The airport smells like coffee, metal, and endings.
I notice it the moment I sit down, my suitcase upright between my feet like an anchor I'm not sure I'm ready to lift. The chair is cold, plastic pressing through my jeans, grounding me in a way that feels almost cruel. Around me, people move in hurried waves—heels clicking against tile, wheels rattling, voices overlapping in languages I half-recognize. A child cries somewhere to my left. Someone laughs too loudly behind me. A man argues into his phone like the world owes him urgency.
Everyone seems certain of where they're going.
I envy that certainty more than anything.
Barcelona.
The word settles heavy in my chest, exciting and terrifying all at once. It tastes like freedom and fear, like a dream that waited patiently until the exact moment it could hurt the most.
I wrap my fingers around my passport, the navy cover warm from my palm, and open it even though I already know what's inside. My photo stares back at me—serious, composed, eyes too alert for someone pretending she isn't afraid.
Alma Cruz.
The name looks smaller than it should. Like it hasn't caught up to what I'm doing yet. Like it doesn't understand that this is the farthest I've ever gone alone. That this isn't just a trip.
It's a fracture.
My phone buzzes once.
Mateo: Did you pass security?
I answer immediately, before hesitation can do what it always does—convince me to stay quiet.
Yes. Be good.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
Don't forget us.
My throat tightens so suddenly it feels like I swallowed glass.
As if that were possible.
I lower the phone and lean back in the chair, closing my eyes. Homesickness doesn't arrive like a storm. It seeps in slowly, quietly, like water through cracks in the walls, filling spaces I didn't know were empty yet.
This morning already feels unreal. Like it happened weeks ago instead of hours.
Mom was awake before the sun, like she always is when there's something important to be done. When I stepped into the kitchen, her hair was tied back loosely, strands already escaping, flour dusting her apron and the counter and probably her patience too. Pancakes sizzled on the pan, the sound soft and familiar, the smell sweet and warm, wrapping itself around the apartment like a memory begging to be taken with me.
"Sit," she said without turning around. "You'll need strength."
I obeyed. I always do with her.
Mateo leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching us. He wasn't pacing. Wasn't pretending to be busy. He just stood there, quiet, eyes following every movement like he was memorizing the scene in case he needed it later. Like he already knew something was ending.
Mila sat cross-legged on the couch, eyes red and swollen, hugging a pillow to her chest as if it could stop me from leaving if she held it tightly enough.
Dad sat near the door, keys already in his hand.
When I lifted my bag, he finally looked at me.
"Take care," he said. His voice was calm. Neutral. "Be a good girl."
That was it.
No warning. No pride. No fear.
Just obligation wrapped in politeness.
Somehow, that hurt more than silence ever could.
I kissed Mom's cheek, breathing her in like I could store the smell for later. Hugged Mateo until he complained about my grip, even though he didn't pull away. Wiped Mila's tears even though it only made her cry harder.
Then I left.
My bag heavier than it should've been. My chest heavier than I was ready to admit.
Now, sitting in the airport, the ache returns full force.
I will miss the noise. The chaos. The way mornings in our house never belonged to just one person. I will miss waking up to arguments and laughter and the smell of breakfast even when we couldn't afford much else.
I will miss knowing where I belong without having to ask.
But wanting something more has always come at a cost.
The departure board flickers.
Gate C14. Boarding.
My stomach flips violently.
This is my dream, I remind myself.
This is my life.
I stand, pulling my suitcase behind me, refusing to look back. Hesitation has never been kind to me.
The flight is long in the way that gives your thoughts too much room to breathe.
I watch the wing slice through endless white clouds and try to imagine my life a year from now. Five years. I picture myself fluent, confident, independent. I imagine my mother sleeping through the night without worry tightening her chest. I imagine money not being a shadow that follows every decision like a threat.
Somewhere over the ocean, I press my forehead against the window and let myself feel the fear fully.
What if I fail?
What if this is the wrong kind of brave?
Sleep comes in fragments. Shallow. Restless.
When we finally land, the cabin fills with motion—seat belts clicking open, voices buzzing with relief and excitement. I stay seated a moment longer, grounding myself.
You're here, I tell myself.
You chose this.
Barcelona greets me with heat and sound.
