But that stopped being my story.
My story was different.
In San Miguel, the house I rented had terracotta walls, a terrace full of bougainvillea and a small studio where I worked with a view of the sunset. The nights smelled of firewood, and the days brought a warm sun that settled on the colorful mosaics.
I wrote there. A lot. About business, about emotions, about new goals. I started giving lectures on female leadership. I opened an internal unit in my company dedicated to the development of women in executive positions. I traveled from one side of the country to the other, from Monterrey to Mérida, sharing experiences with women who were also rebuilding their lives.
And every time I finished a talk, when I saw faces shining with renewed determination, I felt that everything—absolutely everything—had been worth it.
Included the day at Saks.
Including the fire that destroyed what he thought was home.
Because from that fire something truer was born.
Months later, I returned to the city for a hospitality group event. I walked through Polanco like someone visiting someone else’s life. I passed in front of the café where I had met Lorenzo. He was there, arranging cups. He saw me. He smiled in surprise.
“Long time without seeing you,” he said in that calm, honest voice.
“I’ve been away,” I replied.
“Do you want the usual one?”
I didn’t think about it too much.
“Yes.
We talked for a while. Traveling. Of plans. Of small things. The conversation was not forced. There was no hurry. There was no weight. It was light as the afternoon air.
As we said goodbye, Lorenzo hesitated for a moment before handing me a piece of paper with his number on it.
“In case you ever want a coffee…” outside the bar.
I took it.
And for the first time since all that, I felt a warm, deep, surprising spark.
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