toward the street. One of the black SUVs had pulled closer to the curb, headlights cutting through the dim alley behind the area. Someone from his team was already watching him expectantly.

Evelyn's eyes widened. "Oh my god," she whispered. "I'm delaying Bad Bunny."

"Don't worry about," he responded.

Then he looked back at Marivella. For a second, neither of them said anything. You could her the fans start to complain about why he was spending so much time to two random girls who just previously had food stuffed into their faces while sitting on the sidewalk curb.

"Un segundo," (One sec) he said to the guard.

He stepped forward and pulled Marivella into a hug. She didn't hesitate; her arms came up around him automatically, like her body had remembered the motion long before her mind had caught up. The noise of the street--the fans shouting his name, the rumble of engines, Evelyn still spiraling beside them--it all fell to the edges of the moment. For a little bit, none of it mattered.

The hug wasn't quick, it was tight. It was the kind of hug that came from years of knowing exactly how the other person fit against you.

Marivella felt the warmth of him through his jacket, solid and steady, the way it had always been. His arms wrapped fully around her shoulders, pulling her closer like there was no version of this moment where he would anything else.

She held on just as tightly, and all at once, the years between them felt both enormous and strangely thin. Mermories flickered through her mind without warning--sunburned afternoons in Vega Baja, bike rides down quiet and somehow still noisy streets, music playing too loudly through open windows, arguments that ended in laughter, the easy closeness of a life that had once seemed permanent.

It had been years. Years of different cities, different lives, different versions of themselves.

And yet standing there, in the middle of a dimly lit street in the middle of New York Coty, it felt like some small part of that time had folded on itself. It was as if the distance between whom they had been and who they were now had briefly disappeared.

Benito tightened his arms around her once, not enough to make a show of it, but just enough that she felt it.

There was something quiet it in that gesture.

Sometihing that held relief and disbelief and something softer underneath both. As if he was grounding himself in the fact that she was actually there.

Marivella's eyes closed for a moment. She hadn't realized until that second how mush she had missed. Him. Not the idea of him, not the version of him she occasionally saw online or heard on the radio.

Him.

The person who had known her when everything in life had been simpler.

The person who had been there before ambition and distance and choices had pulled them in different directions.

Holding him again felt like finding a piece of something she hadn't known she had lost.

It was warm and comforting. And a little painful all at once because it reminded her how easily things could have been different.

Neither of them spoke.

They didn't need to because the hug said enough.

When they finally pulled apart, it happened slowly. Not abruptly, not reluctantly. Just gradually, like they were both aware the moment had to end but weren't quite ready to be the one who let go first.

For a second linger, they stayed close, still within each other's spaces, the echo of the hug lingering between them.

Then Benito looked down and noticed the burrito. He looked at it and contemplated a thought, and without asking he leaned down and took a bite.

"Did you just--"

He straightened, chewing calmly like nothing about the situation was unusual.

"--Steal my burrito?" she finished.

"No comías lo suficientemente rápido." (You weren't eating fast enough.)

She stared at him in disbelief, "Acabas de llevarte como la mitad!" (You just took like half of it!)

Across from them, Evelyn made a sound homeware between a gasp and a groan.

Both of the m turned toward her. She was standing there completely still, eyes moving slowly between them like she was watching two actors in a play she hadn't realized she walked into.

"You two know each other," she said.

"Yes," Marivella answered.

"You hug."

"Yes."

"You argue in Spanish."

"Yes."

"And he just stole your burrito."

"Unfortunately."

Evelyn dragged both hands down her face. "I feel like I've just entered a parallel universe."

Benito laughed again, "It's not that dramatic."

"It is extremely dramatic," Evelyn said immediately. "My best friend secretly grew up with Bad Bunny and she never even told me."

Benito glanced toward the street again. One of his team members was watching him with the patient look of someone who has been waiting for a while.

Benito exhaled softly, "I have to go."

He looked over at Marivella, " Cuánto tiempo estarás en Nueva York?" (How long are you in New York?)

"Two more days."

He paused slightly and nodded, like he was filing that information somewhere, "okay."

Then he stepped back slightly, already halfway turning toward the car. But before he left for good, he looked at her again. Really looked this time. The teasing smile returned, softer now.

"Me alegro de verte, Mari." (Good seeing you, Mari.)

She nodded, "Me alegro de verte también, Beno." (Good to see you too, Beno.)

Neither of them wanted to break eye contact first. Then one of the security guards stepped between them to open the car door for Benito, and he finally turned away.

The door shut.

The SUV pulled slowly away.

And just like that, he was gone.

For a moment, the street felt strangely quiet again. Then Evelyn turned toward Marivella. "You have a lot to explain."

"Do I have to do it right now or can I finish my burrito?"

"Immediately, speak while you chew, you always do that anyway and it's gross but this time I'll excuse it."

Even as Evelyn started her interrogation, part of Marivella's attention was still lingering down the street where the SUV had disappeared.

Becasue after all those years, seeing him again had felt dangerously easy.

And that scared her a little more than she wanted to admit.

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[paper-lanterns-at-dawn]

✵ Paper Lanterns at Dawn Masterlist ✵

Currently working on: BAILE INoLVIDABLE | Chapter Ten

BAILE INoLVIDABLE

Benito Antonio Martínez Ocasio

Marivella Roy-Rivera grew up with Benito in Vega Baja, best friends turned high school sweethearts who thought they'd last forever. But she wanted degrees, stability, and a future she could plan; he wanted music, stages, and a life bigger than the island could hold. They moved on--or at least tried to. Now Marivella is back in Puerto Rico for a few months after finishing her PhD, engaged to a kind, steady man who can give her everything she once said she wanted. The problem? Benito's home too... and he's finally offering her the stability she always needed--but it might be too late.

Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three |

Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six |

Chapter Seven | Chapter Eight | Chapter Nine |

Chapter Ten |

[paper-lanterns-at-dawn]

BAILE INoLVIDABLE | Chapter Three

Summary: Marivella Roy-Rivera grew up with Benito in Vega Baja, best friends turned high school sweethearts who thought they'd last forever. But she wanted degrees, stability, and a future she could plan; he wanted music, stages, and a life bigger than the island could hold. They moved on--or at least tried to. Now Marivella is back in Puerto Rico for a few months after finishing her PhD, engaged to a kind, steady man who can give her everything she once said she wanted. The problem? Benito's home too... and he's finally offering her the stability she always needed--but it might be too late.

Previous chapter | Masterlist | Next chapter

*disclaimer: I don't speak Spanish so I'm using DeepL to write dialogue in Spanish and it's proofread BUT i'm dyslexic so forgive me for errors. word count: 3.2k

BAILE INoLVIDABLE | Chapter Three

Tour buses always smelled the same.

Coffee that had gone slightly cold. Leather seats warmed by the sun through tinted windows. A faint trace of stage smoke and cologne that seemed to follow them from city to city, clinging to the fabric no matter how many times the doors opened.

Benito had noticed it the first week f the tour.

Now it felt familiar.

He sat near the front of the bus with his shoulder resting against the window, watching the highway stretch out ahead in long grey lines. The sky outside was just beginning to brighten, that quiet hour before sunrise when the world looked washed in pale blue.

The bus moved steadily through the early morning traffic.

Buildings slid past.

Gas station.

A few empty full parking lots.

A billboard advertising a radio station that had been playing his music for months now. He followed it with his eyes until it disappeared behind them.

Most of the bus was asleep. Someone snored softly in one of the bunks, the sound rising and falling with the rhythm of the road. A pair of headphones leaked faint music somewhere near the rear--just a thin thread of bass slipping into the quiet. A blanket had fallen halfway onto the aisle. An open laptop rested on the table between two seats, its screen dark now but still faintly reflecting the first light creeping through the windows. The low vibration of the engine hummed beneath the floor, steady enough that you eventually stopped noticing it.

Benito had been awake for a while.

Sleep came strangely on tour. Sometimes he fell asleep the moment his head touched the seat. Other nights he lay awake listening to the bus move through cities he barely saw.

This had been one of those nights.

His phone rested loosely in his hand. The screen had been unlocked long enough that the brightness had dimmed once already before he tapped it awake again.

He wasn't scrolling. Just looking.

The contact list sat open, rows of names sliding past until his thumb stopped one of them.

Marivella.

The name looked ordinary on the screen.

Just another entry between hundreds of contact that had appeared over the past few years--producers, DJs, promoters, managers...

But this one had been there longer than the rest.

He transferred it onto his new phone.

He hadn't deleted it when she left.

He hadn't really thought about deleting it either. It had simply stayed there while everything else around it changed.

