It was around 10 p.m. when Amara received a heartfelt message from Tera. The moment his name flickered onto her screen—already identified by Truecaller—her lips curled into a sneer, not of amusement, but of weary calculation.
The text was polite, even charming. But charm, to Amara, was often the smoke that masked fire.
Yes, she longed for companionship. She craved the warmth of shared laughter and the comfort of sincere conversation. But that longing existed in the same heart where boundaries were etched deep—boundaries built from painful memories, whispered warnings, and a relentless pursuit of purpose. Especially with men. Especially now.
With a scoff barely audible above the hum of her desk lamp, she placed the phone down and returned to her engineering sketches, lines and arcs forming the safer, more predictable world she preferred.
But Tera wasn't done. Not yet.
His call lit up the screen, once, twice—thrice. Eventually, her will buckled under the weight of repeated rings. She answered, but not with welcome.
"How may I help you?" Her voice cut through the silence like a blade, crisp and devoid of softness.
There was a brief pause on his end, one thick with incredulity and wounded pride.
"I thought we were getting along," he finally said, voice low and almost disbelieving. "I guess I was wrong. What went wrong, baby girl?"
"Getting along, my foot. That would be over my dead body. I never intended to get 'along' with anyone to begin with." She chuckled dryly, then added sharply, "Now if you're done wasting both your time and mine, you can go ahead and state your intentions. Or hang up."
Silence stretched, taut and heavy, until a hum vibrated through the line.
"It's alright, dear. I mean no harm." And with a click, the call ended.
"Unbelievable," Tera muttered to himself as he leaned back into his chair. "She really thinks all I want is to flirt? I thought she was different—more emotionally intelligent. Guess not."
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Back in José Hostel Room 14, Andre, curled up on the lower bunk with a half-read novel in hand, had been observing in silence. The heated conversation had not gone unnoticed. Glancing at her roommate, she saw a face hardened with determination—but laced, perhaps, with an invisible ache.
Finally, Andre broke the silence.
"Don't you think that was a bit too harsh?" Her voice was gentle, but not without conviction. "I mean… maybe he had no ill intentions. Maybe you just caught him in the crossfire of a bad day."
Amara didn't reply. She simply scribbled something with calculated intensity, though her hand trembled ever so slightly.
"I'm just saying," Andre pressed on, "if someone truly meant no harm, then what you did might've been hurtful. He didn't even get to explain himself."
At last, Amara sighed—a long, quiet exhale that spoke more than words could.
"All I'm trying to do is protect myself. I can't afford any distractions. I have goals, Andre. Dreams. I can't let a guy—any guy—derail that."
Andre sat up straighter, her tone softening. "I understand that. And I admire it, really. But walls so high that no one gets through… that's not safety. That's isolation."
Amara's eyes flickered with something undefinable—regret, maybe. Fear. She didn't deny it.
"You think I'm overreacting."
"No," Andre said, with a small smile. "I think you're scared."
There was a pause, as if the air itself was holding its breath.
"You think I'm afraid he'll break my heart?" Amara asked bitterly.
"I think you've already been broken. Just not by him," Andre whispered.
The silence that followed was thick and sacred, and for a moment, neither girl moved.
Amara turned toward the window, her voice dropping to a murmur. "I do not have a heart."
"You do. You just buried it too deep."
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The next morning brought no texts. No calls. Tera had withdrawn into the quiet, perhaps licking his wounds, perhaps reflecting—or perhaps deciding she wasn't worth the chase.
But Amara wasn't thinking of Tera. She was staring into her coffee, wondering if, in protecting herself so fiercely, she had forgotten how to be soft. Had she thrown away something that might have grown into something gentle—something safe?
Andre walked by and placed a muffin beside her. "You can protect your dreams," she said, "and still leave the door open, just a little."
Amara didn't respond. But later that evening, she unlocked her phone. Her thumb hovered over Tera's number—then pulled back.
Not yet. But maybe someday.
She turned back to her sketches, but this time, the lines weren't just sharp and calculated. Some curves crept in—gentle, uncertain, but present.
Just like her heart.