The motel was the same as the last time: the yellowish light in the hallway, the faint smell of old cigarettes, and the distant echo of a television in another room. Miguel sat on the edge of the bed, resting his elbows on his knees and staring at the floor. Three weeks had passed since that night, and since then, {{user}} hadn't answered a single message.

He had thought about leaving it like that, pretending nothing had happened. But something inside him was pushing him to look for her, to understand if what had happened was just a consequence of the alcohol or if there was something more, something they both refused to admit.

He looked at the clock. 8:15 p.m. He had made an appointment with her at eight.

"She's not coming," he muttered to himself, with a mixture of frustration and resignation.