The first week without contact was the worst. Camila found herself reaching for her phone at odd moments—a funny moment in court, a beautiful sunset, a memory of a shared joke—only to remember there was no one to tell. The silence was a physical presence in her apartment, in her car, in her life.
She threw herself into work with renewed intensity, taking on a complex merger case that required all her focus. Long hours at the office left her too exhausted to feel the emptiness, but it was always there, waiting in the quiet moments.
Helena called unexpectedly one evening, her voice hesitant. "I heard from Marta that you and Lívia..."
"Ended," Camila supplied, not wanting to prolong the conversation.
"I'm sorry, Camila."
"Are you?" Camila asked, the question sharper than she intended.
Helena sighed. "Yes. Despite everything, I never wanted you to be unhappy."
"I'm not unhappy," Camila replied. "Just... alone again."
The word hung between them, heavy with history.
"Sometimes that's necessary," Helena said gently. "To remember who you are without someone else defining you."
Camila wasn't sure she believed that, but she didn't have the energy to argue. After the call, she poured herself a whiskey and stood on her balcony, watching the city lights below. Each light represented a life, a story, a connection. For the first time in a long time, hers felt completely solitary.