Page 124 of Raspados & Regret

My body moves through the room, but my brain stays on one sentence.

Not regretting me isn’t the same as choosing me.

I wish I hadn’t sent it, but a small part of me is glad I did. Both things stand side by side, arms crossed, looking a lot like Fabián in my head. My phone buzzes one more time while I’m changing the pillowcase.

Fabián

Mass is over.

Can I see you later?

My chest hurts because there’s the want. I type three different answers.

Yes. No. Maybe.

I delete all of them.

Then I send:

Elías

You working the market tonight?

He replies fast.

Fabián

Yeah.

Elías

Then you’ll see me there.

The dots appear, disappearing for a second, and then come back again.

Fabián

That’s not what I meant.

And you know it.

My throat tightens, and I look at the hickey in the mirror across the room.

Elías

I know…

I set it face down on the dresser before he can answer and sit on the edge of my bed, clean sheets bunched beside me, sunlight creeping across my floor, and press my palms to my eyes.

So this is regret.

Not the fun kind.

Not the “I shouldn’t have worn the tiny shorts” kind.

Not the “I let Crop Top Papi leave bruises on my neck and now TikTok has questions” kind.

This is quieter and meaner. This is waking up sore and happy, giving him your number, letting him say soft things from church, and realizing somewhere between the hickeys and the homily that wanting each other might be the easy part.