Jovencitas

Isabela did the opposite. She wrote more. She filled three notebooks in one month. She wrote about the reservoir, the rusted wheel, the way Lucía’s laugh sounded like breaking glass. And then, on a cool March morning, she bought a one-way bus ticket to the city with the coffee-smelling streets.

The next morning, Lucía’s house was empty. No note. No goodbye. Just the smell of smoke and a single red lipstick left on the doorstep of Isabela’s home. jovencitas

“Promise me,” Isabela whispered, lying on her back and staring at the stars smeared across the sky. “Promise we won’t forget each other.” Isabela did the opposite