“It’d be nice. The bonfire, the maypole. It’s a tradition we are slowly losing but that taid loves. I bet Alejandra’s never celebrated Calan Mai the Aber way before.”
Callum took another breath. “Mam... Alejandra and I—we haven’t defined anything. I don’t want to pressure her by dragging her to meet my family.”
“Maybe it’ll help. Do you want her to be your girlfriend?”
“Yes. But she’s still dealing with the injury—”
“Well, that’s perfect. Calan Mai is all about health and good luck. She’d love it—”
“You don’t even know her—”
“Think about it, okay? I’ve got to go, your taid wants lunch.” And she hung up, as usual, without saying goodbye.
Callum sighed.
Going back to Aberystwyth with Alejandra might actually be good. A road trip, a few days off from Lamina, time away from Asma’s meetings and the impending conversation they were going to have the following day. He could show her the beach, take her up Constitution Hill, let her see what shaped him. But was it selfish? She needed space to heal, to focus on rehab and therapy. And then there was taid... fading a little more every week.
The headache returned, dull and pressing behind his eyes.
He could only hope the therapist was helping her, and that Alejandra would tell him if she wasn’t.
41
ALEJANDRA
lo que siento - Valeria Castro
The therapist’sstudio in Primrose Hill looked more like a cozy reading room than a clinic. Soft lighting filtered through linen curtains, diffusing the grey London daylight into something warmer, almost golden. There were no cold white walls or framed diplomas shoved in her face—no sterile reminders that she was there because something was wrong—just warm wooden shelves stacked with books, their spines worn and familiar, a small window cracked open to let in the late spring breeze, carrying distant city sounds softened by height and distance.
Two armchairs faced each other with a small table in between. A ceramic teapot rested on it, steam curling lazily from the spout, as if time moved slower in this room. The scent of peppermint and orange peel filled the air.
That whole setting made her feel more at ease. Maybe that was exactly the point—to lure her in with the cozy aesthetic, only to slowly crawl its way into her worst nightmares and demons.
Alejandra sat stiffly in the left chair, her hands gripping the ends of the armrests, knuckles faintly pale from the pressure. She wore a white blouse under a denim overall, the fabric soft against her skin, unfamiliar without the constant constraint of the sling. Her jacket hung near the door, still carrying a trace of the chill outside. It felt good to wear an outfit without her sling around. To move almost normally. Her shoulder didn’t hurt much today. But the anxiety in her chest felt heavier than any injury she’d carried. It pressed inward, tight and constant, like something sitting right behind her ribs.
“Would you like some tea?” the therapist asked in Spanish, her voice soft, unhurried, like there was nowhere else she needed to be.
“Sure,” Alejandra replied, mostly to buy time. Speaking about her feelings in Spanish was going to be intense—she knew it. With Callum, with the barrier of English, it was somehow easier. There was distance there, a filter. Words didn’t land as heavily.
But Spanish… Spanish was home. It was family. It was who she really was. And saying things out loud in that language made them real. Final.
The woman—Dr. Carla Martínez—poured the tea and handed her the cup with steady hands. She looked nothing like Alejandra had imagined. Not severe. Not clinical. She was in her forties, with greying curls pulled into a loose bun, a few strands escaping and softening her face. Her skin held the same warm tone as Alejandra’s, familiar in a way that unsettled her. Her eyes were sharp, observant, but soft at the same time. Like she saw more than she let on.
Like she already knew things Alejandra hadn’t said yet.
“So, how are you feeling today?” Carla asked gently.
Alejandra gave a shrug, pairing it with a half-smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Fine, I guess.”
A pause stretched between them.
“Do you want to be here?”
Alejandra blinked, caught off guard. “Honestly?”
Carla nodded once.
“No. Not really.” She exhaled slowly, shifting slightly in the chair, her fingers tightening around the warm ceramic cup. “I don’t do well… talking. Or at least not about stuff that matters. I’m used to solving things on my own.”
