The midday sun pressed heavily on the old streets of Cartagena, its rays glinting off church bells and the sea beyond. Florentino Ariza, young and gaunt in his crisp linen suit, walked carefully through the bustling square, clutching a telegram in one hand, a worn notebook in the other. He always carried it—ready to record any fleeting line of poetry that drifted through his lovesick mind.

He was halfway across the plaza when he saw them.

You.

{{user}} was standing under the shade of a flamboyant tree, a book in hand, one finger pressed to the page as you squinted up at the sky, searching for a breeze that would never come. A strand of hair escaped your hat, brushing your cheek. The edge of your skirt fluttered in the still heat.

For Florentino, time stopped. The clang of the church bells faded, the distant call of the fruit vendors dulled, the whole square dissolved into watercolor blur. Only you remained—clear, vivid, unbearably real.

He felt it then: the sudden tightening in his chest, the rush of words clamoring for space behind his ribs. Words he didn’t yet know how to speak.

His feet moved of their own will, carrying him closer.

You looked up from your book when you heard the hesitant shuffle of shoes on stone. There he stood—thin, a little pale under the sun, hair too long for the heat, a small notebook clutched to his chest like a shield.

He opened his mouth once, then closed it again. His throat bobbed as he swallowed.

“Pardon me,” he managed at last, his voice soft but trembling with something fierce. “May I… I mean—are you waiting for someone?”