After the kiss, you don’t run to the cameras.
You kneel—again—but this time it’s only for Sofía.
You tell her, softly, “No more goodbyes we don’t mean.”
Sofía nods like she’s making a grown-up deal, then grabs both your hands and pulls you and Marina into a messy, laughing hug that looks nothing like a rich family and everything like a real one.
Months later, the clinic opens.
Not with a ribbon-cutting full of politicians.
With a quiet sign on a door and a waiting room full of people who thought nobody would ever look at them twice.
Marina leads the rehab floor in scrubs, hair tied back, eyes sharp and warm, exactly where she always belonged.
You watch her teach a patient how to transfer from chair to bed—patient, firm, fearless—
and it hits you that the greatest thing she healed wasn’t your legs.
It was your pride.
One afternoon, Sofía runs into the rehab room carrying a crayon drawing.
It’s the three of you holding hands.
Underneath, in crooked letters, she’s written: “WE STAY.”
Marina covers her mouth, eyes shining.
You swallow hard because your throat is too tight for words.