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Cassie lets her phone ring once, twice, three times. She doesn’t mean to answer, she never does. She’s alone, the apartment is quiet, it’s almost midnight when her phone vibrates against her nightstand. The flashing of her phone is the only light in the room. She knows who’s calling even before she looks.
Victoria.
Vuélvelo a hacer.
(Do it again.)
The sound cuts off. Silence rushes back in. Cassie exhales. She knows it, she knows how this goes.
The screen lights up again.
Todo se hace noche.
(Everything turns into night.)
It’s ridiculous how quickly the world narrows. The room, her thoughts, her breathing, all of it pulled tight around one name. The name glowing on her phone.
Vuelve a estar acá.
(Come back here again.)
She knows she shouldn’t, she exhales like her body hurts, in a sense, it does. All of her aches, she knows this will eat her alive. She just can’t stop herself.
She knows she shouldn’t. She picks up anyway.
“Hey,” Victoria says softly.
That voice. Her voice. Calm, careful. Like she’s stepping into something fragile. Cassie sits in her bed, staring at the ceiling. “It's late.”
“I know…”
Tu.
Nunca hablas de esto.
(You
Never talk about this.)
Victoria doesn’t say it, not exactly, but it lingers there, in the quiet between them. The thing they don’t name. Victoria never talks about what this is, she never labels it. She never asks what they are doing. Cassie refuses to dissect what that thing is.
Cassie used to talk about it, though. God, she used to talk. When Chad started dating Chloe, she had been merciless. Called it predictable, called it cliché, called it irresponsible, called it disgusting. “You don’t date someone younger because you’re in love. You date them because you like how they look at you.” “It’s selfish,” she had said. “It’s about ego.” “She’s barely lived. What could you possibly have in common?” She had meant it. She had believed she was better than that. And now, she presses the phone closer to her ear, just so she could listen to Victoria’s breath on the other end of the line.
Yo.
Yo siempre contesto.
(Me.
I always answer.)
She does. Every time.
“Did you get home okay?” Victoria asks. There it is, the real reason for the call.
Concern.
¿Qué pasó?
¿Estás bien?
(What happened?
Are you okay?)
“That’s my line,” Cassie says, softer than she intends.
“I know,” Victoria replies, Cassie can hear her smile. “Humor me.”
Cassie closes her eyes. “I’m fine.”
She isn't fine. She's tired, she's confused, her whole body aches and feels heavy. She’s painfully aware of the years between them, like listening to a clock tick in a silent room. Victoria doesn’t feel those years the way Cassie does. That terrifies her.
They fell into an easier conversation, about patients, about how Trinity had “accidentally” made Whitaker fall and spill a fresh urine sample all over some lab results. About nothing.
Victoria's voice lowers. “I had a dream,” she says.
Cassie’s stomach tightens.
Soñaba
Soñaba que aliviaba si te duele.
(I dreamed
I dreamed I could ease it if you’re hurting.)
“I don’t need easing,” Cassie replies automatically.
“You always say that.”
Because she does, she has to. Because needing someone, needing her, feels like stealing time that isn’t hers.
“Why does this scare you so much?” Victoria asks quietly.
Cassie lets out something like a laugh but it sounds completely hollow.
¿Por qué tú en mí si puedes?
(Why is it that you can, with me?)
Why can Victoria hold her hand in the break room without hesitation? Why can she look at Cassie like she isn’t calculating how it would look in a couple of years? Why can she love without flinching? Without looking over her shoulder to see if someone notices, if someone looks disgusted by it.
Cassie pushes off the bed, walking towards the window in her room. The city is quiet, silver under streetlights, almost peaceful.
“You don’t get it,” Cassie lets out a breath she doesn’t know she had been holding.
“Then explain it to me.”
Explain that she mocked this. Explain that she built her moral high ground out of someone else’s mistakes. Explain that if she let herself have this, she would have to admit she was wrong.
