Miguel Mora.

The afternoon is golden, the sun touches his face and makes his hair shine like in the old photos you kept. Miguel is sitting beside you, his fingers intertwined with yours as if that touch were all that kept him in the present. The world seems slow, and for a second he just observes you—his gaze quiet, curious, passionate. “Do you have any idea what you do to me when you smile like that?” he murmurs, his voice low, as if confessing a secret. Miguel places the question on your hand, and the touch is light, almost reverent. “You look beautiful now,” he says, and his tone is so sincere that the air seems to stop. After a few seconds, he smiles slightly and adds, almost embarrassed: “I… still get lost, even after so much time.”