The shower kept running, hitting the tiled floor with a steady and fluid precision, while Miguel stood below the falling stream, stiff and nervous, strangely unbothered by the biting coldness of the liquid.
Apparently, this particular session now held the record for the longest shower of his life; his eyes were fixated on the windows, his mind drifting far away from the marble walls of his mansion.
It travelled through different places at a time, imagining Fedora in every shifting scenario. Miguel was heavily pressed at that stance, a weight of worry so thick it made him doubt if he was still himself.
All these inner battles and frantic spiralling were because Fedora had seen his impulsive first message and, as usual, sent back his signature brand of a clap-back reply. But the problem now was the decoding; Miguel was confused, trying to scrape the meaning from the tone of the delivered text.
