I’ve been here for a week now.
Maybe longer.
I’ve lost track of time.
The days blur together, each one bleeding into the next like watercolors in the rain.
I sleep in doorways, under bridges, in the shadows of buildings that tower over me like silent giants.
I never imagined my life would come to this.
I was the princess of Granada.
The jewel of the club.
The girl everyone loved.
Now I’m nothing.
Just a ghost wandering the streets, invisible to everyone who passes me by.
The nights are the worst.
The cold seeps into my bones like a poison, and I curl into myself, trying to hold onto whatever warmth I have left.
My mother’s wrench is clutched to my chest like a lifeline.
It’s the only thing I have left of her.
The only thing that reminds me of who I used to be.
“I won’t give up,” I whisper into the darkness.
“I can’t give up.
I have to keep going.
I have to rebuild my life from scratch.” But it’s hard.
So hard.
I’m only eighteen.
I have no money, no family, nowhere to belong.
I don’t know how to survive in this world.
I only know how to ride a bike.
I think about my mother.
About the way she used to hold me.
About the way she used to tell me I was strong.
I think about her voice: “You’re a fighter, Aitana.
You’re a survivor.
Never let anyone tell you otherwise.” “I’m trying, Mami,” I whisper.
“I’m trying so hard.” — It’s raining again.
The cold drops fall from the sky like tears, soaking through my thin clothes, plastering my dark curls to my face.
I’m huddled in a doorway, shivering, trying to stay dry.
I haven’t eaten in two days.
My stomach is empty, a hollow ache that never goes away.
My hands are numb from the cold.
My feet are blistered from walking.
I look up at the sky, and I feel the tears mix with the rain on my cheeks.
“Is this it?” I whisper.
“Is this all I have left?” I close my eyes, and I let the darkness wash over me.
— The attack happens so fast I don’t have time to react.
One moment, I’m sitting in the doorway, lost in my misery.
The next, a hand grabs my arm and yanks me to my feet.
A knife glints in the dim light, pressed against my throat.
“Don’t move,” a voice hisses in my ear.
“Don’t scream.
Just give me everything you have.” I freeze.
My heart is pounding in my chest.
My hands are shaking.
I can’t breathe.
I can’t think.
I don’t know how to fight.
I’ve never had to fight.
I only know how to ride a bike.
“Please,” I whisper, my voice trembling.
“Please, I don’t have anything.
I’m homeless.
I have nothing.” The thief laughs, cold and cruel.
“You think I care?
You think that matters to me?” I look around desperately, searching for help.
But the streets are empty.
The rain is falling, and no one is coming to save me.
Just when I think I’m going to die, I hear the roar of an engine.
A man on a bike appears from the shadows, his figure hooded and silhouetted against the streetlights.
He doesn’t hesitate.
He doesn’t wait.
He leaps off his bike and lunges at the thief, landing a powerful punch to the side of his head.
The thief staggers, dropping the knife.
He tries to run, but the man grabs him and shoves him to the ground.
“Stay down,” the man growls, his voice low and dangerous.
“If you move, I’ll break your other arm.” The thief doesn’t move.
He just lies there, whimpering.
The man turns to me.
He pulls back his hood, and I see his face for the first time.
He’s tall, with sun-lightened brown hair and warm hazel eyes that seem to say I’m safe.
He’s clean-shaven, his jaw strong and defined.
He looks young, maybe in his mid-twenties.
He’s wearing a leather jacket and jeans, and there’s something about him that seems familiar.
“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice soft and concerned.
“Did he hurt you?” I shake my head, my body trembling.
“I…
I’m fine.
Thank you.
Thank you for saving me.” He looks at me, his eyes scanning my face, my torn clothes, my shivering body.
He frowns.
“You’re soaking wet,” he says.
“How long have you been out here?” I look down at the ground.
“I don’t know.
A week?
Maybe longer.” He runs a hand through his hair, letting out a heavy sigh.
