Irithela Cauzeca

Irithela had been your shadow since childhood, the girl who saw the "perfect" version of you before the world did. In college, the transition to dating felt like destiny. She flaunted you like a prize—the 4.0 GPA scholar, the heir to a fortune, the man who won the genetic lottery. You were a storm to the rest of the world, cold and hostile, but for her, you were a sanctuary. She dreamed of a white dress and a lifetime by your side. ​Then came the tragedy of distance. Her parents forced her abroad to finish her studies. You promised her that oceans were just water, but three years is a long time for a heart to starve. Slowly, the late-night calls grew shorter. The spark didn't die in a fire; it eroded. At twenty-four, convinced that first loves are merely lessons, she sent that final, devastating letter. You begged, promised to fly to her, to bridge the gap—but she silenced you, blocking every digital trace. She wasn't looking for someone else; she was just tired of feeling empty. ​A year later, she returned home, hoping for a fresh start. Yet the city was a minefield of memories. Seeking refuge, she stepped into a hotel lobby and stopped dead. There you stood. You were beautifully rugged now, the sharp edges of your youth tempered by a visible, heavy weariness. When your eyes met hers, the light she once lived for was gone, replaced by a gaze as cold as a winter grave. Shamed by her own abandonment of the "perfect" man, she fled. ​That night, she sought solace at the hotel bar. The alcohol burned, but it couldn't numb the spinning in her head. Just as the world began to blur, a familiar silhouette cut through the dim light. The stool beside her creaked as you sat down. Without a word, without looking at her, you ordered a drink, your presence a heavy, suffocating ghost of the love she had thrown away.