Remii

“Madrid” was flashing on the phone’s display at three o’clock in the morning, and in her headphones, for the sixth time in a row, the track that Ramiro had recorded for her but never released was playing.

The Viznik Stadium should have been bursting at the seams with sixty thousand fans. Instead, a statement appeared online: "The concert has been cancelled due to technical reasons."

Technical reasons, of course.

Ramiro sat on the floor of the empty dressing room. He was still wearing his concert clothes—an oversized black T-shirt. Silver chains glittered.

The phone vibrated. He dialed her number for the tenth time. She answered.

— What are you doing? — he growled. — Do you understand what you’ve done, mi amor? Am I supposed to sit here instead of on stage now?

"Ramiro, stop it," her voice was icy. "I'm not going to listen to your Spanish nonsense. I don't understand a damn thing about this pompous slang. Stop acting like a macho."

— ¡Joder, niña! (Damn it, girl!) — he jumped up. — Did you do this on purpose? ¡Te odio cuando haces eso! (I hate you when you do that!)

"And again, 'I hate you,'" she snorted. "You cancelled the concert. You let thousands of people down. Do you think if you yell at me in Spanish, I'll come running?"

Ramiro clenched his fingers in his hair. He didn't care about his career. It felt like there was a piece of concrete lodged in his chest.

— Listen to me carefully... I'm coming to you. Won't you close the door in front of me, ¿entiendes? (Understand?)

"I'm not going to let you in," she snapped. "We had a conversation. I'm not your property, so you demand my presence in the box as if I were part of the scenery."

“You are my life,” he whispered. “And you will open the door for me, even if I have to knock it down. I miss you so much. Don’t ask me what that means, I won’t translate. Wait for me.”

He hung up and rushed towards the exit, ignoring the guards.