Benito stared at the name for a moment.

The tapped it. The contact card opened: her phone number. No photo. No recent messages.

Nothing that suggested the years that had passed since they had last spoken.

He stared at the empty conversation thread.

Outside, the horizon shifted slowly from blue to gold. The sun was beginning to push its way over the road.

The X100PRE tour had started only a few weeks earlier, but the days were already beginning to blur together.

Airports. Hotel elevators. Dressing rooms that all smelled faintly of hairspray and stage lights.

Stages that seemed to grow bigger every night. Stages that seemed to grow bigger every night. Crowds that stretched farther than the lights could reach.

Everything he had imagined when he used to sit in his bedroom in Vega Baja recording songs long after midnight.

Everything he had worked for.

Still, quiet moments like this had a way of pulling his thoughts somewhere else.

Back to the island.

Back to the creek and the river. Back to the beach.

Back to a wooden dock that creaked under their feet.

Back to a girl sitting beside him with her feet swinging over the water while the sun dropped slowly toward the horizon.

Benito rubbed his thumb across the edge of the phone.

Madison Square Garden.

The thought started appearing in his head a few days earlier. April 27, in New York.

From what he had heard--mostly from his mom, and sometimes from her parents when he ran into them back in Vega Baja--Marivella was in Toronto now.

Graduate school for a master's.

And hopefully a PhD next.

He had learned the details slowly over the years in small conversations. Running into her father outside the colmado, seeing her mother hanging up laundry in the yard.

They always asked about the music first, and eventually he would ask about her. That's how he kept track of the years.

Toronto wasn't close.

Not impossibly far either.

But far enough that idea forming in his head felt ridiculous.

Benito looked back at the phone screen. The empty conversation stared back at him.

Hola (Hey) Han pasado años (It's been years) Quieres entradas para el Madison Square Garden? (You want tickets to Madison Square Garden?)

He could already hear how strange it sounded.

His thumb hovered over the keyboard. Then stopped.

The bus hit a small bump in the road.

Benito exhaled quietly and locked the phone. He leaned his head back against the seat.

"Bro."

Benito opened his eyes.

Marco stood in the aisle holding two paper cups of coffee. "Llevas despierto desde las cinco," (You've been awake since like five) his producer said, handing one over. "Estás bien?" (You good?)

Benito sat up slightly, taking the cup.

"Sí." (Yeah)

Marco slid onto the seat across from him, glancing briefly ay the phone still resting in Benito's hand.

"Vas a mandarle un mensaje a quien sea," (You gonna text whoever that is) he said casually, "o vas a mirarlo toda la mañana?" (or keep staring at it all morning?)

Benito almost smiled.

He flipped the phone over so the screen faced the seat cushion.

"Tal vez más tarde." (Maybe later.)

Marco shrugged and took a sip of his coffee.

Outside, the sun finally broke over the horizon, the bus kept moving, and the highway stretched endlessly ahead of them.

The idea didn't disappear after that morning.

It stayed.

Tour schedules had a way of moving time forward too quickly, but certain thoughts followed him anyway--appearing in small gaps between sound checks, in the quiet minutes after shows when the adrenaline finally started to fade.

Madison Square Garden.

The date appeared in front of him a few days later, this time taped to the mirror in a dressing room.

Benito stood in front of it while someone behind him adjusted the chain around his neck.

Lights from the mirror bulbs warmed the room, reflecting off the cluttered counter--water bottles, folded towels, three pairs of sunglasses to choose from.

He wasn't really looking at his own reflection. His eyes kept drifting to the printed schedule.

April 27th - New York: Madison Square Garden

Even now the name still felt strange.

He had frown up hearing about that place the way people talked about landmarks in citied far away--something that existed somewhere else, somewhere larger.

Now it was part of his tour.

A stage waiting for him.

Someone called his name from the hallway.

"Five minutes."

Benito nodded without looking away from the schedule.

New York.

Toronto wasn't too far from there.

A few hours maybe.

He imagined it for a second.

Her in the crowd.

Then immediately pushed the thought away. It didn't make sense, they hadn't spoken in years. For all he knew she didn't even listent to his music.

He rubbed a hand over his jaw and looked away from the mirror.

The show stared. The thought stayed.

A week passed.

Cities changed, crowds were loud.

Somewhere between a flight and a hotel room her saw her again.

Not in person. On his phone.

Someone from Vega Baja had tagged her in a photo.

Benito had been lying on the hotel bed scrolling through Instagram without paying much attention when the pictuer appeared.

She stood outside a university building, the wind lifting a few strands of her hair across her face. Books were tucked against her chest, one arm wrapped around them loosely while she smiled at whoever had taken the photo.

Benito sat up slowly agaisnt the headborad.

The room was quiet except for the low hum of the air conditioner and the distant sound of traffic somewhere below the hotel window.

For a moment he just looked at the picture. She looked older. Not dramatically--the same face, the same smile--but something about the way she held herself seemed different. More certain. Like the years had settled into her in a way he could see even through a phone screen.

The wind had pushed a strand of hair across her cheek.

She hadn't bothered to move it.

He remembered that about her.

If she was concentrating on something, the rest of the world could wait, even if hair got in her face.

Benito leaned his head back and let the phone rest on his lap.

Toronto.

That was where she had been for years now.

His mom had mentioned it the last time he was home.

They had been sitting at the kitchen table cutting veggies for dinner, the tv murmuring softly in the background.

"Sigue en Canadá,"(She's still in Canada) she had said. "Estudiando. Parece que se quedará allí un tiempo." (Studying. It seems like she'll stay there for a while)

Benito had nodded like it was information her had expected.

Benito locked the screen and set his phone the bedside table. For a few minutes, he just laid there staring at the ceiling, and eventually fell asleep.

Later the next day, Benito found Noah in the hotel lounge.

His manager was sitting on one the low couches with his laptop open across his knees, the screen filled with a grid of tour schedules and emails.

Benito stopped beside the couch.

Noah glanced up.

"Qué pasa?" (What's up?)

Benito leaned his shoulder against the back of the seat, looking past him toward the window.

"Madison Square Garden," he said.

Noah nodded once. "Sí. Veintisiete de abril." (Yeah. April twenty-seventh.)

Benito tapped his thumb on his thigh.

"Todavía tienes esas listas de invitados?" (You still have those guest lists?)

Noah gave him a small sideways look.

"Para el concierto?" (For the show?)

"Sí."

".Por supuesto." (Of course.)

Benito nodded slowly, like he was confirming something to himself.

"Puedes añadir a alguien?" (Can you add someone?)

Noah didn't answer right away. His hands paused above the keyboard.

"Claro," he said finally. "Quién?" (Yeah, who?)

Benito said her name.

It hung in the air for a second.

Noah didn't react much--just typed it into the document like it was any other name.

"Cuántas entradas?" (How many tickets?)

Benito thought about it for a moment.

"Dos." (Two)

"Dos?"

"Para que pueda traer a alguien." (So she can bring someone.)

Noah nodded and kept typing.

"Acceso a la planta?" (Floor access?)

"Yeah." Benito hesitate. "Y asientos," he added after a moment. "Por si acaso." (And seats, just in case)

The keys clicked softly under Noah's hands as he filled in the details.

"Bien," he said after a minute. "Solo necesito que me des su información de contacto y enviaré el correo electrónico." (Alright, I just need you to give me her contact info and I'll have the email sent)

Benito gave Noah her email address, hoping it was still the one they made up together years ago.

He nodded once, didn't look at the screen.

Noah hit send.

Somewhere out there, the message began its quiet trip across servers and ended up in her inbox.

Benito pushed himself way from the couch.

"Estás bien?" (You good?) Noah asked.

Benito slipped his phone back into his pocket.

"Sí."

He wasn't sure if she would come, but at least now the choice was hers.

Show time.....

Madison Square Garden never really felt quiet.

Even hours before the doors opened, the building carried a kind of restless energy in its walls--the echo of footsteps along concrete corridors, the hum of cables being uncoiled, the distant clatter of metal cases rolling across the loading dock.

Benito moved through the backstage hallway slowly, one hand brushing along the wall as he walked.

The smell was familiar.

Sweat. Dust. The faint chemical scent of stage smoke that lingered in venues long before the machines were turned on.

Someone jigged past him carrying a headset. Another crew member was crouched near the stage entrance adjusting a tangle of wires that disappeared beneath the platform.

A technician glanced up and gave him a nod.

"Soundcheck's done," he said. "We're good."

Benito nodded back.

He stepped onto the rising platfrom.