Cassie swallows. ”It’s not that simple.”
There’s a long silence between the two.
Salvemos esto
(Let’s save this.)
Victoria doesn’t dramatize it, she doesn’t beg. She just offers the words like something real. Something fragile and valuable.
“Save what?” Cassie whispers.
“Whatever this is.”
Solo que a veces no sé por dónde empezar.
(It’s just that sometimes I don’t know where to begin.)
Cassie almost smiles at that. Of course Victoria doesn’t know where to begin, she doesn’t know either, because beginning means acknowledging. Acknowledging it’s real, and real things can ruin reputations. Real things can make everything messy. Real things can and will probably hurt her more deeply than anything in her past.
“If this goes wrong…” Cassie starts.
Que si se va, lo sabes.
Se nos olvida caminar.
(If this goes away, you know.
We forget how to walk.)
The words hang between them like a warning. Cassie knows exactly what it feels like to lose something and pretend it was self respect. To choose pride over vulnerability and call it strength. She has done it in the past, she doesn’t know if she can survive doing it again.
“Cassie.” Victoria exhales slowly, there’s a small tremor in her voice. “I don’t care about the age difference,” she says. “I care about you, and only you.”
Ego.
Is that what this is? Or is that just what she needs it to be so she has permission to hate herself?
The simplicity of it hits harder than any argument. Cassie rests her forehead against the cool glass of the window. “You should care…”
“Why?”
Because she judged this. Because she said it was wrong. Because she said people her age who did this were disgusting. And now she can’t look at herself without hearing her own voice. Because loving Victoria means admitting she was cruel. Because she felt disgusting and selfish.
Si me muero.
Ven a buscarme.
Tan pronto tengas otro cuerpo.
Y otra forma de mirarme.
(If I die.
Come find me.
As soon as you have another body.
And another way of looking at me.)
Maybe that's what this is. Not physical death, but the death of the version of herself who thought she had everything figured out. Maybe something has to die for this to live. Her certainty. Her superiority. Her clean moral lines.
“Cass,” Victoria says gently. “You’re not your past opinions. You’re allowed to change.” The words undo her more than any accusation could.
Tu.
Nunca hablas de esto
(You
Never talk about this.)
She doesn’t. She hides behind sarcasm, behind professionalism, behind age and experience. But tonight the city is quiet and her thoughts are really loud. The truth feeling closer than usual.
“I was awful about it,” Cassie admits finally, her voice cracking. “When Chad did this. I said horrible things. I was disgusted.” Victoria is quiet, listening. “And now I’m here,” Cassie continues. “Doing the same thing.”
In her mind, there’s no difference. Just another older person reaching for someone who hasn’t lived enough to know better… and calling it love.
“Is it the same?” Victoria asks gently.
Cassie hesitates.
No. It isn’t.
Her ex had tried to replace her carelessly. He treated youth like a trophy. This doesn’t feel like that at all. This feels like being seen, like being challenged, like being softened in ways she didn’t know were possible, in ways she didn’t know she needed.
“No,” she whispers.
“Then stop punishing yourself for something that isn’t the same.”
Cassie lets that settle, the guilt is still there. The fear is still there, but so is the warmth in her chest. The certainty that when Victoria calls, she doesn’t feel used.
She feels chosen.
The line goes quiet.
“I should let you sleep,” Victoria finally says.
“Yeah.”
Neither of them hangs up.
Yo.
Yo siempre contesto.
(Me.
I always answer.)
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she says.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
There’s relief in Victoria’s voice when she replies, “Okay.”
After they end the call, Cassie stays there a moment longer, staring at her darkened screen.
Voy a huir de aquí.
(I’m going to run from here.)
She thinks about it, running, ending it before it gets messy. Reclaiming the moral certainty she used to wear like armor. Instead, she sets her phone on the nightstand again and lays in bed.
She doesn’t run.
And when her phone rings again the next night
she answers.