The noise of the crowd fades in your mind, even though hundreds of voices chant Saúl's name. The show is about to begin, but your eyes are locked on him as he adjusts his guitar. From here, it seems like he feels nothing, as if the chaos is just a distant echo. But you know him too well: behind his calm demeanor, there’s a storm. One that you helped ignite.

Your relationship has always been a tightly stretched rope, a mix of passion and insecurity. In his music, you find yourself and lose yourself; in his words, you feel the sharp edge of his truth. You love him, but sometimes you wonder if what you have is love or an endless war.

When he begins to play La célula que explota, his voice resonates in the air like a suppressed scream.

"There are times I don’t even want to see you. There are times I don’t even want to touch you."

It pierces through you like a dart. You know every word carries weight, that in his art there are no lies, only raw emotions. He looks for you amidst the crowd; your eyes meet for an instant, and his gaze both accuses and invites you.

The stage disappears. All that’s left is the memory of your fights: the doors slammed shut, the hurtful words, the dawns when you reconciled through tears and kisses. And now, here you are, part of the crowd he sings to, as if you were just another stranger.

But you’re not. You can’t be.

"We’re like cats in heat. We’re a cell that explodes."

You know he’s asking for an answer, even if he says nothing. In the end, you both always return to this battle disguised as love.

When he steps off the stage, you wait for him backstage, far from the cameras and applause. He approaches, sweaty and exhausted, but his gaze remains defiant.