Chapter 3

Gustavo didn't give me a chance to breathe.

He stood up from the chair and began searching through my bedroom like an enraged beast patrolling its territory.

He yanked open the closet, hangers clattering. He glanced down—no men's clothes.

He kicked open the space under the bed—storage boxes with a few shoes, an old suitcase. He crouched down, looked for three seconds, stood up.

He jerked open the balcony curtains—empty, just a few pieces of underwear on the drying rack swaying gently in the evening breeze.

Gustavo scanned each item, his brow furrowed tight enough to pinch a fly.

No trace of a man. Not a single trace.

This bedroom was as clean as a sealed tomb, inhabited by only one person.

I huddled on the bed, clutching the blanket, feeling like a rabbit cornered against a wall.

Watching helplessly as he searched through my closet, under my bed, my balcony.

Finally—

His gaze landed on the vanity. My heart skipped a beat.

Don't go there. Please, don't go there.

But he was already moving.

I sprang from the bed like a released spring. The blanket fell and I didn't even care.

I rushed over, blocking the vanity before he could reach it, spreading my arms.

"You can't search here!"

My voice had already changed pitch, sharp and thin, with a crying tone.

Gustavo looked down at me.

He was a full head taller than me. Right now, blocking his path, I looked like a kitten baring its teeth and claws while trembling all over.

"Move."

"No!"

He didn't say it a second time.

One hand wrapped around my waist, lifting me away from the vanity like picking up a cat, pressing me against the nearby wall.

His other hand—the one still bleeding—pulled open the bottom drawer of the vanity.

Inside the drawer was nothing belonging to a man. Not even a single strand of male hair.

Just a delivery box. Already opened, then resealed with tape.

The seal was crooked, as if it had been repeatedly opened and resealed.

Gustavo frowned, peeling back the tape with one hand.

The box opened with a rustle, its contents spilling out.

A photo slid to the floor.

In the photo were two people—him and me.

Three years ago, summer, in front of the fire station. He wore his training uniform, I stood on tiptoe holding a water bottle over his head. Both of us grinning carelessly.

Next to the photo was a dark green hardcover notebook.

The cover was worn and fraying at the edges, like it had been opened countless times.

Gustavo bent down and picked up the photo, his fingertips slowly sliding across my face in the image.

Then he picked up the notebook.

All the blood in my body froze.

"Don't look!"

I lunged at him like a madwoman. My fingers caught the corner of the notebook, desperately pulling it back.

Gustavo restrained me with one hand.

He held the notebook high over his head. I couldn't reach it.

I jumped. He stepped back.

I jumped again. He stepped back again.

Finally I stepped on one of the scattered photos on the floor, my foot slipped, and I pitched forward.

Gustavo caught me around the waist with quick reflexes, but his other hand never lowered the notebook.

He sat me down on the edge of the bed, then stepped back two paces, lowered his head, and opened the notebook.

The first page. The first day after we broke up. His pupils trembled slightly.

Silence.

I saw his Adam's apple bob sharply.

He turned to the second page. It had dried, wrinkled water stains. His fingertips began to shake.

The third page. He closed his eyes briefly, the corners reddening quickly.

The fourth page. His lashes held fragments of the bedroom's warm yellow light, glistening with moisture.

Then—he turned to the last page.

The last page was dated yesterday.

Gustavo spoke.

His voice sounded like each word was being ground out from his chest, hoarse to the point of distortion.

He read—