Once he got up onto the stage, the arena was still mostly empty.

Only a handful of crew members moved across the floor below, pushing equipment and checking monitors. The lights above the stage hung dark and silent, long metal trusses stretching into the shadows of the ceiling.

The arena was enormous. Rows of seats rose steeply on every side, disappearing into the darkness near the top of the building.

Benito walked slowly to one corner of the stage. The barricade stood just a few feet away.

Right now it was empty.

In a few hours it would be the most crowned place in a large radius.

He sat down on the edge.

Madison Square Garden.

The name alone had carried weight long before he ever imagined playing here.

In Vega Baja it had always existed in a distant category--the kind of place you saw in documentaries about artists or in old concert movies, the kind of place big musical names talked about reaching.

Now he was here.

Benito exhaled slowly and straightened.

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

A message from his manager.

Las puertas se abren para VIP en 10 y para general en 40. Las multitudes ya están locas fuera.

Benito typed a quick reply and then slipped his phone back into his pocket.

For a moment he sat there looking out across the empty floor. His mind drifted briefly toward something else. He didn't know if she would come.

By the time the lights down a couple of hours later, the building had transformed completely.

The quiet emptiness pf the afternoon was gone and the arena was full. Sound rolled through the space in waves--thousands of voices overlapping, shouting, singing, cheering as the anticipation built.

The lights cut suddenly.

Benito stood on the elevator platform, waiting to be lifted onto the stage.

Someone adjusted the microphone in his hand while another voice from behind counted down.

Five minutes ago, the hallway had still been calm. Crew members walking with purposed, last-minute checks, water bottles placed close to the stage.

Now the building vibrated. The sound of the crowd seeped through the walls, through the floor, through the metal posts holding the stage up.

He exhaled slowly and rolled his shoulders once.

No matter how many shows he played, the seconds before walking out always felt the same.

Not fear.

Something sharper than that.

Energy waiting to break loose.

The lights cut suddenly. Darkness swallowed the arena.

The reaction from the crown was immediate.

A scream rose from the floor, then another, then thousands more until the entire building was shaking with it. Even from underneath the stage the noise hit like a physical force.

The jumbotron flickered to life above the stage. The opening video began to play.

Benito could hear the crowd reacting already--shouting, chanting, voices climbing higher with every second that passed.

Someone beside him lifted a hand.

Three fingers.

Two.

Once.

Through the speakers he heard the voice ring out across the arena.

“Make some noise for Benito… "

He rose up slowly.

"Antonio…"

He started seeing the crowd.

"MARRRRRRRTINEZ!”

The roar hit him instantly--twenty thousand voices crashing together, the sound bouncing off every surface of the building until it felt like the air itself was vibrating.

Lights burst on overhead, cutting through the darkness in white beams that swept across the crowd.

From the stage, the arena looked endless.

Phones glowed in some spots.

Hands reached toward the stage.

For a moment he just stood there, letting the sound wash over him.

Then the first beat dropped.

The show began.

The opening songs always moved fast.

The adrenaline took over immediately, pulling him forward before his mind had time to catch up. His body knew the rhythm of the set by now--the way each track followed into the next, the moments when the crowd would jump, when they would scream lyrics back at him so loud he barely needed to sing.

He moved across the stage automatically.

Lights flashed. The bass rolled through the building.

Fans screamed every word.

From this height, the audience blurred together into movement and colour. Faces flashed past too quickly to focus on--someone waving a flag, someone crying, someone lifting a phone high above their head.

The barricade pressed tight against the stage. Security guards leaned against the stage, surveilling the crowd.

He walked down the long arm of the stage. From here the audience felt even closer.

Hands stretched upward. People shouted his name. The heat from the crowd rose toward the stage lights.

Benito pointed toward someone near the barricade who had been screaming every lyric since the first songe.

The fan nearly collapsed.

He grinned and turned back toward the center of the stage.

Another song started and the lights shifted.

Halfway through the set, he moved back down the other arm of the stage. He scanned the crowd the way he always did.

Quick.

Instinctive.

Thousands of faces.

Movements.

Then something caught his eyes.

Just for a second.

A familiar shap in the front row.

His brain didn't register in immediately.

He looked away, kept walking, and kept singing.

But somethin about it stayed with him. That strange flicker of recognition.

During the next verse, her turned back toward that section again. The lights swept across the barricade.

And this time he saw her clearly.

Marivella.

The recognition hit him all at once.

For half a second his body froze.

Not enough for anyone in the crowd to notice, but enough that he almost missed his cue to start the next line.

He recovered instantly--years of performing had trained him well enough for that--but the moment had already landed.

She was standing right there.

Just behind the barricade.

Her hands resting lightly on the metal rail, the crowd pressing close behind her.

Her eyes were fixed on the stage.

On him.

The arean thundered around them.

Twenty thousand people shouting.

Lights cutting across the crowd.

Music vibrating through the floor beneath his feet.

But for a moment, none of it reigstered.

Because across the distance between the stage and the barricade--

She was looking at him.

She didn't move.

She didn't wave.

She just stood there watching him the same way she used to watch him from her desk chair--calm, steady, and now proud.

And then she smiled.

Benito felt something tighten in his chest.

He smiled back without thinking.

His voice shifted slightly when he started the next line. The change was small and subtle enough that most people probably didn't notice. It was warmer, lighter.

He kept moving across the stage.

The music continued exactly the way it was supposed to.

But every time he turned to that side of the platform, his eyes drifted back to the same spot near the barricade.

And every time, she was still there.

Watching him.

The arena roared around them, but the sound felt distant now.

Because out of twenty thousand people packed into Madison Square Garden, Benito had found the only face that made the room feel small again.

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[paper-lanterns-at-dawn]

That better not be the last update for baile inolvidable im invested. I wanna see them talk again 😂 kudos on your writing!

Definitely not, I’ve got lots planned.

I also have ideas of random moments that don’t fit well in the general story but that do fit this universe.

However things are gonna be pretty slow cuz the uni work load is heavy for the next few weeks and then I’ve got finals, but around end of April/ early may I’ll be posting more/faster.

[paper-lanterns-at-dawn]

BAILE INoLVIDABLE | Chapter Two

Summary: Marivella Roy-Rivera grew up with Benito in Vega Baja, best friends turned high school sweethearts who thought they'd last forever. But she wanted degrees, stability, and a future she could plan; he wanted music, stages, and a life bigger than the island could hold. They moved on--or at least tried to. Now Marivella is back in Puerto Rico for a few months after finishing her PhD, engaged to a kind, steady man who can give her everything she once said she wanted. The problem? Benito's home too... and he's finally offering her the stability she always needed--but it might be too late.

Previous chapter | Masterlist | Next chapter

*disclaimer: it's proofread BUT i'm dyslexic so forgive me for errors. word count: 2.9k

BAILE INoLVIDABLE | Chapter Two

Marivella's room's walls were painted an off-white colour that flaked near the radiator, and the radiator itself hissed like it was permanently irritated with the cold. In winter, it clanged at odd hours--metal knocking against metal--then went silent again as if it regretted the noise.

The window faced a parking lot.

Not a skyline. A few trees. And asphalt layered with dirty snow and the occasional orange glow of a streetlamp flickering in protest against the wind.

Her desk was pressed against that window.

Flashcards fanned across the surface in uneven stacks. Open textbooks with colour-coded tabs. A mug with coffee gone cold hours ago. A highlighter without its cap, bleeding neon yellow onto a margin.

Outside, snow drifted sideways in fine sheets, almost horizontal in the wind.

Inside, it smelled faintly of paper and laundry detergent and something metallic from the radiator.

Her phone lay face-down near her elbow. She had trained herself not to check in constantly. She flopped another page. Underline some words. Wrote a note in the margin.

The phone vibrated once. A soft hum against the wood. She ignored it.

It vibrated again.

She flipped her phone. Just to check real quick.

The screen lit up beside her, bright against the dim desk lamp. A name appeared at the top.

eve_lynnnnnn mentioned you in a comment

She had to study, she shouldn't open it. She told herself she wouldn't.

Her thumb moved anyway. Instagram loaded slowly, the weak building wifi buffering for a second before the image sharpened into focus.

A stadium.

Crowd shot from above--thousands of tiny bodies packed shoulder to shoulder, arms raised, lights glowing like scattered constellations.

There was text layered across the image in bold white letters:

BAD BUNNY--X100PRE TOUR--CONCERT TICKET GIVEAWAY

Below it, in smaller fonts:

TAG YOUR FRIENDS TO PARTICIPATE

Evelyn had tagged her three times in three different comments.

