Lucía took off her badge and left it on the counter.
—I need to go out.
Nobody dared to stop her.
That afternoon, Mateo waited for her in Parque México with a huge bouquet of red roses. He felt ridiculous, but desperate. When Lucía appeared, she was wearing a simple jacket and her eyes were tired.
—Lucía, please. Let me explain.
She looked at the flowers.
—Is this also part of your theater?
Mateo lowered the bouquet.
—No. I love you.
Lucía closed her eyes for a second, as if those words hurt her.
—Don't say that to fix what you broke.
—I can give you stability. I can help you with school, with rent, with whatever you need. You'll never have to worry about money again.
She let out a sad laugh.
"That's what you don't understand. I spent years building myself up so I wouldn't depend on anyone. I survived an abusive father, debt, funerals, jobs where I was treated as less than. And when someone finally looked at me without pity, it turned out they were also judging me."
Mateo felt that the flowers weighed like stones.
—I didn't mean to hurt you.
—But you did it.
Lucia took a deep breath.
—I'm going to resign. I won't accept the promotion. I don't want my future to depend on you.
—Lucía…
—If you ever speak to me again, let it be without disguises, without proof, and without trying to save me.
She walked away under the park lights. Mateo didn't follow her. For the first time, he understood that loving someone wasn't about giving them money, but about respecting the distance that person needed to heal.
Six months later, a small flower shop opened on a quiet corner of the Roma neighborhood.
Her name was Flores de Lucía.
It wasn't big or luxurious, but every detail bore her touch: painted flowerpots, colorful ribbons, bouquets of calla lilies, out-of-season marigolds, and roses wrapped in kraft paper. Lucía had opened it with her savings, a small loan, and countless sleepless nights.
The first month was difficult. The second was too. But the neighbors started recommending her. A woman bought flowers every Monday for her deceased husband. A young man asked for sunflowers to apologize to his girlfriend. A little girl came in every Friday for a single daisy for her teacher.
Lucía discovered that she didn't want to sell luxury. She wanted to sell gestures.
One morning, while arranging white lilies, she saw a black car park across the street.
Mateo went downstairs.
She wasn't wearing an imposing dress. Nor were there any giant roses. She was carrying a single, small, simple pot of bougainvillea, its leaves wet from the rain.
He stayed at the entrance, without invading.
—Hello, Lucia.
She looked at him for a long time.
—Hello, Mateo.
He carefully lifted the flowerpot.
—I didn't come to buy anything, sorry. I came to ask if this plant needs direct sun or shade. I was told that they treat even those who don't know anything well here.
Lucia tried not to smile, but she couldn't help it.
—It depends. If you take care of it patiently, it flourishes. If you try to control it too much, it dries up.
Mateo nodded, understanding that they weren't just talking about plants.
—Then I'll learn to take good care of her.
Lucía took the flowerpot and placed it on the counter.
—I can explain. But this time, without lies.
"No lies," he said.
The rain kept falling on Roma, washing away sidewalks, cars, and old wounds. There was no movie kiss, no eternal promise. Just two people standing face to face, for the first time on equal footing.
And sometimes, after so much pain, that is more powerful than any perfect ending.
