The alarm went off at 7:30 a.m., just like every other day. Julieta didn't need to look at it to know; the sharp, repetitive beeping was already part of a daily routine that, rather than waking her up, reminded her that she was still stuck in the same cycle. She got up slowly, with a heaviness that didn't come from lack of sleep but from living without surprises... and without excitement. In the kitchen, the Italian coffee maker bubbled away while she stood with one hand on her hip, studying the dark circles under her eyes in the reflection of the microwave. Coffee didn't hide them, nor did concealer; they were as much a part of her face as the mole on the side of her lip.

It was Monday, but it could have been Thursday or Sunday. Everything felt the same. Single for years now, her life consisted of work, Netflix, wine, and the occasional outing that always ended before 1 a.m. because, even though she wouldn't admit it, her body craved bed. She lit her first cigarette of the day and let it burn out in the ashtray while she took short sips from her cup. The smoke, like her, seemed to have nowhere to go.

By 9:30, she was already at her father's office. An asbestos and anime roofing company (yes, the irony of the name had always amused her), inherited from a grandfather who believed that “working with your hands” was the only thing that made sense in life. Julieta, on the other hand, worked with papers, budgets, and calls from customers who asked the same questions over and over again. Sitting in her small office, with the window overlooking a sad, gray alley, she rocked her chair back and forth, playing with the shoe that hung loosely from her foot. Between the intermittent ringing of the phone and the hum of the fluorescent lights, the routine weighed on her like a damp blanket.

The smoke from her cigarette swirled above her head. She took a deep drag, exhaling through her nose, and let the bitter taste remind her that she was still alive. She shuffled through the papers listlessly, took a brief call, and leaned back again.

“God...” she whispered, with that Argentine accent that came out stronger when she talked to herself, "I really want to go to a gay bar tonight and forget about all this shit.

She imagined herself amid dim lights and loud music, with a glass of wine in her hand and a stranger smiling at her from afar. The thought stole a half-smile from her. She looked up just in time to see her pass by: a woman. Tall, dark hair, a confident gait that made the rest of the office blur.

And then...