WE ARE GOING!!! YOU HAVE TO ENTER SO WE CAN GO PLEASEEEEE I NEVER ASK ANYTHING OF YOU PRETTY PLEASE I NEED THIS

Marivella stared at the screen. The comments scrolled endlessly beneath the post--people tagging cousins, roommates, exes, entire group chats.

She zoomed into the stage photo without thinking. A cross-like shaped platform stretching out into the crowd, spotlights slicing through haze, and his name printed massive across the screens behind him.

Bad Bunny.

The words felt strange next to that venue.

She locked her phone.

Then unlocked it again and scrolled back.

Her friend sent another message.

Imagine if we win, front row!!!

Front row.

A memory flickered before she could stop it. The airport, his voice half-smiling through something that wasn't quite a joke.

She inhaled slowly and let the air out through her nose.

It was just a concert. Just a giveaway. Just a name that had once been hers in smaller rooms.

The radiator hissed again, filling the silence she had created. Snow slid down the window in thin streaks. Her textbooks waited open in front of her, highlighter still bleeding faint yellow into the margin.

She looked at the post one more time. Her friend had already commented with a string of fire emojis and two tagged usernames.

Marivella did not comment. She did not tag anyone.

But she didn't close the app either.

For a second--just a second--she imagined herself in that crowd. Pressed against the barricade, lights cutting across her face, his voice coming from a huge speaker and not from across the yard.

She set her phone face down. The wood of the desk felt cool against her palm. Outside, the wind pushed snow sideways across the parking lot. Inside, the radiator clanged once more. She picked up her pen, underlined a sentence, and tried not to think about Madison Square Garden.

The week after she had seen the giveaway post, life quickly went back into its usual rhythm. Classes, research hours, long afternoons in the graduate lounge where the sunlight slowly crept across the wooden table before disappearing behind the library building. The concert post faded into the background of the chat the way most internet things did.

Evelyn, of course, did not let it die completely. Every few days another message appeared. A video from the tour in another city. A screenshot of some old acquaintance's story at the concert.

Imagine if we actually won

Marivella never responded to those message right away. She would glance at them between paragraphs she was reading, then set the phone back down and return to whatever article sat open in from of her.

It felt easier that way. Easier to keep that world separate from the one she had built here.

By the end of the week, she had almost stopped thinking about the giveaway entirely.

Which is why the email felt so strange when it appeared.

It slid quietly into her inbox one afternoon. The room smelled faintly of coffee and paper. Her laptop screen glowed in front of her, a half-written assignment blinking patiently on the page.

A notification appeared in the corner of the screen. She almost ignored it but her eyes caught the subject line before it disapeared.

MSG Guest Tickets – April 27 (Bad Bunny X100PRE Tour)

Her fingers stopped typing.

For a second she assumed it was spam. She clicked the inbox tab and saw that sender's email address was unfamiliar.

She opened it slowly.

____________________________________________ From: Noah Assad [email protected] Cc: Benito Martínez Ocasio [email protected] Subject: MSG Guest Tickets – April 27 (Bad Bunny X100PRE Tour) ____________________________________________

Dear Marivella,

I hope you're doing well.

Per Benito's request, I am sending over six tickets for the April 27th show at Madison Square Garden in New York as part of the X100PRE Tour.

The tickets included are:

3 General Admission Floor Passes -- Early entry access to the standing floor section

3 Reserved Seating Tickets -- Section 102, Row F

Security has your name and photo on the guest list for the evening. When you arrive, please check in at the VIP Entrance on 33rd Street at 6:30 PM EST. Our staff will provide you with backstage credentials and escort you to the floor prior to general admission doors opening, so you'll have access to the barricade if you'd like to watch the show from there.

You are, of course, free to use the reserved seating instead if you prefer.

Please do not hesitate to reach out if you need anything ahead of the event.

Looking forward to having you there.

Best regards,

Noah Assad

Rimas Entertainment ____________________________________________

The email sat open on her laptop longer than it needed to. Long enough for the screen to dim once, then again.

Marivella nudged the touchpad and the brightness returned. She read the message again.

Four tickets.

Madison Square Garden.

Her name already on the guest list.

The attachment still sat pen in the tab beside it--four digital tickets lined up in a neat column, each one stamped with the same name printed in bold yellow letters that fade into orange.

Bad Bunny.

For a moment she just stared at them. Then her eyes drifted upward, almost without meaning to.

Cc: Benito Martínez Ocasio [email protected]

Her breath caught slightly. The email address looked strangely normal sitting there in plain text. No stage lights. No crowds screaming his name. Just the same first name she had once written in the margins of notebooks and on the backs of receipts when she had nothing else to write on.

She hovered the cursor over it.

A small contact card popped up automatically, empty except for the email itself.

No profile photo. No extra information.

Just Benito. Benito who remembered meaningless bet years later.

She wondered, briefly, if he had written anything before his manager sent the email. If he had opened a blank draft and stared at the screen the way she was now, trying to decide what could possibly be said after years of silence.

The email itself didn't suggest that.

It was clean. Professional. Distant. Exactly the way something like this was supposed to look. Still, the tickets were there, sent to her. Marivella exhaled slowly and closed the laptop. The apartment settled back into quiet.

Outside, a car passed along the street below, tires hissing against wet pavement. Somewhere down the hall, a door shut, followed by muffled laughter that faded quickly. Her phone lit up against the desk.

Evelyn

Someone won the giveaway 😓

Three dots appeared in a bubble.

Then dissapearede.

Then appeared again.

Oh well, we should still plan a trip somewhere

Marivella stared at the messages for a moment. She could tell them. She could say his name out loud for the first time in years and watch the entire story spill out in a matter of seconds. But the thought felt strange. Too big of a conversation for a text. Too big of a conversation for a phone call.

Instead, all she wrote was:

I think I won

The response came immediately.

WHAT

Then another.

WHAT DO MEAN YOU THINK YOU WON

Marivella shoved her phone in her back pocket, grabbed her jacket and her keys, and headed out the door.

The second she walked into Evelyn's apartment, the interrogation began.

After twenty minutes of nonstop questions, Evelyn was staring at the tickets like they might evaporate if she blinked.

"Four tickets," she said again, slower this time, like she was texting the number. "Four tickets to Madison Square Garden."

Marivella leaned back against the counter, arms folded loosely.

Evelyn scrolled through the PDF again, eyes widening.

"Two floor passes and two seated tickets?" she asked.

"Yeah."

Evelyn's head suddenly snapped up.

"Oh my god."

"What?"

"We have to get there early."

"How early?"

"Like--" Evelyn grabbed her phone, already opening the venue map. "--insanely early. If we want barricade we need to up there before everyone else lines up. We need to get there at like 5 am. We might need to camp out for the night."

Marivella tried not to smile. "That sounds miserable."

"It's gonna be so worth it," Evelyn replied. "Do you understand how close we could get to Bad Bunny? Like actually close. He would literally be right in front of us."

Marivella pushed herself off the counter and reached for her phone again.

"We don't have to get there at five."

Evelyn paused mid-scroll. "Why?"

Marivella turned the screen toward her. "It says VIP."

"What do you mean?"

"We have early access to the floor."

"Are you telling that we can walk onto the floor before everyone else?"

"That's what it says."

For a second Evelyn just stood there. Then she made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a scream. "We're gonna be at the barricade. Holy shit we're gonna be at the barricade of a Bad Bunny concert."

Planning the trip took over everything for the next two weeks. Evelyn treated it like a military operation. Flights were too expensive once she checked, so they settled on a 12 hour train trip with 3 different layovers instead. Evelyn spread her laptop, phone, and half-eaten bag of chips across her kitchen table while she compared schedules like the fate of the world depended on it.

"If we leave friday very early in the morning," she said while pointing at the screen, "we get there around 6. Then we go to the hotel to drop off our bags, explore a bit, and hang out in the area. And then the next day we can just spend the day in Manhattan and then head over to MSG."

The tickets sat in her inbox like a quiet secret. They booked a small room at a hotel in Brooklynn--barely bigger than the dorm she had lived in during her bachelor.

Evelyn immediately began planning outfits. "This is historic," she insisted. "You don't understand."

"I do understand," Marivella said.

"No you don't. You're way too calm about this."

"I'm excited and a little nervous."

"You're suspiciously calm."

Marivella smiled faintly and didn't answer.

The weekend of great travels finally arrived.

The train ride was loud and restless. People moved constantly through aisles. Someone's headphone leaked music two rows back. A baby cried somewhere near the front of the car. The rhythm of the tracks hummed steadily under their seats as the landscape shift from suburbs to cities.

