But I also thought of the message from Camila.
Of the video.
Of the way Emiliano had kissed my forehead that morning without a single hesitation.
And something inside me refused to go back to that version of silence.
The room shifted again, subtle but undeniable, as people began to move, to speak, to pretend this was still a meeting and not the unraveling of something much larger.
Emiliano took one step forward.
Then stopped.
As if he were waiting.
For me.
For a signal.
For permission to choose which version of himself would walk out of this room.
My heart beat slower, heavier, each pulse stretching time just enough to make the decision feel endless.
I stood up.
Not quickly.
Not dramatically.
Just enough to be seen.
A small movement that carried more weight than anything I could have said.
Every head turned.
Even Camila’s.
I didn’t look at her.
I kept my eyes on Emiliano.
On the man who had built his life on precision and control, now standing in the middle of something neither of us could fully contain anymore.
I took a breath.
And for the first time that day, I felt it reach all the way to the bottom of my lungs.
“I think,” I said, my voice steady, almost calm, “we should continue the meeting.”
A murmur moved through the room—confused, uncertain, searching for meaning in words that seemed too simple for what had just happened.
Emiliano blinked.
Once.
As if he hadn’t expected that.
As if part of him had been preparing for something else entirely.
I held his gaze.
Not forgiving.
Not accusing.
Just present.
Because this wasn’t about protecting him.
And it wasn’t about destroying him, either.
It was about forcing the truth to exist in the same space as everything else.
No more separation.
No more hidden versions.
Just consequences.
He nodded slowly.
A small movement, but enough.
He turned back toward the microphone, his posture different now, less polished, more real in a way that couldn’t be rehearsed.
The meeting resumed.
But nothing was the same.
And as I sat back down, my hands finally still, I realized the choice hadn’t ended anything.
It had only begun something far more difficult.
Something that would follow us long after this room emptied and the lights went dark.
The meeting continued, but every word felt heavier, as if each sentence had to pass through something broken before reaching anyone’s ears.