Forbidden

When I asked my ex for a favor, he thought I wanted sex. What I asked for was much worse: help destroying my best friend’s marriage.

For weeks she slept in another bed, swearing she’d stopped thinking about her. Until I saw her on the other side of the glass, soaked and looking at me like she never had.

When she pointed me out in the sea of people, I knew that night was going to break something I’d spent years trying to keep intact.

My boyfriend used to call the electrician who fixed the wiring “Mustache.” That afternoon, when everyone left, I was the one who asked him for forgiveness in the living room.

Mateo tipped his head at me and went up the stairs. I followed him without thinking, knowing his girlfriend was my best friend and that nothing could stop us now.

That night I went downstairs for a glass of water and never made it to the kitchen. What I saw in the shadows of the corner left me frozen for an hour.

When Sofía walked into the living room and found the loan shark tied up and her husband holding a shotgun, she knew her lie had reached its end.

When Bruno looked up from his monitor and saw his boss staring at his mother, he knew he had two options: make a scene or stay silent.

My friends were strolling past the display windows laughing. I stopped in front of hers and, by the way she looked back at me, I knew that night wasn’t for them.

I left the bathroom door half open on purpose and knew, from the mirror’s reflection, that he was watching me. That day I accepted the five hundred soles and everything that followed.

I told myself it was just curiosity. I uploaded four photos, used my fake name, and waited to see if anyone still looked at me. That same week, Matías appeared.

I went upstairs thinking I knew the fifteen-year-old girl who no longer existed. The box under her bed made it clear: my daughter was someone else—and so was I.

When he saw the door ajar and recognized his sister inside, against the wall, the last thing he expected was to stand there watching, unable to move.

Her white T-shirt soaked with sweat, her nipples pressing through the fabric, and the question thrown between two glasses of wine: is what they say about you and Lucía true?

He was forty, with rough hands and a mustache I’d never liked. Until I found him lying in the bed in my son’s empty room.

She was 20 and had never had a real orgasm. That sticky January night, with half a bottle of rosé, my French cousin decided it was time.

When the hallway lights went out, the moans started on the other side of the wall, and I knew I’d never forget that week at my aunt’s house.

When her fingers brushed mine across the table, I knew that night I was going to recover something my girlfriend had been making me forget little by little.

When the referee blew the final whistle, I knew there was no turning back: I’d have to pay up on the bet in front of my friend, right at the bar.