Evelyn barely sat still.

She watched concert videos on her phone the entire ride.

"Look at this stage," she said at one point, shoving the screen in front of Marivella's face.

The cross-ish shape platform stretched out into the crowd like a giant runway.

"People literally faint," Evelyn continued. "He gets so close to the barricade."

Marivella watched the clip. He walked along part of the stage, leaning down toward the fans. The crowd roared. She handed the phone back.

"Looks fun."

Evelyn squinted at her. "you're hiding something."

"No I'm not."

"You are way too calm for someone who just won four Bad Bunny tickets."

Marivella shrugged, "I'm still processing it."

New York smelled different from everywhere else. Hot pavement. Exhaust. Hotdogs from street carts. The constant hum of traffic threading between building that seems too tall for the streets below them. They took a taxi to their hotel in Brooklynn and then found a cheap take out place around the corner where they ordered burritos and ate at the park.

The morning of the concert, they woke up before sunrise.

Evelyn insisted.

Even after Marivella reminded her they had early access.

"What if something goes wrong?" Evelyn argued. "What if the email was fake? What if they change the policy? What if--"

"Nothing is going to happen."

"Famous last words."

So they left early anyway.

When they reached the corner of 8th and 34th, they realised how big this venue was. But it was Madison Square Garden, they shouldn't hove expected anything less. The venue towered above the street like a concrete crown, banners hanging down the sides with his name printed across them in enormous letters.

BAD BUNNY — X100PRE TOUR

Evelyn came to a holt and grabbed Marivella's arm. "Oh my god that's him."

Marivella followed her gaze upward.

The photo on the banner showed him exactly the way the world knew him now--sunglasses, chin tilted slightly downward, hair buzzed with a new design on top.

He looked like someone who belonged on billboards. Not like someone who used to sit on the curb outside his house waiting for his best friend to come over.

Fans had clearly already been there for a long time.

There were dozens, almost hundreds of them already there. Some wrapped in blankets for the cool morning air, some sitting on the sidewalk with coffee cups in hand, a few had portable speakers playing his music quietly while they waited.

Evelyn grinned like she had discovered treasure. "See? I told you."

Marivella watched the line stretch slowly down the block. It felt strange standing among people who him in only one vision. None of them knew the boy who tripped over his own feet. None of them knew the boy who jumped off the dock fully dressed. None of them new the quiet kids who used to record songs in his bedroom after school.

To them, he had alway been Bad Bunny.

By the time evening started rolling around, the entire block buzzed.

Security guards directed people toward the entrances. Vendors shouted over each other selling shirts, food, posters, anything. The line moved slowly through metal barricades.

Marivella and Evelyn made their way to the VIP entrance.

Security checked her name.

Checked the list.

Then nodded.

"Right this way."

Evelyn looked like she might pass out.

They were escorted through a quieter hallway beneath the arena--concrete floors, industrial lightning, the distant rumble of bass vibrating faintly through walls.

When they stepped onto the floor, the stage loomed above them. The cross-shaped platform stretched out and had the lights already warming above it. The barricade was only a few feet away. Evelyn grabbed Marivella's arm. "We're actually at the barricade Mar, like for real for real."

The arena soon started to fill up around them. Thousands of people. Music humming through the speakers while the crowd waited. Then the lights dropped and the jumbotron started playing a video. The scream that followed felt like a physical force. You could hear him start speaking through the speakers, and then another voice.

"Make some noise for Benito. Antonio. MARRRRRRRTINEZ!"

And then a he came up as the crowd erupted.

Evelyn screamed directly into Marivella's ear but she barely heard it.

Her eyes were locked on the stage.

He moved differently than she remembered. Confident. Comfortable. Like the entire arena belonged to him, and for the night, that was the case.

Halfway through the set, he walked down the arm of the stage that pointed directly toward their section. Toward the barricade. Toward them.

He scanned the crowd quickly. Then stopped. Just for a second. He almost missed his cue to start singing again. His eyes had landed on her. Recognition flickered across his face--quick but unmistakable.

He smiled, you could even hear a slight change in his tone. That moment stretched between them across the roar of twenty thousands people.

Marivella didn't move. She couldn't. She didn't look away. The arena thundered around them, but the noise no longer reached her.

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BAILE INoLVIDABLE | Chapter One

Summary: Marivella Roy-Rivera grew up with Benito in Vega Baja, best friends turned high school sweethearts who thought they'd last forever. But she wanted degrees, stability, and a future she could plan; he wanted music, stages, and a life bigger than the island could hold. They moved on--or at least tried to. Now Marivella is back in Puerto Rico for a few months after finishing her PhD, engaged to a kind, steady man who can give her everything she once said she wanted. The problem? Benito's home too... and he's finally offering her the stability she always needed--but it might be too late.

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*disclaimer: I don't speak Spanish so I'm using DeepL to write dialogue in Spanish* and it's proofread BUT i'm dyslexic so forgive me for errors. word count: 4.9k background info: Marivella's mom is from New York and her dad is Puerto Rican, his father died and his mother can't take care of herself so they moved to Vega Baja to help her out when Marivella was 4. Marivella speaks english and Spanish fluently but doesn't have a full Puerto Rican accent when speaking Spanish.

On a Saturday neither of them can fully recall, sometime in late July, the heat in Vega Baja felt heavy and impossible to ignore. A beach day had been planned after countless complaints from Marivella and Benito about never going.

The drive was short, but long enough for them to find something to argue about, and this time it was about who would get to jump off the dock first. It was always something small like that--who saw the ocean first, who reached the sand first, who was braver. They competed over things that didn't matter because a 7 years old, everything felt important.

Benito insisted he wasn't afraid of the height.

Marivella insisted she wasn't afraid either.

In truth, neither of them liked the first jump. The water was colder than it looked from above, and the drop always felt higher once you were standing on the edge.

But neither of them would ever admit that.

When the car finally stopped, they ran toward the sand without waiting to be told. Benito reached the dock first. Marivella followed close behind, refusing to fall too far back.

He climbed up easily, balanced at the edge, and looked down at the water.

"No lo vas a hacer," (You're not going to) she said, half daring.

He glanced at her. "Mírame." (Watch me)

And he did.

"Benito!" she yelled out of surprise.

The splash was louder than expected. Once he resurfaced, he pushed his hair out of his eyes and grinned like he'd just won something enormous.

Only when she knew he was okay did she climb up and follow.

It wasn't umtil he started climbing back onto the dock that Lysaurie, Benito's mother, shouted from the sand, asking him what exactly he thought he was doing.

He looked around wondering what he did wrong, and then looked down at himself--sneakers, shorts, t-shirt--completely soaked.

In his rush to win, to prove something neither of them had actually defined, he hadn't even realized he jumped into the water fully dressed.

That summer didn't feel significant.

It was just another Saturday. Another race to the water. Another pair of sneakers left heavy and dripping in the backseat on the drive home.

But childhood doesn't announce itself when it's becoming something else. It simply continues. The dock stayed where it was. The road to the beach stayed the same. The houses on their two streets didn't move. And somehwere in the reception of ordinary days, the shape of their lives began to settle into something fixed.

Seven became eight. Eight folded into nine. Their limbs grew longer, their voices steadier, but the space between them remained unchanged. If Marivella left her house in the morning, Benito appeared at the corner before she reached it. If he lingered after school, she waited without being asked. It wasn't loyalty in the dramatic sense. It was habit. It was routine. It was the quiet assumption that wherever one of them was headed, the other would follow.

By the age of nine, no one asked why they were always together. It was easier to assume they came as a pair. Their routines had fused so completely that seeing one without the other felt unnatural.

Almirante Sur was not the kind of place where everything went unnoticed. The streets were narrow and sun-scracked, lined with concrete houses painted in colours that had once been brighter--mint green fading into dust, pale blue dulled by heat. Dogs barked at passing cars even when they recognized them. Neighbours sat on plastic chairs in shaded carports and knew who left their house at what hour.

Marivella's house sat two streets down from a small colmado with a hand-painted sign that had been peeling for years. Benito's was closer to the corner, pale yellow, with a gate that never fully latched no matter how many times his father fixed it (or at least tried to).

Every morning, he stepped out with his backback hanging off one shoudler. By the time Marivella reached the corner, he was already there.

"Llegas tarde," (You're late) he'd say, even if she wan't.

"No lo soy," (No I'm not) she'd reply, adjusting the straps on her backpack.

"Caminas despacio.” (You walk slow)

"Caminas rápido." (You walk fast)

The humidity clung to their uniforms before they reached the end of the block. The walk to school wasn't far, but it felt longer in the mornings, when the sun hadn't fully risen and the air was still thick form the night.

