You Left, I Could Have Fixed Us

Alvarez's POV  "Say her name one more time, Diego, and I'll break your jaw." The words exploded out of me before I could stop them. They hung in the air between us, hot and sharp. The bar wasn't crowded, but loud enough that people turned their heads at my voice. Diego froze, cue stick half raised, his eyes narrowing like he wasn't sure if I was bluffing or dead serious. I wasn't bluffing. He set the cue down slowly, leaning it against the pool table before crossing his arms over his chest. His stare pinned me the way only family could, with history and blood behind it. "You're not angry at me, Alvarez. You're angry at yourself." I took another swallow of my beer, forcing the burn down my throat. I didn't answer right away. I hated that he could cut through me like that, hated that the truth sat so close under my skin I couldn't breathe without feeling it. Diego didn't let up. "You cheated. You lied. You made her feel like she wasn't enough. That's not on her. That's on you." My grip tightened around the bottle until I thought it might shatter in my hand. "Shut up," I snapped. "You think I don't know that? You think I don't replay it every damn night?" His mouth pressed into a thin line. "Then why do you act like she ruined your life? You're the one who ruined hers." For a second, I almost swung at him. Not because he was wrong, but because he was too right. The truth sat in my chest like a stone, heavy and choking. If I admitted it out loud, if I owned every piece of what I'd done, then I'd have to admit I didn't deserve her. That may be I never had. I shoved the bottle onto the table and yanked my jacket from the back of the chair. "I'm done talking." I didn't wait for him to answer. I stormed out, boots slamming against the floor, past the dartboard and the old jukebox humming in the corner. The night air hit my face as soon as I shoved open the door. Cool. Sharp. Not enough to calm me. I walked fast, hands shoved deep into my pockets, but the storm only got louder inside my head. Maya. Always Maya. No matter how many nights I told myself I didn't care, no matter how many bottles I drained trying to forget, she stayed. Her laugh. Her tears. Her eyes were the night she caught me lying. I'd lost her, and the worst part was knowing I'd handed her reasons to walk away. The next afternoon, I heard it. Not from Diego, not from my cousins, but from one of our friends who thought he was being casual. He said he saw Maya at the café with some guy. Tall. Clean cut. Leaning across the counter, she made her laugh. The words sank into me like a knife. I laughed it off, pretended I didn't care. But as soon as I was alone, the picture of it wrapped around my chest and squeezed until I couldn't breathe. Her head tilting back. Her hair slips forward. That smile that used to belong to me. I slammed my fist into the wall of my apartment so hard the plaster cracked and pain jolted up my arm. I welcomed it. Pain was easier to carry than the image of her smiling at someone else. Later that week, I found myself on my mother's porch. She was watering her flowers, the same red ones she's babied since I was a kid. The air smelled like wet earth. She didn't look at me when she spoke. "You're restless," she said. "You've been pacing like a caged animal." "I'm fine." "You're not fine." She set the watering can down and finally looked at me, her dark eyes steady. "Is it because of Maya?" I clenched my jaw so hard it ached. I didn't answer. "She was good for you," my mother said softly. "But you pushed her away. And now you're punishing yourself instead of fixing it." Her words stung worse than Diego's, maybe because there was no anger in them. Only truth. That night I caved. I pulled out my phone, thumb hovering over her name. I typed fast, like ripping open a wound. Who's the guy you're smiling with? You think he's better than me? I stared at the words, chest pounding. If I sent it, I'd look desperate. Pathetic. But if I erased it, I'd feel weak. I deleted it. Typed again. Maya, can we talk? Simple. Honest. But my pride screamed louder. She hadn't reached out to me. She hadn't answered the few times I tried before. She was moving on. Maybe she already had. I stared at that screen until my eyes blurred, the glow painting my face in the dark. My thumb hovered over send. My heart told me to do it. My pride told me to throw the phone across the room. In the end, I did nothing. I set the phone down, leaned back in the chair, and let the silence close in. It felt heavier than any fight I'd ever been in, heavier than any night I'd spent alone. I whispered into the dark like a man losing his mind. "She was mine." The echo came back hollow, like even the walls didn't believe me anymore. And for the first time, I wondered if I had already lost her forever.