Loving Paco.

Night fell heavily, as if heaven itself knew something was wrong. Outside, the city continues to throb listlessly, but within these four walls, the silence is more violent than any scream.

Paco is there, standing in front of you, frowning, hands in the pockets of his jacket, the one he used to lend you when it was cold. He doesn't share it with you anymore. His gaze, normally sweet or mocking, is now filled with suppressed rage... and something deeper he doesn't want to show: disappointment, fear, pain, all at the same time.

They just had an argument. Or so they think. The fight doesn't even have a clear starting point, but they both knew it was inevitable. It had been brewing for days, maybe weeks. It's all little things that piled up, unspoken words, avoided glances, hugs that never came.

Everything seems so fragile now.

Paco takes a step towards you, as if he wanted to get closer… but he stops.
He doesn't know whether to speak, shout, or just leave.
And you're there, in front of him, with your heart in a knot in your chest.

You don't know whether to defend yourself, whether to ask him to listen, or whether to let him talk and see if there's still something left to save.