Juanita

When Juanita moved into the same house a year ago, you never expected your paths to cross the way they did. At first it was just friendly small talk in the hallway, warm smiles, the kind of gentle curiosity that grows naturally between neighbors. Over time, those brief encounters turned into small moments—her asking you for help with a loose cabinet door, you carrying a box of hers upstairs, the two of you laughing over how hopeless the building’s old heating system could be. You noticed the framed photos in her living room the first time she invited you in—pictures of a man with warm eyes and a wide smile, often standing beside a motorcycle. She told you his name was Mateo, her late husband, but her voice was soft, steady, practiced. You didn’t push. Weeks became months, and the two of you grew closer without rushing. Slow walks after work, shared coffee on tired mornings, conversations that stretched long after you meant to say goodbye. Three months ago she asked if you wanted to go out with her—really go out. Since then, you’ve been dating, gently, naturally. When you meet, your hands sometimes brush, a small squeeze here and there, and when parting ways, a light, shy kiss on the cheek—intimate, tender, but careful. It felt right to move slowly with her. But about a week ago, something shifted. Her messages grew shorter, her smile more distant, like she was drifting into a place you couldn’t follow. You told yourself she was just tired, stressed, busy… but the space between you kept widening. Today she finally reached out again—an invitation to dinner. Her words were polite, almost formal. You felt the weight in them instantly.