The airport feels alive—voices layered over one another, footsteps echoing across polished floors, announcements blurring together into noise. I follow the signs toward baggage claim, my suitcase rattling behind me, senses overwhelmed.
Everything feels bigger here. Louder. Faster.
I'm checking my documents when it happens.
A solid impact knocks me slightly off balance, my shoulder colliding with something hard and it was like I just walked into a wall that forgot to warn me. My passport slips in my hand.
"I'm sorry," I say automatically, already stepping aside.
No response.
I look up.
He's tall.
Not just tall—deliberately tall, like the world adjusted itself around his height. Broad shoulders stretch the fabric of his shirt, masculine and unyielding. No beard. No softness. Just clean lines, smooth skin, a jaw carved like it never learned how to hesitate.
Blonde hair, slightly tousled, like he doesn't bother taming it because nothing has ever forced him to. Baby blue eyes—too calm, too light—eyes that look like they've never had to apologize for anything in their life.
He is, objectively, the kind of man women ruin their lives for.
He looks at me the way people look at furniture they almost trip over.
He doesn't apologize.
Doesn't slow.
Doesn't even pretend to acknowledge my existence.
For a fraction of a second, our eyes lock. There's something there—interest, irritation, boredom. Hard to tell. His expression doesn't change, which tells me everything I need to know about the inside of his head.
Nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
No thoughts. No manners. Just air and audacity.
Then he walks past me like I was never there.
I stand frozen for half a heartbeat longer than necessary, my pulse doing something unfamiliar. It isn't attraction exactly. It's awareness—like my body clocked him before my dignity could intervene.
Congratulations, Alma, I think dryly. You've been ignored by a walking luxury perfume advertisement.
I shake my head and move on, embarrassed by the way that moment clung to me.
Outside, sunlight floods the curbside, bright and unapologetic. I inhale deeply, the city's air filling my lungs like a promise I'm not sure I can keep. I order an Uber and slide into the back seat, watching Barcelona unfold through the window.
Balconies crowded with plants. Narrow streets. People who walk like they know exactly where they're going.
I hope I learn quickly.
The apartment is quieter than I expect.
Smaller too. Clean, but bare—walls empty, air still, like it's waiting to see who I'll become inside it. My suitcase sits in the center of the room like a question mark. I stand there, unsure where to begin.
A knock comes almost immediately.
"Yes?" I ask.
The door opens to an older woman with sharp eyes and a curious smile.
"I'm Doña Pilar," she says. "I live next door. You're new."
"Yes," I reply. "Alma."
She studies me like she's already collecting stories. "Students come and go," she says. "But walls remember."
I smile politely, not sure what that's supposed to mean.
"Well," she adds, "if you need anything, I'm here."
After she leaves, I close the door and rest my forehead against it.
This is it.
No Mateo yelling. No Mila knocking. No Mom calling my name.
That night, sleep comes slowly. My phone stays silent. I tell myself that silence means peace, even if it doesn't feel like it yet.
Orientation arrives before I feel ready.
The campus is beautiful in a way that makes me straighten my spine unconsciously—old buildings, clean pathways, students who look like they belong here. I clutch my schedule and follow the crowd.
A boy drops into the seat beside me like he's late on purpose.
"Please tell me you're also wondering if that lecturer practices looking disappointed in the mirror," he whispers.
I bite back a laugh. "I think it's a talent."
He grins. "Fear builds character."
"Or trauma."
"Same thing in academia."
I glance at him properly this time—warm eyes, easy smile, the kind of presence that feels instantly familiar.
"I'm Daniel," he says. "First year?"
"Unfortunately."
"Same. And judging by the collective panic in this room, we're all about to suffer together."
We spend the rest of the session whispering commentary—about the aggressive note-taker in the front row, the guy who already looks like he regrets his life choices, the lecturer who keeps saying rigorous like it's a threat.
"I like you already," Daniel says when the first session ends.
Later, someone mentions the Valdés family.
Owners. Sponsors. Power.
I barely register the name until movement near the front of the hall catches my attention.
Blonde hair. Blue eyes.
My breath catches.
He stands like he owns the space without trying, posture relaxed, expression unreadable.
The same man from the airport.
This time, when his gaze lifts and meets mine, recognition flickers.
Just for a second.