They walked close enough that their shoulders brushed when the sidewalk narrowed.

At school, teachers tried separating them. It never lasted long. Recess always pulled them back together. If she was sitting under the almond tree near the far wall, notebook balanced on her knees, he would find her eventually, dirt smudged on his socks, breath uneven from running.

He wasn't good at staying still. She wasn't good at ignoring things.

The first time someone commented on the way she pronounced a word in class, it wasn't even cruel. Just careless.

"Por qué lo dices así?" (Why do you say it like that?)

She blinked. "Como cuál?" (Like what?)

"Como si no fueras de aquí." (Like you're not from here)

Before she could respond, Benito's chair scraped against the tile floor.

"Y qué si no lo es?" (So what if she isn't?)

The room went quiet.

The boy shrugged. "Solo estoy preguntando." (I'm just asking)

"Y solo estoy respondiendo." (And I'm just answering)

He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. After that, it stopped--at least when he was nearby.

When the final bell rang that afternoon, his younger brother was waiting near the gate with their mother. Benito ruffled his hair without looking at him, eyes still scanning the crowd for marivella.

Even then, in fourth grade, he had already begun to move through the world as if she was something he needed to keep track of.

Some years later....

The change didn't come with a warning.

It didn't arrive with teasing or questions or someone asking if they were dating.

It happened on a day that felt just like any other.

Marivella was at his house after school, sitting cross-legged on the cool tile floor of the living room while Lysaurie folded laundry on the couch. The ceiling fan hummed overhead. A game show played too loudly on the tv. Benito was sprawled on his stomach a few feet away, pretending to do homework. His younger brothers darted in and out of the hallway, chasing each other and leaving trails of noise behind them.

It was ordinary.

That was the problem.

Marivella reached up to tie her hair back, gathering her curls into a loose knot. The movement was automatic, something she'd done thousands of times before. Only this time, Benito noticed the length of her arms. The way her wrist bent. The quiet concentration in her expression.

He looked away quicjkly.

Then looked back.

Nothing about her had changed overnight. She still wore the same uniform. Still argued about everything. Still corrected him when he mixed up answers in math.

But something in him reacted different.

"Estás mirando," (You're staring) she said without looking up from her notebook.

"No soy." (I'm not)

"Sí lo eres." (Yes you are)

"No soy." (I'm not)

She glanced up finally, eyebrows raised.

He shrugged. "Tienes tinta en la cara." (You have ink on your face)

Her hand flew to her cheek immediately. " Dónde?" (Where?)

He almost smiled.

"Aquí," (Here) he said, reaching forward without thinking. His thumb brushed beneath her cheekbone.

The contact lasted less than a second. It shouldn't have felt like anything.

It did.

She froze first.

Then he did.

His hand dropped too quickly, as if air between them had suddenly become fragile.

"Desapareció," (It's gone) he muttered.

"Gracias." (thanks)

She went back to her notebook.

So did he.

But neither of them as doing homework anymore.

Outside, a car passed slowly down the street. Someone called out to a neighbour. A dog barked in the distance. The world continued like it always had.

Inside, something had shift. He became aware of her in new ways after that. The way her knee brushed his when they sat close to each other, the way she leaned into him without thinking when she laughed, the way she said his name when she was annoyed.

One evening, she stayed late. The sun had dipped low enough to turn the sky pink through the living room window. Lysaurie had gone to take a shower. His brothers had fallen asleep on the couch, one half hanging off the cushions, the other curled into a blanket that smelled faintly of detergent and dust.

They were alone without meaning to be.

Marivella lay on her back on the floor, staring at the ceiling fan as it spun lazily above them.

Benito was sitting cross-legged beside the coffee table, his old laptop balanced on top of a stack of schoolbooks. The screen glowed against the dimming room. He had headphones on and had been very quiet for the past hour.

Not boreed-quiet.

Focused.

She turned toward him. "Qué haces?" (What are you doing?)

"Nada." (Nothing)

"No es nada." (That's not nothing)

He hesitated.

Then, almost reluctantly, he pulled off his headphones and handed them over to her.

“No te rías.” (Don’t laugh) he said.

She pushed herself up on her elbows. “No me voy a reír ” (I’m not going to laugh)

“Siempre te ríes.” (You always laugh)

“No siempre me río.” (I don’t always laugh)

He raised an eyebrow.

“Okay,” she admitted. “A veces.” (Sometimes)

He held the headphones out anyway.

She sat up fully this time, knees brushing his as she leaned closer. He pressed play. He pressed play.

The sound wasn't polished. It wasn't clean. The beat wad slightly uneven, the vocals layered imperfectly. But it was his. Something he had recorded in the corner of his room while his brother were alseep and the neighbourhood had finally gone quiet.

She listened.

Not teasing. Not smiling.

Just listening.

When it ended, she didn't take the headphones off immediately.

"Hiciste eso?" (You made that)

He shrugged, pretending it was nothing. "Sí."

"Es bueno." (It's good)

"No mientas." (Don't lie)

"No soy." (I'm not)

He watched her face carefully, searching for sarcasm, for amusement.

He didn't find it.

"Crees que a otros les gustaría?" (You think other people would like it?) he asked, trying to sound casual.

"Claro," (Definitely) she said without hesitation.

"Cuántos?" (How many?)

She smiled faintly. "No sé. Mucho." (I don't know. A lot)

He looked down at the laptop screen again.

"Voy a subirlo." (I'm going to upload it) he said.

"Dónde?" (To where?)

"Soundcloud. Encontré este página. La gente simplemente pone cosas y ve qué pasa." (It's this page I found. People just put stuff up and see what happens)

"Y lo que sucede"? (And what happens?)

He didn't look at her when he answered.

"Quizá nada," (Maybe nothing)

A pause.

"Quizá todo." (Maybe everything)

The room felt smaller after that. She studied him--the seriousness in his voice, the way his jaw tightened slightly when he talked about it.

"De verdad crees que te vas a ir," (You really think you're going to leave) she said quietly.

"No lo creo, lo sé." (I don't think it, I know)

She rolled onto her side to face him fully now. "E ir a donde?" (And go where?)

"A cualquier sitio." (Anywhere)

He leaned back on his hands, eyes fixed somewhere beyond the living room wall.

"Nueva York. Miami. Los Ángeles. No sé. En algún sitio grande. En algún lugar ruidoso."(I don't know. Somewhere big. Somewhere loud)

She felt something twist in her chest.

"Te irías de Puerto Rico?" (You'd leave Puerto Rico?)

He finally looked at her.

"No me quedaré aquí para siempre." (I won't stay here forever)

It wasn't cruel. It wasn't dismissive. It was honest.

Her fingers drifted towards his without thinking.

"Y si no me voy." (And what if I don't leave) she asked.

He didn't answer right away.

Outside, a car passed slowly down the street. Someone laughed in a nearby yard. The fan kept spinning.

"Lo harás," he said finally. "Tú tampoco te quedas." (You will. You're not staying either)

She didn't argue. He knew her too well. Their hands brushed. This time, neither of them pretended it was an accident.

After that, it stopped feeling accidental.

They had grown into each other.

Their first kiss happened before either of them had the language for it. They were fifteen and sitting on the edge of that same dock after another beach day, the sun lowering but not gone yet. The beach was quieter than usual. A few families were packing up. The air smelled like salt and sunscreen and damp wood.

They had been talking about school--about a history project, about how she thought she might apply to a summer program in San Juan.

"Siempre estás aplicando a algo." (You're always applying to something) he said.

"Siempre estás grabando algo." (You're always recording something) she replied.

" No es lo mismo." (Not the same)

"Así es." (It is)

He bumped his shoulder lightly against hers.

She bumped his shoulder lightly against hers.

She bumped him back.

It escalated the way it always did--small pushes, teasing, the kind of physical closeness that had been normal since they were children. Except this time, when she turned to say something else, they were closer than usual.

There was no dramatic pause.

No heavy silence.

He just leaned in.

Not confidently. Not nervously. Just instinctively.

Their lips touched for a second.

She blinked.

He almost pulled back.

But she didn't move away.

So he kissed her again--softer this time. Slower.

Her hand pressed against his t-shirt without thinking, his palm settled on her waist, both touches warm, steady and most importantly certain.

It lasted maybe ten seconds. Maybe less.

When they pulled apart, the world looked exactly the same. The water moved the same way. The sun kept lowering. some noise humming somewhere in the distance.

Neither of them laughed, neither of them made a joke. They were just there, knees still touching.

