the love i never had, and the one i almost do

Five Years Later

The city looks different from the eighteenth floor. Through the large living room window of my apartment, the skyscrapers jut upward like giant shards of metal randomly stabbed into the earth. The sky is a bluish orange. The last light of the afternoon hits the glass, casting a faint reflection of my face.

I’m sitting on a gray couch, legs folded beneath me, laptop open on my lap. On the screen, a 3D model of a commercial building in the city center is still slowly rotating, but my eyes are blank. My mind isn’t here. Hasn’t been for a while.

I bought this apartment two years ago. With my first paycheck as a research assistant and some freelance interior design projects I took on while studying architecture. I originally rented the place for practical reasons—close to the office, free from family interference, quieter.

But deep down, I know the real reason: so I wouldn’t have to see them anymore.

Reagan and Tiara. Three years dating. Five breakups. Seven reconciliations. Two times Tiara showed up at my house in tears. Once, Reagan came to our parents’ house in the middle of the night because, according to him, “She’s the only one who can calm Tiara down.”

I still remember everything.

Too clearly. Too sharply.

And I’m still here. In this apartment. With half a glass of white wine, a playlist of instrumental jazz that’s supposed to be calming but somehow drains me even more, and a heart that… can’t be rebooted like my laptop.

Sometimes I hate myself for this.

For still secretly checking Reagan’s I*******m with a fake account.

For still remembering how he tilts his head when he’s thinking.

For still wanting to cry every time Tiara hugs him in public and the world calls it beautiful.

For feeling things I have no right to feel.

Nope.

He was never mine. Never even close enough to be a possibility.

And the irony? I’m the one who pulled away. I’m the one who moved. I’m the one who disappeared. And still, his traces linger. Like expensive cologne clinging to a sweater, refusing to fade.

Is this fair?

Am I just too weak?

My phone rings from the kitchen counter. I get up reluctantly and glance at the screen.

Tiara.

I hesitate before answering. Her voice bursts out, cheerful as always. “Taraaa! You’re still at the apartment, right?”

I swallow. “Yeah. What’s up?”

“Reagan and I… we just got back together. And he wants to take us out to dinner. I think he wants to say something important. You’ll come, right? Please?”

I freeze.

On the other end, Tiara chuckles softly, unaware.

“I… I’ve got work, Tia,” I say, trying to sound tired. “I don’t think I can make it.”

Tiara sighs. “Come on, it’s Saturday night. You’re living like a middle-aged mom!”

I force a laugh. “Well, middle-aged moms need peace and quiet too. Tell your boyfriend I said hi.”

The words stab my throat the second they leave my mouth.

After the call ends, I return to the couch. The laptop’s still glowing, but I don’t see anything.

I stare at my own reflection in the glass.

Tara Anasthassia De Carrillo, 25. Architect. Math minor. Independent woman with her own apartment and a decent enough portfolio to pitch to Singapore next year.

And still....can’t let go of a man who was never even hers.

I set the laptop on the table.

Grab the wine.

Take another sip.

Then I lean back into the couch, close my eyes, and let the night seep in like it always does.

Quietly, without asking permission, carrying old wounds that should’ve died long ago but somehow still live on. Still flow gently through my veins like a whisper that never ends.

:::

Saturday afternoons in Los Feliz always have a laid-back vibe. The air smells of toasted bread and coffee from the row of industrial-style cafés lining the street, sparrows dance between the outdoor tables, and the sun hangs low like it hasn’t fully woken up.

I’m sitting at a semi-outdoor café, wearing a white linen shirt and comfy high-waisted jeans. My hair is lazily tied up, and my glasses rest on the tip of my nose as I open my tablet to check on the progress of a render project I’ve been working on.

In front of me, my two best friends—Kayla and Nadia—are already there, sipping their lattes. Both are dressed in casual dresses and oversized sunglasses, like characters in an indie film about carefree urban women.

They have no idea I’ve been mentally fried since I woke up this morning.

“Tara, spill it now,” Kayla said, resting her chin on her hand. “Who is this Geraldo guy, really? I stalked his profile all night. And oh my God… that man looks like a sin God decided to allow.”

I let out a soft laugh, dipping my croissant into my cappuccino. “There’s nothing to spill. He’s an old friend. We used to be in the same math minor back in college.”

“He’s been into you since college, Tara,” Nadia said, narrowing her eyes. “Every time you two meet, the way he looks at you.. it’s like you’re the answer to every theorem he’s ever learned. And you’re just now saying yes?”

I shrugged. “I didn’t say yes. I’m just… starting to open my eyes.”

“And your legs?” Kayla chimed in.

“Not funny,” I said, tossing a napkin at her.

They both laughed.

“So… do you like him?” Nadia asked more gently. “Geraldo?”

I went quiet for a moment. My eyes wandered to the street, where a dad was pushing a stroller while balancing a takeaway coffee. I took a breath.

“I don’t know,” I said honestly. “I like the way he treats me. He’s always patient. He never makes me feel… compared. He doesn’t bring pain into conversations. He’s funny in a way that’s effortless. And… we’re both Mexican. Same values. Same culture. It just makes everything feel… connected.”

Kayla grinned. “And he’s tall, muscular, loves to cook, loves animals, and according to Nadia has a ‘killer smile.’”

Nadia nodded in agreement. “And that accent, God, Tara. If he ever called me querida just once, I might convert religions on the spot.”

I laughed. But it wasn’t a completely light laugh. Because underneath it, there was still that empty space in my chest… a space that Geraldo, no matter how good he was, hadn’t fully filled.

But for the first time… I didn’t want to run. I didn’t want to disappear.

“He invited me to dinner tonight,” I said finally. “At his place. He said he’s making mole poblano.”

Kayla smacked the table. “Okay, that’s it. That means he’s serious. No man spends hours in the kitchen unless he wants you to fall in love.”

“And you are wearing that red dress, right?” Nadia added.

I gave a small smile. “I don’t know.”

“Wear it,” they said in unison.