Page 102 of My Spanish Love Affair

Which means my mother was right.

Itistime to take a step back, to reflect on everything and find myself again.

∞∞∞

I stand under the cool spray of the shower, staring up at the water as it streams over my face, mixing with the salty remnants of tears I haven’t realised I’m still crying.

The tiles beneath my feet feel cold, grounding me in a way my racing mind refuses to. My chest rises and falls in uneven breaths, but no matter how many times I try to inhale deeply, it feels like I can’t get enough air.

My brain won’t shut off, replaying every moment that’s led me here.

The interview. The article. The headline that painted me as nothing more thanSanti’s girl. The way they twisted my words to make me sound bitter and weak.

And the moment I realized they’d crossed the line. The moment I read my school’s name in black and white, knowing my students and colleagues would now be dragged into thismess.

I close my eyes, the water running over my hair and down my back as I press my palms flat against the shower wall. I don’t even feel the spray of water anymore. All I feel is the pressure mounting in my chest, the suffocating weight of it all pressing down on me.

Santi has always been so patient, so understanding, but I can’t shake the feeling that I’m destined to fail in his world.His world.It’s a world of bright lights and cameras, of whispers and stares, of headlines dissecting your every move.

A world that demands perfection and punishes anyone who falls short.

I’m not built for this kind of scrutiny. I’m not like him - charming, confident, able to brush off the media’s lies as if they’re nothing. He’s so steady and unshakable in the face of it all, while I’m here, drowning in the tide.

I thought I could handle it. I thought I could adapt and grow into someone who could thrive in his world.

But I can’t.

I let out a shaky breath - the kind that feels like it’s being ripped from the depths of my chest - and rest my forehead against the cool tiles. The water washes over me, but it doesn’t bring the clarity I’m so desperately seeking.

By the time I finally step out of the bathroom and wrap myself in a towel, I know what I have to do to resolve this.

I’ve made my decision, and the weight in my chest has been replaced by a quiet determination, a resolution that feels both terrifying and necessary.

I need to leave.

Not forever - maybe not even for long - but I need space. I needto breathe without the weight of the media pressing down on my shoulders, without the whispers and stares, without the constant reminder that I’m no longer justme.

My reflection in the fogged-up mirror stares back at me, pale and uncertain. My blonde hair clings to my damp shoulders, my eyes red-rimmed and tired despite the early hour.

This isn’t who I want to be.

I walk into my bedroom and reach for my phone from where it’s sat face-up on the bedside table. My hands shake as I unlock the screen, ignoring the missed calls from Santi and Javier and I scroll through my contacts.

I land on the name that feels like home and stare at it for a moment, my thumb hovering over the call button.

My chest tightens again, but this time, it’s different. Less panic, more the ache of longing for something familiar.

I press the button.

The line rings twice before my mother’s warm voice comes through.

“Olivia, love. This is a surprise. Everything alright?”

My throat tightens, and for a moment, I can’t find my voice. When I finally manage to speak, it’s barely above a whisper.

“Mum... Can I come home?”

There’s a pause, just long enough for me to hear the concern creeping into her tone.

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