“You’re homeless?” I nod, my throat tight.
“I have nowhere to go.
No one to turn to.” He’s quiet for a moment, studying me.
Then he speaks.
“Come with me.
I’ll take you somewhere safe.” I hesitate.
I don’t know him.
I don’t trust anyone.
But I’m so tired.
So cold.
So alone.
“Okay,” I whisper.
He helps me up and leads me to his bike.
It’s a beautiful machine, black and sleek, with custom details that catch the light.
“What’s your name?” he asks as I climb on behind him.
“Aitana,” I say.
“Aitana Fernandez.” His eyes widen slightly.
“Fernandez?
The Fernandez family from Granada?” I feel a pang of pain in my chest.
“I don’t belong to that family anymore.” He doesn’t ask questions.
He just nods.
“I’m Sergio Martinez,” he says.
“Hold on tight.” — His home is beautiful.
A large apartment overlooking the coast, with floor-to-ceiling windows that show off the endless expanse of the sea.
I feel out of place, standing in the middle of the living room, dripping water onto his pristine wooden floors.
“Here,” he says, handing me a towel.
“There’s a bathroom down the hall.
Take a hot shower.
I’ll find you something to wear.” I take the towel, my hands shaking.
“Thank you.
I don’t know how to repay you.” “Don’t worry about it,” he says, his voice gentle.
“Just get warm.
We’ll talk later.” I do as he says.
The hot water feels like heaven, washing away the grime and the cold.
I stand under the spray for what feels like hours, letting the warmth seep into my bones.
When I come out, there’s a set of clothes waiting for me on the bed.
Simple.
Comfortable.
They fit perfectly.
I walk back into the living room, and Sergio is standing by the window, looking out at the sea.
“Feeling better?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say.
“Thank you.” He turns to look at me.
His eyes are warm and curious.
“I saw your bike,” he says.
“The one you were carrying.
It looked like a racer.
Are you a rider?” I nod, a spark of pride lighting up my chest.
“I was born to race.
It’s the only thing I’m good at.” He raises an eyebrow.
“Born to race?
That’s a bold claim.” “It’s not a claim,” I say, my voice steady.
“It’s a fact.” He laughs, a low, genuine sound.
“I like you, Aitana.
You’re not afraid to speak your mind.” I feel a small smile tug at my lips.
“I wasn’t always like this.
I used to be sweet.
Meek.
But I learned that sweetness doesn’t protect you.” He studies me, his expression unreadable.
“What happened to you?” I look away.
“I don’t want to talk about it.
Not yet.” He nods.
“I understand.
Take your time.” He walks over to a desk and picks up a piece of paper.
“I own a garage,” he says.
“Second most famous in Granada.
I’m always looking for talented riders and mechanics.
If you’re interested, I can give you a job.
A place to stay.
A chance to rebuild your life.” I stare at him, my heart pounding.
“Why?
Why would you help me?” He shrugs.
“Because I see something in you.
Something strong.
Something worth saving.” I feel the tears prick at my eyes.
“I don’t know how to thank you.” “Don’t thank me,” he says.
“Just prove me right.” — The days turn into weeks.
I work at the garage, proving myself every day.
I build my bike from scrap, piece by piece, I will not stop until it become the masterpiece I want.
Sergio is always there.
Watching.
Observing.
He notices everything about me.
The way I move.
The way I fix things.
The way I bite my lip when I’m concentrating.
He starts paying attention to me more than the other guys.
He brings me coffee.
He asks about my day.
He stays late to work beside me.
I see the way he looks at me.
The longing in his eyes.
The desire.
He wants more from me.
I know it.
But I pretend not to notice.
I can’t let anyone close.
Not again.
Not after everything I’ve been through.
I focus on my work.
I focus on my bike.
I focus on rebuilding myself into something strong and untouchable.
But I feel his eyes on me.
And I pretend not to see.