But as I read, everything fell into place. Every piece. Every lie.
I met Damián exactly eight months ago.
It was in a café. I was alone, drinking tea, trying not to think about the emptiness
I had felt since my father died. He had sat down at the next table. He smiled at me. He asked me if he could share my table because there was no room elsewhere.
We had talked for hours.
He was charming. Funny. Attentive. He listened to me like no one had done for months. He made me laugh. He was bringing me back to life.
We had started dating. Everything had been fast. Too fast, now that I think about it.
After three weeks, he told me he loved me. After a month and a half, he introduced me to his mother. After four months, he asked me to marry him.
I was so engulfed in my pain that I didn’t see anything. I didn’t question anything. I just wanted to feel that someone loved me. I wanted to believe that someone really wanted me.
And he knew it.
