This is how everything ended and how I became a (writer?)

Hola,

So here’s what’s happening in this post:

The first part is the final scene from the night when my friend found out where Mark was staying.
The second part is a little surprise I’ve prepared for you—a thank you gift for being so loyal and for paying to read whatever’s on my mind each week as I write from my glamorous, worthy-of-a-famous-photographer office in New York.

And the final part is where I’ll tell you what’s happening with Things You Missed after today:

1. Here we go:

I can't tell you how many minutes I spent staring at that photo—not just from the shock of realizing that the fear I'd had, that Mark might have made up an entire story to leave me, was very much real—but also because I couldn’t stop thinking about all the nights I had turned those lights on and off during the time I dated him. That bedroom was the strongest anchor to my first two years in New York, and leaving those ugly greenish walls behind when I stopped seeing him was part of my heartbreak, too.

That night, I unblocked him from Facebook and Twitter. I needed more information. I needed confirmation that he had never actually left—or at least I wanted a clearer sign, something that could tell me he had never really loved me. Somehow, I wanted the wound to be even deeper. I wanted to go from shock straight into pain—and I did.

I found photos of him over the past three years, taken around Manhattan, Brooklyn, and even some in my neighborhood. The clothes he wore in all of those photos weren’t the clothes of a visitor—they were the clothes of someone who lived here. And the people he was with at dinner parties, book events, and walks by the river were the same people he had once introduced me to as his "friends."

It was all true. He had never left.
And he was either brave—or stupid—enough to think I would never find out, or that we’d never cross paths again.

Well, that clearly didn’t happen. Four years later, I found him.

I blocked him again.
I was so hurt and so angry that I opened my laptop with the intention of deleting the dream I’d written down just a few days earlier. I stared at it, over and over, but I couldn’t bring myself to press "delete."
I went to bed.

Two hours later, well past midnight, I got up, opened my laptop again, and pressed "enter" a couple of times until I had a fresh page.
And I started writing everything that had happened that night.

The next morning, I woke up and wrote about the day he left me. And then I wrote again the next night.
And the night after that.
Day after day, I kept going.
Two months later, I had written 120 pages of everything we lived through.

Only the readers of this newsletter will know this: 90% of the novel is made up of experiences that actually happened.

Here’s a glimpse of that first chapter…

I'm portrayed as Pablo (based on the name of my childhood best friend), and he’s Leon—a name I chose because, well... you’ll eventually understand why.

1.

"Do you have a reservation?"

A blonde woman with bright red lipstick looks me straight in the eye, and I quickly look away. Almost every host at a trendy New York restaurant intimidates me—maybe it’s because they’re always impossibly good-looking, or because the second they see me, they know I’m the kind of person whose paycheck only covers rent and, if I’m lucky, one splurge a year—like an overpriced jacket or designer shoes that no actual rich person would ever buy. Still, there’s something about the rough look of her swollen hands that tells me she probably earns even less than I do.

"Pablo what?"

"Arango," I say. Her finger scrolls over the screen again and again. The silence stretches, and I start to feel uneasy. I glance over my shoulder to see if anyone I know has arrived. Trying to break the tension, I say, "I’m here for the engagement dinner."

She looks up again, this time with a clear air of disdain. "You should’ve led with that."

She taps into another list, finds my name, and says, "You’re the first to arrive." I exhale. She picks up a menu, checks out my shoes, and signals for me to follow her.

We slip behind a red curtain and move past a mirrored bar filled with even more intimidating people—thick mustaches, tattooed arms, making cocktails. Should I get tattoos? I hate not having a beard. A few steps further and we reach a back room in the restaurant. It smells like damp wood, and there are five tables dressed in white linens. The hostess points me to a seat, then walks away to call over a server. The second she’s gone, I get up, scan the room, find the chair closest to the exit, and move there instead. Colombians never stick to their assigned seats at formal dinners. In my case, it’s strategic—I want a quick way out when the inevitable happens and someone asks what college I went to, or if I have a club membership in Manhattan.

About seven minutes pass. I make sure my chair angles in a way that only shows the right side of my face. I adjust my posture, test how my hands look resting on the table. I flip up my shirt collar and catch my reflection in a mirror—my hair’s still too neat, not quite the kind of artful mess I like, so I tousle it slightly with my right hand. The light bulbs circling each table give off a warm yellow glow. I smile a little—because Latinos always look better in golden light.

Finally, I hear a group approaching the room. I tuck my phone under my thigh against the red leather seat and flash a polite smile across the room. I don’t recognize anyone. They seem to be more obedient about their assigned seats and quietly settle into place. The tables begin to fill. Most of the guests are tall, thin, with varying shades of blond hair and mostly light-colored eyes. I feel like I’ve been dropped into a revolving door of beautiful people. As they walk by, I start ranking them by who I’d introduce to my mom when she comes to visit. I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t disapprove of any of them. The sheer volume of perfect faces makes me uneasy, especially when I start comparing the slightly yellow tint of my 60% nylon 40% cotton shirt to the crisp, pure whiteness of their 100% organic cotton ones.

Four people approach my table. First to say hello is a young couple who give me a quick once-over, wearing expressions that clearly ask, "Does he even speak English?" I smile, introduce myself, and make sure to pronounce the "r" in my last name with an American accent. I slip into that refined Latino persona I invented years ago while photographing rich women for fashion magazines in Bogotá—a version of myself that was born to dodge awkward questions about my upbringing and to fill silences with ego-boosting conversation starters. They sit down, and I turn to greet the next couple walking in.