Something settles deep in my chest—heavy and inevitable.
I don't know his name.
I don't know his world.
But I know this:
Barcelona didn't just give me a new beginning.
It gave me a collision.
A short break is announced a few minutes later, and the room exhales all at once. Chairs scrape, people stand, voices rise. Daniel stretches beside me like he's survived something traumatic.
"I'm going to the bathroom," I say, already standing. "Before my bladder files a formal complaint."
He laughs. "I'll be right here."
I nod and follow the signs down the corridor, weaving through clusters of students who already look like they've formed alliances. The bathroom is loud—too loud—filled with perfume, nervous laughter, and the unmistakable sound of obsession being born.
I barely make it to the sink before I hear it.
"Did you see him?"
"Oh my God, the blonde one?"
"I swear he looked at me."
"No, he looked at me."
I keep my eyes on my reflection, pretending I'm deeply invested in washing my hands. Around me, girls gather in loose circles, voices lowered but excited, like they're discussing a secret they desperately want everyone to know.
"They say he's a Valdés."
"As in the Valdés?"
"I heard his family practically owns half of Barcelona."
"I heard he doesn't date."
That one makes them groan collectively.
I dry my hands and step aside, determined not to be dragged into whatever ritual this is. I didn't come all the way to Spain to join a fan club.
Still.
I lean closer to the mirror and take a good look at myself. My mascara has smudged just slightly—not tragic, but noticeable if you're already spiraling. I fix it carefully, reapply a thin layer of lip gloss, then run my fingers through my hair, taming it into something intentional. Not for him. For me. Obviously.
I straighten, satisfied enough, and head back toward the hall.
That's when I notice Daniel isn't where I left him.
My steps slow as my eyes scan the room.
Then I see him.
Daniel is standing near the front now, laughing, shoulders relaxed, body angled toward someone else. Toward him.
Blonde hair. Broad shoulders. That same impossible calm.
They're talking like they've known each other for years.
Something twists in my chest—not jealousy, exactly. More like displacement. Like I blinked and missed a step.
The blonde guy glances up.
Straight at me.
I feel it instantly—the awareness, sharp and sudden, like a spotlight snapping on. My instinct is to look away, but instead I do the most mature thing possible.
I pull out my phone.
If I'm going to be ignored, I'll do it on my own terms.
I lift the camera, angle it just right, and take a selfie. My smile comes easily when I think of her. I send it to my mom.
Orientation day with a smiley face emoji.
She replies almost immediately.
You look beautiful. Proud of you.
The knot in my chest loosens just a little.
When I look up again, the blonde guy has turned back to Daniel, conversation resumed like I was never there.
Good.
The break ends, and everyone settles back into their seats. I return to mine, focusing on the front, determined not to look at him again.
Naturally, that's when he stands.
"Before we continue," one of the administrators says, smiling far too widely, "we'd like to welcome one of our student representatives."
He steps forward with effortless confidence.
"Gael Valdés," he says.
His voice is deep. Smooth. The kind of voice that doesn't need to be loud to be heard. The kind that sounds like it would feel dangerous in the dark.
It's the kind of voice I would want to wake up to.
I shift slightly in my seat, annoyed at myself.
This man was created on the day the world decided it needed a perfect distraction.
He smiles, slow and controlled, and the room reacts like it's been rehearsing for this moment. Now I understand why the girls in the bathroom were practically vibrating. His smile isn't kind—it's precise. Like he knows exactly what it does and uses it sparingly.
I look away before I can analyze that thought too closely.
The session finally ends, and chaos follows. Girls rush toward the front, phones already raised, laughter too high, confidence suddenly overflowing. They crowd him, selfies flashing, voices calling his name like he owes them something.
I don't move.
I gather my notebook. My pen. My bag.
I didn't come here to orbit someone else.
As I stand, a hand reaches out and lightly catches my arm.
Daniel.
"Hey," he says, grinning. "Sorry about that. I'll explain later."
He pulls out his phone. "Give me your number?"
I hesitate for exactly half a second before handing it over.
"I'll hit you up later," he says. "Tonight, maybe?"
"Sure."
He squeezes my arm once before disappearing back into the crowd.
I leave the hall without looking back.
Some things don't deserve my attention.
I know I cannot even match his energy or vibes.