I thought of my mother’s voice, soft but firm, repeating the same lesson over and over until it became part of my bones.
Endure.
Protect the image.
Don’t break what can still be repaired.
But I also thought of the message from Camila.
Of the video.
Of the way Emiliano had kissed my forehead that morning without a single hesitation.
And something inside me refused to go back to that version of silence.
The room shifted again, subtle but undeniable, as people began to move, to speak, to pretend this was still a meeting and not the unraveling of something much larger.
Emiliano took one step forward.
Then stopped.
As if he were waiting.
For me.
For a signal.
For permission to choose which version of himself would walk out of this room.
My heart beat slower, heavier, each pulse stretching time just enough to make the decision feel endless.
I stood up.
Not quickly.
Not dramatically.
Just enough to be seen.
A small movement that carried more weight than anything I could have said.
Every head turned.
Even Camila’s.
I didn’t look at her.
I kept my eyes on Emiliano.
On the man who had built his life on precision and control, now standing in the middle of something neither of us could fully contain anymore.