That night I slept for the first time without honey, without chamomile tea, without “my little wife.”
I slept with plain water, in an ordinary glass, poured by me.
In the following weeks, everything came out. Diego wasn't just “a yoga instructor in love.” He had debts, a history of minor lawsuits, and “friendships” with people who knew how to navigate shady dealings.
His plan wasn't to kill me immediately, no… it was slower, dirtier: to make me seem fragile, to make me seem “unstable,” to gain power, to sell properties “for my own good,” and, eventually, to trap me in a narrative where I no longer had any say.
But what he hadn't counted on was my silence.Not the silence of submission.
The silence of someone who observes.
And I observed him just in time.
A month later, one morning, I went to the yoga studio where I had met him. Not to practice. Just to close a circle.
The receptionist recognized me.
"Laura… everything alright? You haven't been in weeks."
I nodded.
"I'm better. I just wanted to say something."
I looked at the room where I once believed peace came from someone else.
"Sometimes relief feels like love," I said. "But love doesn't take away your control."
I left and walked through the Colonia Americana with the sun on my face.
