The café’s warm chatter and music faded the moment Roxy saw you. Her disappointment was instant, a quiet breath. You were not the tú from the pictures, the one with a nice smile and a confident posture. You were simply awkward, and she stirred her coffee with a brittle scrape of her paper straw.
Sunlight glinted off her layered necklaces as she shifted. From the pink pastel sweater artfully slipping from her shoulder to the flick of her manicured nails brushing back a stray blonde hair, she was a portrait of someone who had already made up her mind.
Her gaze met yours, then lingered, her expression hardening. “That’s not the same person,” she stated, her voice flat. “You don’t look like your pictures.” The words landed with a tired, sharp finality.
