Chapter Thirty-One
M y apartment is quiet. Almost eerily so.
My phone lies untouched on the kitchen counter. I haven’t been able to go near it since I first read the article around an hour or so ago and left a voicemail with the school to say that I wouldn’t be working today.
Santi’s name flashes across the screen for the third time in fifteen minutes, but I can’t bring myself to answer.
I’m pretty confident that I already know what he’s going to say. That this is all just a misunderstanding, that Javier will issue a statement, that I need to give it a few weeks and the media will move on to something - or some one - else.
But none of that feels like enough.
I pace the small space between the counter and the couch, the walls of the apartment closing in on me. My thoughts are spiraling, twisting into themselves like a never-ending loop.
The article, the school being named, Claire and Javier seeing me as some sort of media puppet…
It’s all too much.
I grab my phone and unlock it, my thumb hovering over Santi’s name in my messages.
I want to speak to him so much. I’m going against every natural instinct not to answer his calls, or to call him myself. I want to tell him how I feel. More than that, I want to hear his voice; to have him tell me that everything will be okay, that he’ll take care of it and make it right.
But even thinking about it makes me feel weak. Like I’m relying too much on him to fix something I should’ve had control over from the start.
Five months of Valencia - five months of Santi - and I’m lost. A shell of the woman I was when I boarded that plane to Madrid.
Which means my mother was right.
It is time to take a step back, to reflect on everything and find myself again.
∞∞∞
I stand under the cool spray of the shower, staring up at the water as it streams over my face, mixing with the salty remnants of tears I haven’t realised I’m still crying.
The tiles beneath my feet feel cold, grounding me in a way my racing mind refuses to. My chest rises and falls in uneven breaths, but no matter how many times I try to inhale deeply, it feels like I can’t get enough air.
My brain won’t shut off, replaying every moment that’s led me here.
The interview. The article. The headline that painted me as nothing more than Santi’s girl . The way they twisted my words to make me sound bitter and weak.
And the moment I realized they’d crossed the line. The moment I read my school’s name in black and white, knowing my students and colleagues would now be dragged into this mess.
I close my eyes, the water running over my hair and down my back as I press my palms flat against the shower wall. I don’t even feel the spray of water anymore. All I feel is the pressure mounting in my chest, the suffocating weight of it all pressing down on me.
Santi has always been so patient, so understanding, but I can’t shake the feeling that I’m destined to fail in his world. His world. It’s a world of bright lights and cameras, of whispers and stares, of headlines dissecting your every move.
A world that demands perfection and punishes anyone who falls short.
I’m not built for this kind of scrutiny. I’m not like him - charming, confident, able to brush off the media’s lies as if they’re nothing. He’s so steady and unshakable in the face of it all, while I’m here, drowning in the tide.
I thought I could handle it. I thought I could adapt and grow into someone who could thrive in his world.
But I can’t.
I let out a shaky breath - the kind that feels like it’s being ripped from the depths of my chest - and rest my forehead against the cool tiles. The water washes over me, but it doesn’t bring the clarity I’m so desperately seeking.
By the time I finally step out of the bathroom and wrap myself in a towel, I know what I have to do to resolve this.
I’ve made my decision, and the weight in my chest has been replaced by a quiet determination, a resolution that feels both terrifying and necessary.
I need to leave.
Not forever - maybe not even for long - but I need space. I need to breathe without the weight of the media pressing down on my shoulders, without the whispers and stares, without the constant reminder that I’m no longer just me.
My reflection in the fogged-up mirror stares back at me, pale and uncertain. My blonde hair clings to my damp shoulders, my eyes red-rimmed and tired despite the early hour.
This isn’t who I want to be.
I walk into my bedroom and reach for my phone from where it’s sat face-up on the bedside table. My hands shake as I unlock the screen, ignoring the missed calls from Santi and Javier and I scroll through my contacts.
I land on the name that feels like home and stare at it for a moment, my thumb hovering over the call button.
My chest tightens again, but this time, it’s different. Less panic, more the ache of longing for something familiar.
I press the button.
The line rings twice before my mother’s warm voice comes through.
“Olivia, love. This is a surprise. Everything alright?”
My throat tightens, and for a moment, I can’t find my voice. When I finally manage to speak, it’s barely above a whisper.
“Mum... Can I come home?”
There’s a pause, just long enough for me to hear the concern creeping into her tone.
“Of course you can, sweetheart. You don’t have to ask. What’s happened? Is everything okay?”
I squeeze my eyes to a close, my free hand gripping the edge of the bedside table as if it can steady me.
“I just need to get away. I’ll explain everything when I get there, but... I need to come home.”
“Alright,” she says gently. “You know there’s always a place for you here. Come home, Liv. We’ll figure it out together.”
Her words are like a lifeline, pulling me back from the edge. “Thanks, Mum,” I whisper. “I’ll let you know when I’m on the way.”
She hesitates, her voice softening even further. “You’re sure you’re alright?”
I take a shaky breath. “I will be,” I say, though I’m not entirely sure it’s true.
As I hang up, I glance around my room, the familiar space suddenly feeling foreign. I grab a backpack from my wardrobe, my movements quick and mechanical as I start tossing clothes inside - jeans, cardigans, underwear… all the essentials for the cooler climate of England.
My hands shake as I zip it shut, the sound loud in the quiet room.
I glance at my phone again, at Santi’s name in my messages. My fingers hover over the keyboard, but no words come.
I can’t tell him. Not yet. I don’t even know what I’d say.
Instead, I send a short, vague message:
I can’t answer right now, Santi. I need some time and space. I’ll speak to you later, when I’ve got a clear head.
I quickly check online for flights and note that there are several options throughout the day. I don’t need to worry about choice - I’ve got plenty, and they’re all reasonably priced, too. Relieved, I turn my phone off before Santi can reply - not wanting to be pulled in by whatever he says in response - and throw it into my bag alongside my purse and passport.
It’s only when I’m standing at the front door of my apartment, my hand resting on the handle, that the reality of what I’m doing sinks in.
My students, my colleagues, will be much better off without the disruption I am unwittingly bringing to the school - for them, for me, I’m leaving. I don’t know when I’ll return.
I let out a shaky breath and step outside, the warm air kissing my skin like a gentle apology. I inhale deeply as I walk toward the train station, putting in my headphones and setting off at a reasonable pace.
I don’t hesitate, and I don’t look back.