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He didn't know if she was happy, if she was lonely, or if she even remembered his name. And in that not-knowing, there was a strange kind of freedom. He folded the paper, not to mail it, but to tuck it away.
The city was quiet, but for Julián, the silence was loud. He sat at his small kitchen table with a record spinning—the scratchy needle tracing the grooves of a song he had heard a thousand times. He looked at a blank piece of paper, then at the phone, then back at the paper. Que Se Yo Leo Dan
He began to write, the words mirroring the questions that had been haunting him: He didn't know if she was happy, if