"Okay," she finally spoke.

"Okay," he agreed.

They didn't tell anyone. They didn't even talk about ti that much between themselves. But everything adjusted quietly. He started walking her home and lingering longer at the gate. She started sitting closer to to him at school. Their hands found each other in hallways without looking.

They kissed in small, hidden places.

Behind the store. In the car. One the beach when no one was paying attention. In the kitchen while their families were chatting in the other room.

It wasn't performative nor loud. It felt like seomthing they were building for themselves.

They kept it quiet mostly because it felt easier that way. Almirante Sur noticed everything. The old woman in plastic chairs noticed who held hands. The colmado owner noticed who walked past together at night.

But it wasn't the neihghbours who caught them

It was Benito's mom.

They wer in his room one afternoon, door halfclosed. His brother were downstairs arguing overf the tv. The fan was running. Music played softly from his laptop--something unfinished he'd been working on.

Marivella was sitting on his bed, legs crossed. He was standing in front of her, talking about a verse he didnt like. She reached up to adjust the chain around his neck.

He leaned down automatically.

The kiss wasn't rushed, it wasn't reckless, it was familiar. Comfortable.

That's exactly when the door opened. Lysaurie didn't shout, she didn't gasp. She just stood there for half a second longer than necessary.

Benito pulled back first.

Marivella stood up to quickly, nearly tripping over the edge of the bed.

"Mama--" he started but was then interrupted.

"Veo," (I see) Lysaurie said calmly.

Which was worse.

She closed the door.

A few minutes later, Marivella's phone buzzed.

Her mother.

She stared at the screen.

"Responde," (Answer) Benito said.

She glared at him.

"Tú fuiste quien me besó." (you're the one who kissed me)

"Me besaste de nuevo." (you kissed me back)

She picked up the phone.

Her mother's voice wasn't loud. It was measured.

"So, Lysaurie just called me," she said.

Marivella closed her eyes. "I figured."

A pause--not heavy. Just thoughtful.

"I love Benito," her mother said. "You know that."

Marivella's shoulders dropped slightly.

"He's a good boy. He's always been good to you."

"I know."

"And I know you two... make sense." A faint sigh. "You've always made sense."

Marivella didn't know what to respond.

"I'm actually surprised this didn't happen earlier."

Marivella blinked. "What?"

"Yeah, Lysaurie an I have been waiting for this, you and Benito," she laughed. "Jeez, took you long enough!"

Heat rushed to her face. "Mom!"

"I'm serious," she continued, laughing softly. "You two have been inseparable since you we arrived. Did you really think nobody noticed?"

Marivella leaned back against the wall, mortified and oddly relieved at the same time.

"Lys said she walked in and just looked at you two like 'fianlly!' "

"Oh my god."

"The only thing I'm upset about is that you didn't tell me. We're not shicked at all though. If anything, we're surprised it didn't happen in middle school."

Marivella groaned quietly.

"As I said, I love Benito," her mother went on. "He's always been respectful. I trust him."

There was a shoft in her tone then--softer, steadier.

"I just need to know you're being smart. That you're not letting feelings make decisions for you."

"We are," Marivella said quickly.

"I figured you were." Small sigh. "Just be careful. That's it. You're not children anymore."

"I know."

"I trust you," her mother repeated. "both of you."

That settled something in her chest.

"Okay."

"Lys owes me five bucks now."

"Bye mom, love you mom."

"I love you too, don't come home too late."

When Marivella walked back into his room, Benito looked up immediately.

"Así que?" (Well?)

She crossed her arms.

"Aparentemente, mi madre ganó cinco dólares." (My mom won five dollars apparently)

He frowned. "Qué?" (What?)

"Tenían una apuesta." (They had a bet)

He stared for a second--then laughed, low and genuine.

"Qué locura." (That's crazy) He ribbed a hand over his face, shaking his head.

After that, they stopped hiding in doorways and behind half-closed doors. They didn't perform their relationship, but they didn't shrink it either. It simply became part of the landscape of Almirante Sur--like the colmado sign, like the cracked sidewalks, like the dock that had seen every version pf them.

A good rhythm settled between them.

He recorded late.

She studied late.

Sometimes in the same room.

Marivella would sit cross-legged on his bedroom floor, highlighters spread around her like a system only she understood, while he adjusted levels on his laptop. The glow of the screen lit half his face blue. The fan pushed warm air between them.

"Repetirlo," (Play it again) she'd say wihtout lookin gup.

He would.

The beats were sharper now. His voice steadier. There was less hesitation, more intention. He didn't talk about leaving lik eit was a fantasy anymore. He talked about it like it was a timeline.

"Estoy recibiendo mensajes," (I'm getting messages) he told her one night.

"De quién?" (From who)

"Gente. No solo de aquí." (People. Not just from here)

He turned the screen toward her. Numbers, cities, comments.

She felt pride before she felt fear.

"Eso es bueno," (That's good) she said.

"Es algo." (It's something)

It was more than something.

Meanwhile, her world was expanding in quieter ways. Online advanced placement classes. Meetings with international counselors. Essays drafted and redrafted. She had spreadsheets for deadlines, folders for applications, notes in the margins of books no one else had opened yet.

"Eres intenso," (You're intense) he told her once, watching her revise the same set of flashcards for the millionth time.

"Solo quiero asegurarme de estar preparado," (Just making sure I'm prepared)

"Para qué?" (For what?)

"Para salir," (For leaving)

He didn't argue with that. He couldn't. He was preparing too--just differently.

Senior year sharpened everything.

Benito started driving to San Juan more often.

At first it was just once every few weeks. Then every weekend. Then whenever someone texted him about studio time.

"Volveré tarde," (I'll be back late) he'd say.

"Estaré despierto," (I'll be up) she'd answer.

Sometimes she meant it.

Sometimes she fell asleep over her notes and woke up to a message sent at 12:04 a.m.

Te gustaría este (You'd like this one)

She always listened.

His voice sounded different now, less experimental and more certain. There was something deliberate in it--not just a boy recording in hi sbedroom anymore, but someone building something.

"Estás mejorando," (You're getting better) she told him one afternoon, sittinf cross-legged on the dock, the ware calmer than usual.

"Siempre he sido bueno." (I've always been good)

She smiled fiantly. "Te estás poniendo serio." (You're getting serious)

He didn't deny it.

"No tienes miedo?" (You're not scared?) she asked.

"De qué?" (Of what?)

"Que no funcionará." (that it wont work)

He shrugged.

"Me da más miedo no intentarlo." (I'm more scared of not trying)

That stayed with her.

Meanwhile, her acceptance letters began arriving. Not all of them were yeses. Some were polite rejections. Some were waitlists. She handled them quietly, updating her spreasheet, adjusting her options.

When the first real offer came--not the big one yet, but a solid one--she didn't cry. She laid it flat on her desk and stared at it.

"Tienes una?" (You got one?) he asked when she showed him later that evening.

"Sí."

He nodded, slow.

"Genial." (That's great)

"No es el que quiero." (It's not the one I want)

" Lo conseguirás." (You'll get it)

"No lo sabes." (You don't know that)

He leaned back against the hood of his car, arms crossed.

"Hago." (I do)

She looked at him. "Siempre piensas que todo va a funcionar." (You always think everything's going to work)

"Generalmente funciona." (It usually does)

She didn't argue because she knew he wasn't wrong. The problem wasn't doubt, it was direction. They still went to the beach and laid on the dock at sunset. But now when they talked about "later", it had specifics. Benito talked about going to university in Arecibo to study music, Marivella talked about schools in the States. He talked about collaborations on songs, she talked about research labs. Neither of them asked the question directly. But it hovered there anyway: where do we fit into each other's version of later?

On the day her final acceptance letter was delivered, the real shift came. She was in her room when it her mother bursted through the door.

Marivella read it out loud.

Full scholarship.

She read it once.

Then again.

Folded it back up, and sat there.

She didn't cry. She didn't celebrate immediately.

Instead, she went outside.

Straight to Benito’s house.

Once she got to Benito’s side, she started speaking softly.

"Lo compré." (I got it)

Benito didn’t need clarification. He exhaled. "Todo?" (Everything?)

She nodded. It wasn't forced.

"Estoy orgulloso de ti." (I'm proud of you)

And she believed him.

"Voy," (I'm going) she said.

"Sí."

Nor argument, no begging, just acknowledgment. The silence that followed wasn't heavy. It was realistic.

"Me iré a Arecibo," (I'll be going to Arecibo) he said.

She nodded, "Lo sé." (I know)

The separation had already started in small ways. Different schedules, different cities, different kinds of momentum.

