I glare at my reflection. It glares
back—unimpressed. My curls are a wild rebellion, twisting like they’ve got
somewhere better to be. Dark smudges cling under my eyes, quiet proof that
sleep and I are barely on speaking terms. The mirror doesn’t soften the truth—I
look exactly like a man who spent the night wrestling with thoughts he’d rather
ignore.
Behind me, the bed is a battlefield of discarded
clothes. Hoodies, jeans, sneakers—my usual armor, built for blending in, not
standing out. But today, I’m supposed to care. Today, Abuela cares. And when
Abuela cares, the universe makes sure I listen.
I grab a navy T-shirt, hold it up. Plain.
Forgettable. I turn slightly, squint at my reflection, trying to convince
myself this is fine. The fabric slides over my shoulders like reluctant
surrender, settling against my skin with all the enthusiasm of a funeral
shroud.
“This is stupid.” The words leave my mouth on an
exhale, half-growled, half-resigned. I yank the shirt off, rake a hand through
my curls. No miracle. No sudden transformation into someone suave or
effortlessly charming. Just me. Carlos Espinosa.
My stomach knots. I could still call it off. Say
I’m sick. Hide in the familiar world of music and gaming, where no one expects
me to be witty or charming or remotely interesting. But then her voice sneaks
in, steady and relentless as the tide.
Mijo, you’re young and strong. You need a nice
girl.
I sigh, glance toward the door. She’s probably on
the other side, arms crossed, eyes sharp, already armed with another speech
about why this is good for me. As if one date—one forced, awkward attempt at
human connection—can fix… whatever this is.
"Fuck it."
I settle on a gray tank top, something easy,
something safe, and throw a hoodie over it. The room is a mess, mirroring the
indecision twisting in my gut. Clothes draped over the chair, half-finished
coffee cold on the nightstand, an unmade bed still bearing the imprint of my
restless tossing. The quiet chaos of a man caught between staying the same and
maybe—just maybe—trying something different.
The thought lingers, uncomfortable but stubborn.
I grab my keys. This isn’t just about me. It’s
about her faith. The way she looks at me and still sees something worth
believing in, even when I don’t.
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I exhale, grip the doorknob, and step forward.
The condo hums with stillness, the overhead light
casting a warm, golden haze. It should feel comforting. Instead, the silence
presses in, thick with expectation.
Abuela stands by the door, arms folded, the
picture of patience. She doesn’t speak at first, just watches, eyes skimming
over me like she’s searching for something—some proof that I haven’t already
decided to bolt.
By her feet, my brand-new gym shoes sit neatly by
the threshold, looking out of place. Like they belong to someone else. Someone
put-together. Someone who isn’t me.
She tilts her head, lips curving—not quite a
smile, more like a knowing little smirk. “You’ll do great, mijo.”
Not a question. Not encouragement. Just fact.
Like the sky is blue and she made up her mind about me years ago.
Her hand finds my back, the touch familiar,
grounding.
I try for a smile, but it barely forms before
slipping away. “Thanks, Abuela.”
The words feel small. She deserves more. But she
just nods, her belief in me unwavering, even when mine isn’t.
“No matter what happens, this is a win for you,”
she says, and it’s the way she says it—like she already sees me succeeding—that
gets to me.
The door looms ahead. A thin, wooden line between
the world I know and the one waiting outside.
I hesitate.
Her belief in me is a weight and a lifeline all
at once. I wish I could see what she does. Wish I could step forward without
this tight knot of second-guessing strangling me from the inside.
Streetlight spills through the window, painting
the space in soft florescent hues. Outside, the world stretches too big, too dark—like
it’s in on some secret I’m not part of yet.
I brush my fingers against the doorframe. A quiet
goodbye to the space that has always been safe.
Abuela doesn’t rush me. Doesn’t push. Just waits,
patient as ever.
“Go on, mijo,” she says, voice steady.
I swallow. Nod. Step outside.
The night air is sharp, cool against my skin.
Moonlight unfurls over the pavement, washing everything in silver. The door
clicks shut behind me—final, absolute. Not just wood meeting wood. A shift. A
push into something unknown.
For a second, I think about turning back. Letting
this moment pass me by.
But I don’t.
I take a breath. The kind that fills your lungs
with something more than air—possibility, uncertainty, the barest flicker of
hope.
Then I move.
One step.
Then another.
Because the only way forward is through.
And Abuela just planted a field of landmines in
my already chaotic world.
Back-to-back blind dates. Planned with military
precision.
Me—the guy who can’t hold onto a woman—being set
up by his own grandmother.
God help me.