She’s lively, pretty, slim, with a commanding voice and a slightly tipsy charm. He’s tall and smells oddly familiar, though I can’t place it. He looks me in the eye as he introduces himself.

"Hi, Leon."

He doesn’t ask for my name. I say nothing. His handshake is short, slightly damp, and firm enough to make me feel a little smaller.

After greeting a few others half-heartedly while waiting for the couple being celebrated, I turn back to Leon and the woman beside him. She moves her chair closer to mine, effectively blocking the escape route I’d so carefully chosen. I don’t mind, though. There’s something different about them. She’s not afraid to talk loudly. I like how her clothes are tailored just for her, and I can’t help but enjoy that she showed up a little drunk.

"So… are you two married?" I ask, looking for a lull in conversation.

She laughs—loudly—and replies, "No, darling. I’m married to someone else. And Leon usually isn’t into women."

I want to look at him, but I don’t quite know how to respond to that kind of confession, so I keep my eyes on her and smile, pretending I get the joke.

"How old are you… mmm, Pablo?"

"Yes, Pablo. I’m twenty-six."

She turns to Leon with a smile in her eyes.
“Perfect age, no?”

I manage to glance at him just in time to see his lips part.
“Maybe.”

No warmth, no irony—just a flat answer, disinterested. She laughs and turns back to me.
“Leon is very French,” she says. “Acts like he doesn’t care about anything, but believe me, he hears everything. You’re a baby! Are you single?”

I smile, feeling my face heat up. I reach for my wrist and let the gold watch my mom gave me on my graduation day peek through. It’s my secret charm—something I use to feel wealthy and grounded in situations like this.

“Seems like I am the youngest at the table. And yeah, I’m single. None of the girls I’ve dated really care about eating well.”

I feel my shoulders drop a little—the joke landed. She looks at Leon, almost impressed, but he remains utterly unmoved, still disengaged.

“Don’t worry,” she says, flashing a grin, “New York has plenty to choose from.”

I let the subject die quickly and, trying to reset the vibe, I ask about her life on the Upper East Side. She tells me she doesn’t work—that she came tonight mostly because Leon didn’t want to show up alone. I keep the questions coming, not because I’m deeply curious, but because it helps me forget how cold Leon has been with me.

Eventually, Leon asks her to join him for a cigarette. They step out, and I stay seated, trying to decode whatever their dynamic is… and wondering why Leon is even here.

While they’re outside, the young couple beside me starts complaining about how their Amazon Prime packages have been arriving late. I block them out. I can’t stop thinking that Leon must be annoyed with me—probably because I interrupted his conversation earlier.

They return a few minutes later. She’s holding another drink, louder now, asking where the hosts are and why they haven’t arrived yet. I love her dramatic energy—but my nerves spike again. Leon still won’t look at me, and the silence between us feels heavier than before.

I glance at his hands. He’s waiting for the butter to melt into the bread before eating it. There’s something oddly tender about it. But all I can think is: Did he wash his hands after smoking? The thought makes me slightly nauseous.

Finally—nearly thirty minutes later—the guests of honor arrive. They look effortlessly elegant, glowing with those gentle wrinkle lines all New York vegetarians seem to carry with pride. Hugs erupt across the room. The volume rises. Glasses clink. The men embrace the groom, shouting loud vowel-heavy sentences that sound like they’re made entirely of the letter “O.” The women adjust their hair again and again, greet the bride with smiles, and tug at their dresses to keep them from wrinkling.

Leon gets up to greet them, and it’s the first time I really look at what he’s wearing. A brown wool jacket layered over a lighter turtleneck sweater. Perfectly faded Agnès b jeans. Suede penny loafers with striped socks that somehow match without trying too hard. He’s undeniably French—Paris-born, no question.

When he hugs the bride, I see him lean in close and whisper something in her ear. And now I can’t stop asking myself: How do they know each other? Is he her dad? Her father-in-law? I’m thrown. When I met her, she never mentioned any French family.

Her eyes flick toward me, then back to Leon. She smiles faintly, then turns toward me again. She walks over, leans in, and kisses the air just beside my cheek. My heart rate spikes. Did he say something about me? I grab my watch like it might give me an answer.

“I changed seats… should I move back to the one I was assigned?”

My voice cracks a little. She pulls her blonde hair forward and looks over my shoulder a few times, distracted.
“It’s fine. Order whatever you want. Stay at this table.”

Do I look hungry? Did she notice I’m overweight? Did Leon tell her I switched seats? Why did she look at me like that while they were talking?

The questions pile up as I watch her walk away, and I slip back into my chair—and once again, I find myself unable to meet Leon’s eyes.

To Be Continued…

So, what’s happening to this newsletter now?

The big change is that I’ve realized I can’t mentally and physically write two things at the same time. So, I’ve decided that the four hours I usually spend each week writing for this newsletter will now be dedicated to finishing the novel—bringing it closer to something that feels perfect, at least to me.

However, I’d love for you to stay subscribed. I’ll still be sending occasional updates about the journey of publishing the novel, as I figure out the best way to share it and translate it.

The second change is that Things You Missed will now be a free publication. That means you’ll always be able to come back and read past posts, and you’ll continue to receive email updates about the novel. I’m so grateful to everyone who supported this first year and a half by subscribing—thank you, truly, for your kindness and support. I’ve turned off all renewals, so there won’t be any further charges.

Thank you for coming along with me on this experience. Writing has become such an incredible way for me to heal and connect with people in a whole new way.

Mucho amor,

Andrés