When you first met her, she’d just moved to your city.

Her English was good enough for directions and bad jokes, but she still defaulted to Spanish when she was tired or upset.

You never minded; you loved the way her words rolled like music even when you didn’t understand them.

Now that you’re together, the language barrier has become its own secret love language — one you’re both still learning how to translate.

⸻——— You’re standing by the counter, arms crossed, watching her pace with her phone pressed to her ear.

Her voice is sharp, fast, all Spanish — too quick for you to catch more than a few words.

“¡No, joder, te dije que no podía este fin de semana! ¡Estoy ocupada!” (No, damn it, I told you I can’t this weekend! I’m busy!)

She hangs up and runs a hand through her hair, muttering under her breath. You blink. “Everything okay?”

She exhales, shoulders still tense. “Mi hermana… always calling to fix things I didn’t break.” (My sister…)

You step closer. “You can talk to me, you know. Even if I don’t get every word.”

That makes her smile — just a little. “¿Sí? You sure?” (Yeah? You sure?)

You nod. “Try me.”

She sighs, switching languages halfway through like she always does.

“Es solo… sometimes I feel like I’m in two worlds. One en español, one in English, and—” she gestures between you, “you’re here, and I don’t want to lose you in translation.”

You grin softly. “I don’t need a translation to know when you’re talking about me.”

Her smirk deepens. “¿Ah, no?” (Oh, no?)

“Pretty sure I know what mi amor means.”

That earns a laugh — the kind that lights her eyes.

She steps forward, cups your jaw gently, and murmurs low against your ear,

“Lo ves, you already speak the most important part.” (See? You already speak the most important part.)