“I’m not looking for someone to complete me. I’m looking for someone who already knows how to be a person. Who remembers things. Who shows up.”
Daniel had said, “You and your lists. You’re impossible.”
That same night, she went home to the apartment she shared with Daniel. He was on the couch, scrolling his phone. The TV was on. He didn’t look up.
“Martín,” she said.
Clara froze. “How did you—”
One night, Clara stayed late at Migas y Silencio while Martín closed up. They sat on mismatched chairs, drinking chamomile tea because the espresso machine was already cleaned. Rain tapped the window.
“Yeah.”
“Hey,” he said. “There’s leftover pizza.”
Clara went to the bedroom. She opened her Google Keep note. She stared at the title: Tampoco Pido Tanto .
She waited. He didn’t ask what kind of biopsy. He didn’t ask if she was okay. He didn’t put the phone down. Tampoco Pido Tanto Fixed
Item #1: Remember my coffee order. (Not every time. Just once in a while. A flat white, oat milk, extra shot. It’s on my Insta bio.)
“Hey,” she said.
Clara was thirty-four years old, and she had a list. It was not written on fancy stationery or tattooed on her heart. It lived in a cracked Google Keep note she’d been updating since she was twenty-six. The list was titled, with bitter irony, “Tampoco Pido Tanto.” “I’m not looking for someone to complete me
Martín asked about her day. He remembered that her mother’s CT scan was on a Friday. He texted her a picture of a pigeon wearing a tiny hat he’d found on the internet, just because. He never once said “You’re overthinking it.”
Clara laughed—a real laugh, the kind that comes from the belly. She grabbed a pen and wrote back on the same paper: “That’s still asking for a lot, cabrón. But okay.”