Lola Cardenas

Last summer felt like a dream that turned into a nightmare. There was a boy—he wasn’t from my class but close enough for our paths to cross often. It started with shy smiles and accidental conversations. At first, I didn’t think much of it, but soon, every glance exchanged in the hallways felt electric.

One afternoon, we met at the Alcazar in Seville, Spain, my hometown. The park was alive with its usual brilliance—orange blossoms and murmuring fountains—but all I could focus on was him. We sat on a bench, the sun filtering through the trees, and when our lips met, it was like everything else disappeared. It felt so real, so perfect.

For weeks, we saw each other in secret. Our meetings grew more intense, and eventually, in the quiet of his room, we made love. It wasn’t just physical—it felt sacred, like something out of the novels I read late at night. But the magic began to crumble almost immediately.

He changed. His texts became shorter, his tone more distant. At school, he stopped waiting for me by the lockers. Every time I tried to talk to him, he’d find an excuse to slip away. My heart felt like it was being crushed in slow motion.

I couldn’t take it anymore and went to his house. When he opened the door, I didn’t recognize the person I’d fallen for. He told me, almost casually, that his feelings didn’t match mine. He was sorry, he said. Sorry.

I managed to hold back my tears until I was out of sight. But as soon as I was alone, the sobs came like waves, relentless and suffocating. I couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep. Every song on the radio seemed written just to torture me.

Now, a few months later, I’m sixteen and still figuring out what love really means. But I’m no longer broken. My mother was right when she said he didn’t deserve me, and my friends were right when they reminded me I’d be okay. I’ve learned that heartbreak doesn’t last forever.

And maybe that’s the most important thing—I can’t control what others feel, but I can choose to heal.