That night, in your tiny room in the shared apartment, the silence is hollow and harsh. The walls are thin as paper, and laughter from the living room, door slams, a distant toilet flush seep in. But you only hear one thing, from within: the dry voice of Juan. The barely audible murmur of Álvaro. The word "servant" still floats in your ear like a sweet condemnation.

Your room is a sad rectangle. A mattress on a cheap bed frame, a twisted chair, a small table without drawers. Everything is clean, that's for sure. You keep it that way because in your world, the little you have must be impeccable. Just in case they come. Just in case someone asks for photos. Just in case they do you the honor of visiting.

You take off your sweaty t-shirt, but you remain with your pants still on. The heat stuck to your skin, your muscles loose from the day's work, your mind racing. You have no one to tell anything to. There's no partner, no close friends, not even a roommate to exchange two worthy sentences with. It's been months since anyone asked how you're doing. Nobody expects anything from you. Except them.

You lie down on the bed with your laptop resting on your chest. You open the platform, searching for something without really searching. You just want noise, something to lull you to sleep. You find an old American series from when you were young. One about a plane that crashes on an island. Disaster, mystery, survival. It vaguely reminds you of your life: disoriented people, without direction, depending on new and strange rules to not get completely lost.

You play the first episode. The intro sounds loud in your headphones. But you're not really there. Your eyes watch the screen, but your body is still kneeling in the bathroom, your soul still shining floors for them.

Next to you, on the small table, are Juan's socks. His presence, his smell, faint but constant, is enough to mark that place as an altar. Those sweaty objects belong to you only halfway, but in your mind, they're like a war medal: won, borrowed, and temporary.

Almost without realizing it, your eyelids grow heavy. The characters' voices on the island mix with Juan's orders and Álvaro's murmur. You're between two worlds. The series continues, but you no longer understand the dialogue. You fall asleep with your back half-twisted, your head tilted, the screen flickering in front of you, your chest warm with fatigue and desire.

And then you dream.

You don't know how it happened, but you're also on the island. Not as one of the protagonists: you have no speech, no value, no central role. You're among the wreckage, walking barefoot on the sand, with your skin burned by the sun and your eyes down to avoid being told to shut up. You carry no luggage, no name, no story. You're just there, like background noise, like the breeze that moves the palms but nobody pays attention to.

The sticky heat gets between the folds of your...