“I’m staying with Lara tonight. Don’t wait for me.”
The message came in at 7:08 p.m., just as I was finishing the vegetables in the pan, with garlic still filling the kitchen with the familiar smell of home, routine, and the life I thought I could trust. Six words. No apology. No excuse. Not even a weak attempt at a lie. Emiliano had always had a talent for that—delivering the cruelest truths with the calm of someone convinced he would never have to pay for them.
I sent only one reply:
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