The air of Barcelona, usually vibrant and noisy, had taken on an unexpected stillness inside the apartment. The tension that had permeated every corner had dissolved, replaced by a strange, wonderful intimacy. Juglian was no longer an alien entity—a hurricane of perfection that had disrupted their lives. He had become a constant presence, a light that illuminated Sofia's days.
Their relationship, still in its infancy, was a silent dance made of glances, gestures, and shared spaces that required no words. Sofia had become his silent muse, his confidante, the only person in the world with whom he felt free to be the tormented artist hiding behind the mask. For the first time in his life, Juglian actively sought her company. It wasn't out of vain ostentation, but out of a deeper necessity—a need to share his soul and his art.
One afternoon, she found him sitting on the sofa, his face tense, a sketchbook resting on his knees. He was trying to draw Sofia's face, but his stroke, usually so confident, was uncertain, almost trembling. The pencil moved across the page with a frustration that Sofia felt deep in her heart. "I can't do it," he murmured, his voice a wisp of smoke. "Your face is too... too real. I can't capture your light. It's as if I'm trying to draw the sun."
With unexpected boldness, Sofia sat down beside him. She took his hand, which was gripping the pencil convulsively, and placed it gently against her face. Her touch was warm and reassuring. Juglian felt a shiver run through his body—not of cold, but of heat. "Don't draw what you see," she said, her voice a whisper, a balm for his tormented soul. "Draw what you feel."
Juglian looked at her, and his blue eyes, which until that moment had been filled with frustration, flooded with a light that took her breath away. For the first time, his hand moved with an uncertainty that wasn't fear, but love. He drew her eyes, not with his usual tormented lines, but with a sweetness and depth that moved her to tears. It wasn't a portrait of her face, but of her soul. It was a silent gesture of love, a message that needed no words to be understood.
His art, which had once been his prison, was now his bridge to love. His drawing was no longer a canvas of pain, but a painting of hope.
At that moment, Bea, who had entered the kitchen to get a glass of water, saw everything. She saw Juglian with an expression she had never seen on him before, and she saw Sofia, her eyes filled with tears of joy. She said nothing, but her expression was a mixture of anger and jealousy. She saw their gesture, their silence, their intimacy, and she realized that hers was a losing game. She could not compete with a love so deep and so sincere.
Her jealousy wasn't just for Juglian, but also for the friendship she shared with Sofia. She felt that Juglian was stealing her best friend, her confidante. And her anger, like a fire smoldering under the ashes, was ready to explode.
But for now, she remained silent—a shadow in the hallway watching the two lovers. Hers was a competitive soul that did not accept defeat. And in that moment, she had lost. She had lost her game, her challenge, and, above all, she had lost Juglian.
When Juglian and Sofia finally pulled away, they looked at each other with an expression of gratitude and love that defied description. They understood that their love was not just a feeling, but a battlefield. And together, they had won.