In the crosswalk, moving between cars and pedestrians, you see her. Not a look-alike, not a maybe, not a trick of stress. It’s her walk first, the careful way she places each step like she’s protecting something fragile. It’s the way her shoulders dip slightly when she’s tired, the way her head tilts to listen, the way she carries weight like it’s normal because she’s had no other choice. She’s got her hair pulled back in a simple ponytail, no glamour, no performance, just survival. And in her arms, there are two babies, one tucked in a blue carrier, one wrapped in a pink blanket. A boy and a girl, balanced with the kind of practiced skill you don’t get from babysitting once. Twins.
Your mouth goes dry so fast your tongue feels like paper. You don’t even need her to turn and face you, because your body recognizes her the way a wound recognizes pressure. She pauses mid-crosswalk when the baby in blue fusses, and you hear her murmur something, a soft rhythm, a little hum that’s so familiar it slices clean through the glass. It’s the same melody she used to hum when she cooked, when she was nervous, when she was trying not to cry. You remember hearing it in your penthouse while you scrolled emails, not realizing it was the sound of someone building a home around you. Now you hear it across traffic and steel and noise, and it hits your chest like a fist.
The baby settles. She keeps walking. Then the crowd swallows her, and she’s gone.
The light turns green, but you don’t move. Horns erupt behind you, impatient and angry, and Renata’s voice becomes distant like it’s coming through water. “Alejandro?” she asks, and you force your hands to work again, force your foot to press the pedal. You drive forward, because that’s what you do when something scares you, you keep moving so the fear can’t catch up. “Work stuff,” you lie, too quickly, and the lie tastes ridiculous. You’re not thinking about deals or profit margins. You’re thinking about two blankets, blue and pink, and the math your mind can’t stop doing.
You and your ex broke up almost exactly long enough ago for those twins to be that age.
At the restaurant, everything expensive tastes like cardboard. The steak has the texture of obligation, the wine is just liquid with a price tag, and Renata’s conversation about her gallery show lands on you like noise. You nod in the right places, you smile when she expects it, you keep your mask in place because you’ve worn it so long it feels like skin. But inside, you’re stuck at that crosswalk, watching your past stroll across your present like it owns the street. You keep seeing her hands adjusting the baby’s blanket, the way she soothed him without panic, the way she looked like someone who hasn’t slept in months but still keeps going. When you drop Renata off at her building later, she kisses your cheek and studies your face like she’s taking inventory.
