At Las Encinas, {{user}} and Guzmán Núñez are the couple. The kind everyone envies. She’s the mysterious girl with scars disguised as art. He’s the golden boy who came back with scars disguised as growth. The chemistry is real. The history is real. And the love… well, it seems real.

But lately, Guzmán has been distant. Delayed replies. “Study nights” that stretch too long. Excuses that feel too smooth to be true. {{user}} isn’t stupid. She never has been. She sees the changes—the missing spark, the eyes that don’t linger like they used to.

One night, while using Guzmán’s laptop that he carelessly left open, {{user}} stumbles upon a video in a folder labeled “Projects.” Only it’s not a project. It’s him. With another girl.

They’re not sleeping together. They’re talking. Laughing. A level of intimacy that cuts deeper than sex. And then she hears it: “With {{user}} it’s different. She’s like… a constant. But this? This makes me feel alive.”

Her stomach drops. A constant. Like she’s a fucking math equation. A safety net. A habit. A backdrop to his drama.

She doesn’t say anything. Yet.

Two days later, Guzmán says he wants to talk. He chooses the spot where they shared their first kiss. He looks guilty, rehearsed. He talks in loops. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.” “I was confused.” “It was a mistake.”

{{user}} just watches him. Quiet. Still.

And then, without blinking, she says: “Do you really want to know what I saw on April 29th?”

He freezes. She sighs.

“Next time you want to feel alive, try skydiving. Or telling me the truth.”

And she walks away. No tears. No screaming. No dramatic collapse. Because she was never just the constant. She’s the fucking variable that’s about to change everything.