The revelation from their conversation the previous evening lingered in Aiko's mind as she sat through her morning classes at the Instituto. Despite Miguel's honest admission that he wasn't the boy from the park, she found herself analyzing their interaction over and over, searching for any possibility that he might be mistaken about his own memories or hiding something significant.
During the practical session on traditional Andalusian braiding techniques, she caught herself stealing glances at Miguel's hands as he worked on his practice mannequin. Those hands had become familiar over the weeks they'd spent together—she knew the way his fingers moved when he was concentrating, the careful precision with which he approached detailed work. But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't make them match her tactile memories of the gentle touch that had worked through her tangled hair three years ago.
"Aiko, you're distracted today," observed Maestra Carmen Delgado, the instructor leading the session. "Traditional braiding requires complete focus—the patterns have been passed down for generations and demand respect for their complexity."
"Lo siento, Maestra," Aiko apologized, forcing herself to concentrate on the intricate weaving pattern she was attempting to master. But even as her hands worked through the traditional technique, her mind continued to wrestle with the growing certainty that Miguel wasn't connected to her past.
During the lunch break, she and Miguel found themselves sitting in their usual spot in the Instituto's courtyard garden. The autumn air was crisp but pleasant, and other students chatted animatedly around them about weekend plans and upcoming assignments. But between Aiko and Miguel, there was an unusual tension that hadn't existed before their honest conversation.
"You're still thinking about what I said yesterday, aren't you?" Miguel asked, setting down his bocadillo and studying her face with the perceptiveness that had drawn her to him initially.
"I keep trying to make the pieces fit," Aiko admitted. "Not because I don't believe you, but because I want so badly to find him that I'm looking for connections everywhere."
"What specifically doesn't fit? Maybe talking through it will help you process the disappointment."
Aiko considered how to articulate the subtle discrepancies that had been building in her subconscious. "Your accent, for one thing. The boy I remember had a different way of speaking Spanish—I could hear it when he was on the phone. More formal, maybe, or from a different region."
"That makes sense. Spain has very distinct regional accents. Someone from Valencia or Barcelona would sound completely different from someone who grew up in Madrid."
"And your hands," she continued, feeling slightly embarrassed by the intimate nature of the observation. "I know it sounds strange, but I have very clear tactile memories of how his fingers felt working through my hair. Yours are wonderful hands, but they're not... the same."
Miguel nodded thoughtfully. "You know, that actually gives me hope that you'll recognize the right person when you find him. Those kinds of sense memories are usually very reliable."
"There's something else," Aiko said quietly. "When I describe the specific details of that day—the approaching storm, the way he sectioned my hair before washing it, the urgency in his voice when his phone rang—you listen like someone hearing a story for the first time. Not like someone remembering an experience."
"You're very observant," Miguel said with a small smile. "I was wondering if you'd noticed that."
"So you've been testing whether you could be him?"
"I suppose I have been, in a way. When you first described your encounter, something about it felt significant, important. I wanted to be the person who could give you the answers you're looking for." He paused, running his hand through his hair in the gesture that had become familiar to her. "But wanting to be someone doesn't make you that person."
The honesty in his voice was both touching and final. Any lingering hope Aiko had been harboring that Miguel might unconsciously be suppressing memories or hiding his connection to her past evaporated completely.
"I'm sorry for putting you in that position," she said. "It wasn't fair to project my search onto you."
"Don't apologize. I understand the impulse." Miguel's expression grew more serious. "But Aiko, I think this realization is actually important for your search."
"How so?"
"Because it means you have very clear, specific memories of this person. You're not just looking for any Spanish cyclist who might fit a general description—you're looking for someone particular, someone whose touch and voice and presence you would recognize immediately."
The observation was both comforting and daunting. Comforting because it suggested her memories were reliable guides rather than romanticized fantasies. Daunting because it meant she couldn't settle for approximate matches or wishful thinking.
"So what happens now?" she asked. "With us, I mean. Does this change how we... interact?"
Miguel was quiet for a moment, clearly considering his words carefully. "I hope it doesn't have to change anything significant. I still want to help you find this person, if you'll let me. And I still enjoy spending time with you, getting to know who you are separate from your search."
"Even though you know I'm not available for anything romantic until I resolve this?"
"Even though. Actually, especially because of that." Miguel's smile was gentle but determined. "Real connection doesn't disappear just because the timing isn't perfect. If we're meant to explore something together, it will still be there after you find your answers."
The maturity of his response impressed Aiko and made her realize how much she had come to value his friendship and support. Miguel wasn't just someone she had hoped might be connected to her past—he was someone worth knowing in the present.
"Thank you," she said simply. "For being honest, for being patient, for helping me figure out what I actually remember versus what I want to remember."
"Thank you for trusting me with something so important to you."
As they prepared to return to afternoon classes, Aiko felt a strange mixture of disappointment and clarity. Disappointing because she was back to having no concrete leads about Javier's identity or whereabouts. Clarity because she now understood that her memories were specific enough to guide her search more effectively.
She wasn't looking for any Spanish cyclist or any helpful stranger. She was looking for someone whose touch she would recognize immediately, whose voice would trigger instant recall, whose presence would connect to the deepest memories of kindness and transformation she carried.
Miguel wasn't that person, but his honesty had helped her understand that the right person was still out there, waiting to be found through systematic investigation rather than wishful projection.
The search would continue, but now it would be guided by realistic expectations and genuine memories rather than hopeful assumptions.
And perhaps most importantly, she had gained a true friend in Miguel—someone whose value didn't depend on solving her mystery, but on the authentic connection they had built through weeks of honest conversation and mutual support.
As they walked back into the Instituto for afternoon classes, Aiko felt more determined than ever to find Javier. Not because she was running out of false hopes, but because she finally understood exactly who she was looking for.