They still spent that summer together, but there was a new layer to everything--an awareness that they were both stepping onto moving sidewalks headed in different directions. They didn't talk much about her date of departure approaching much.

Instead, they filled the time.

Beach in the late afternoons when the sand wasn't scorching hot. Swimming farther than they used to. Taking pictures together so they could hold on the these memories. Floating on their backs in silence, staring up at a sky that looked exactly the same ans it had when they were children.

Benito would reach for her hand without looking, and squeeze twice. Te amo.

She squeezed back once. También.

At night, they drove. Windows down. Music loud. Sometimes his. Sometimes something random on the radio. He'd tap the steering wheel in rhythm, already thinking about how he'd tweak a beat when he got home. Marivella watched him from the passenger seat, memorizing him.

They still laughed the same way, still argued about small things. Still ended up sitting on the grass by the small creek, her head on his shoulder, his hand tracing slow lines along her arm.

But beneath it, there was a quiet awareness.

This has an end date.

One evening in late July, it was the kind of night where the air felt suspended. They were at Benito's house. His brothers playing further down the hall and Lysaurie working at the kitchen table. The fan in his room clicking every few rotations.

She sat on his bed while he stood by his desk.

"Ven acá," (Come here) she said softly.

He sat beside her, their knees touching. Neither of them rushed into anything. They just sat there.

"Vas a estar bien," (You're going to be okay) she said after a minute of silence.

He gave a small smile. "Tú también." (So are you)

She leaned in first this time. This kiss wasn't urgent. It wasn't trying to prove anything. It was like if they were pressing the memory into place.

They didn't cry that night.

They didn't make promises they couldn't keep.

They just stayed close.

The goodbye came a few days later, at the airport.

It was still dawn when they got there, the sky pale and undecided. Her father drove, focused on the road like this was another errand, and her mother quiet in the passenger seat. Benito an Marivella in the back, just like they had been when they were kids on their way to the beach.

The airport felt to bright for this early in the morning. Fluorescent lights. Rolling suitcases. Families clustered in small circles, holding onto each other tightly. Benito lofted her suitcases out of the trunk before her father could. He didn't look at anyone while he did it.

Her mother hugged her first. Long, tight, teary-eyed. Whispering something against her ear that Marivella would replay later but not fully remember.

Her father hugged her second--shorter, firmer. A hand at the back of her head. And a nod instead of words.

Then there was Benito

They stepped slightly to the side, not far enough to pretend privacy, but far enough to breathe. He didn't day anything immediately. Neither did she.

"Tienes todo," (You have everything?) he asked after a minute.

She nodded. "Pasaporte, tarjeta de embarque, maleta." (Passport, boarding pass, suitcase)

"Okay."

It was absurd--talking about documents when everything else was sitting between them unsaid.

Her mother pretended to check something in her bag.

Her father looked toward the departure board.

They were giving space without announcing it.

"Estoy orgulloso de ti," (I'm proud of you) Benito said quietly, almost in a whisper.

She swallowed hard, wishing away the tears, "Lo sé." (I know)

"Te va a ir increíble." (You're going to do amazing)

"Tú también." (So are you)

A small smile tugged at his mouth. He stepped closer. The hug wasn't dramatic, it was pure love. She pressed her face into his chest as he held her firmly like he always had.

When they pulled apart, he kissed her.

A boarding announcement echoed overhead. Her father cleared his throat gently--not rushing, just reminding.

She picked up her backpack as Benito held onto the handle of one of her suitcases for a second longer before letting go.

Before she walked away, he said, "Me aseguraré de que consigas entradas en primera fila para mi concierto cuando toque MSG en Nueva York." (I'll make sure you get front row tickets to my show when I play MSG in New York)

She stared at him. "Madison Square Garden?"

"Madison Square Garden," he confirmed.

She huffed a small laugh, "Oh, claro. Casual." (Oh, of course. Casual)

"Lo digo en serio." (I'm serious)

"Ni siquiera has salido de Vega Baja todavía." (You're not even out of Vega Baja yet)

He shrugged. "Solo detalles." (Just details)

She folded her arms. "Y yo solo qué… ¿Aparecer? ¿Como qué, "Hola, sí, lo conocía antes de que fuera insoportable"?" (And I just what...show up? Like what, "Hi, yes, I knew him before he was insufferable'?)

He grinned. "Exacto. Serás mi dato curioso. Exactly. You'll be my fun fact."

She rolled her eyes. "Eso es ofensivo." (That's offensive)

"Aun así, tendrás buenos asientos." (You'll get good seats though)

"Primera fila?" (Front row?)

"Primera fila." (Front row.)

She tilted her head, studying him.

"Eres ridículo." (You're ridiculous)

"Y te encanta." (And you love it)

She didn't deny that.

The humour softened, not disappeared--just settled.

"Será mejor que tengas éxito." (You better make it) she quietly.

He held her gaze. "Lo lograré." (I will)

There it was again--not ego, not fantasy. Certainty.

She shook her head, smiling in that bittersweet way people do when they believe something they're not ready to say out loud.

"Bien Fine)" she said. "Pero si no lo haces, le diré a todo el mundo que una vez te lanzaste al mar con la ropa puesta como un idiota." (But if you don't, I'm telling everyone you once jumped into the ocean with your clothes on like an idiot)

He laughed, low and real.

"Ay!" (Ouch)

"Primera fila o te expongo." (Front row or I expose you)

"Tenemos un acuerdo." (We have a deal)

He pulled her into one last hug, tight and quick. When she stepped back this time, neither of them pretended it wasn't hard.

"Vas," (Go) he said gently.

She nodded.

And this time she walked away without turning around.

Later that morning, Marivella's parent drop Benito off back at his house without much conversation. Marivella's departure, still being very fresh, weighed down on them.

Her mother squeezed his shoulder before he stepped out of the car.

The house felt different when he walked in. Not empty, just quieter. His brother were playing a game in the living room, the tv was very loud background noise, his mother was making them some lunch, and his father was talking about what had happened at work the previous day.

Everything was normal, which made it worse. He went straight to his room, closed the door, and sat on the edge of his bed.

The fan clicked every few rotations. Her side of the room--the place on the floor where she always sat--was just a corner again.

He didn't cry immediately. Instead, he stared at his desk, at the laptop, at the headphone coiled beside it. His throat tightened slowly, not dramatic, just pressure.

A knock came at the door. He didn't answer. It opened anyway. Lysaurie stepped inside and leaned against the door frame for a second before walking in fully. She didn't rush toward him. She just sat down beside him on the bed.

" Se va a Estados Unidos?" (She's off to the States?) she asked.

"Sí."

"Bien." (Good)

He glanced at her. "Bien?" (Good?)

"Ella trabajó para eso." (She worked for that)

"Lo sé." (I know)

"Entonces siéntete orgulloso." (Then be proud)

"Estoy." (I am)

She studied him for a moment, "No te ves como si." (You don't look like it)

He let out a heavy breath through his nose. "Cómo se supone que debo ser?" (What am I supposed to look like?)

"Como si entendieras que ese siempre fue el plan." (Like you understand this was always the plan)

Silence stretched between them.

"No siente lo mismo," (Doesn't feel the same) he muttered.

"" Por supuesto que no," she replied calmly. "Su obra tiene un campus. Profesores. Un horario. El tuyo aún no ha sido abordado." (Of course it doesn't. Her work has a campus. Professors. A schedule. Yours has not address yet)

He stared at the floor.

"Y si no llega a ninguna parte?" (What if it doesn't go anywhere?)

She didn't answer immediately.

"Entonces sabrás que lo has intentado." (Then you'll know you tried)

He gave a faint shake of his head. "Eso no es muy reconfortante." (That's not very comforting)

"" No estoy aquí para consolarte," she said. "Estoy aquí para decirte la verdad." (I'm not here to comfort you. I'm here to tell you the truth)

He swallowed hard. "Se siente como si estuviera perdiendo algo," (It feels like I'm losing something)

"Pero no la estás perdiendo porque se fue," she continued. " La perderías si dejaras de moverte." (But you're not losing her because she left. You'd lose her if you stopped moving)

That sat with him.

"Crees que querría que te quedaras pequeño?" (You think she'd want you to stay small?) she asked.

"No."

"Entonces no." (Then don't)

The room went quiet again. The san ticked. A car passed slowly outside.

"Ponte a trabajar," (Get to work) she said simply.

She left the door half-opened behind her. Benito stayed seated for another minutes, staring at nothing.

Then he stood, walked to his desk, opened his laptop, and pressed record.

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