Charlotte

A Call in the Night

The call came at 10:47 p.m. on Saturday night. 

By that point, it had been almost a week of silence - phone numbers that went nowhere, broken email systems, no information confirmed and government database that never changed. 

Each day had become a ritual of dread: wake up, search names, try not to panic at new headlines, manage the panic of family members in other countries, try to work and or exist or remind myself that this wasn't life and to enjoy my own while at the same time watching someone experience a nightmare in real time as the events were unfolding.

I picked up and listened to a cold robotic voice name that someone was trying to call me and would I accept the charges and I did. 

Hearing his voice for the first time - in - I couldn't think 5 months? 6 months?  It was missing his suave confidence, his light-hearted perspective, though I could hear his resolve. 

“Hola Daniel,” he said, his accent fractured by exhaustion and a little bit of anger.

In a calm voice he first acknowledged that he had been out of touch for almost a week and explained that once he had been transferred - the process took almost 6 days and he had no access to phones, but they had finally arrived at a center that morning. 

I asked if he knew where was, and if he was at Krome, I explained that he had vanished from their systems

He paused and I could hear him thinking and he surprised me by reverting to his distinct English:

  "Where am I? Where do they have me? Well Daniel I will be honest - I think I’m in hell - and I think I’m going to die here.

“Wait, what?” I said. “Where are you? What happened?”

I heard him take a deep breathe and say "ALCATRAZ! Sabes? They say me that we die here, and I think is true"

Before I could reply, the line went dead.

----

(7 Months Earlier)

Chapter 2: Charlotte

Before all of that, before the system and the panic and the silence - there was the arrival of this man at my door in a quiet AirBnb as the snow lightly fell and our story began that day. After staring at each other in sheepish wonder and joy and "wow I cant believe Im really seeing you" - I ordered food and he got to try McDonalds for the first time.

That first few days felt like a dream, but the first night felt like a movie, I hadn't been with anyone romantically since early 2020 when my boyfriend at the time, Cristian, and I realized we had no idea when we'd see each other again post the pandemic. I had not lived with anyone since early 2021 when I taking care of my Mom

We didn't even notice that how late it was until we realized it was noon, We had spent the time catching up, flirting, laughing, and doing what two people who have been talking about "what it would be like" for 6 years finally get to do it.

As he brought us sandwiches from the other room while I tried to fight off dozing and with a huge smile he said:  "Entonces, Daniel - estas conmigo?"

I must have looked confused because he grinned even harder and for the first time - I heard him speak English.

Anyone who’s ever spent a lot of time with someone who speaks a different first language knows the moment I’m about to describe. When they suddenly switch into your language for the first time, it hits weirdly hard. It’s not just translation; it’s like hearing someone’s voice wearing a new outfit 

His Spanish was always smooth and deliberate - intentional, measured, confident, a little hypnotic. But his English was a bulldozer crashing into a fire truck with seven regional accents fighting for dominance.

It came out fearless, unfiltered, and somehow twice as charming because of it. Fuck grammar rules, "A"s are really "Es" with a twist, no letter is silent - and stressing syllables is for the cowardly. 

"OHHHH OKAY RIIIIGHT NOW WE ARE AMERICANOS!! SORRREEEE!  I say this for you: You are the MAAAY boyfriends, yes? And I am yours? YEs? Right? WE are they boyfriends together?"  - "Novios" -  Through my original laughter, I found a sincere smile - because somehow, it was the most honest sentence I’d ever heard. And so I agreed: "Novios"

For a while, it really was that simple. We ordered food late, watched garbage TV, told each other stories. He talked about his incredible journey from Cali to Bogotá to Mexico City to San Antonio how he got his approval, had three hours to decide, and left behind two suitcases on a beach and just trusted fate that this was his destiny. It all sounded impossible, but somehow it was him.

But real life started to creep in.

I was still waiting to move into my new house, so we were hopping between Airbnbs. He was new to the country, no car, no job, no real English yet—and the only person he knew was me. The space started to feel smaller by the day.
What had started as exciting started to feel like holding your breath too long. 

When we finally moved into the house, it was like exhaling.
The place was huge. Four rooms, light everywhere. He immediately started decorating, finding ways to make it look alive.

I remember one night giving up halfway through building a bookshelf as I was tired and annoyed - but when I woke up the next morning, it was done. Every book in place. There was a note on top that said in his large crawling handwriting:  “My lazy stubborn boyfriend! You have your skills, I have mine. Why don’t we ask the other when we need help?”

He wasn’t wrong.

He cooked constantly. He filled the house with music, taught me about lighting, music  and design and how subtle shifts create ambience and he always wanted me to dance salsa with him.  In exchange, I helped him with paperwork, translations, forms that made no sense. I gave him crash courses on our history, culture, civics, customs and basic business strategies. At night we’d play chess or Mario Kart or just talk for hours.

It was wonderful - until it wasn’t.

On paper - this should've been perfect. In the 5 years that we maintained this very close digital relationship of telling each other everything and crossing all boundaries between confidante, best friends, mentor/mentees and flirtatious lovers. We never really had conflict - but the reality was very different. And translating from a fully digital relationship to a 24/7 physical one, with so many issues from language, dependency, values, isolation and  communication styles took a heavy toll

He lived on structure and motion: up at 6:30, long showers, workouts, errands, constant doing.
I live in quiet. I start late, read a lot, think too much, talk very little. 

He missed cities. I liked stillness.
He wanted to see Miami or Chicago. I wanted to sit in the backyard and read.
Neither of us was wrong. But together, we were not what the other wanted and we had no other options.

At first, I loved hearing him stir next to me, and quietly rise and go to his bathroom and start getting ready. He had one song he’d play every morning while showering and preparing himself for the day. Sometimes I’d sneak up and sing along just to make him laugh. But after weeks of it, I started to hate the song - occasionally even commenting that isn't there another sing he could put on? 

In those months together, we only argued once. He’d gotten bad news from home and snapped at me; I snapped back. We barely spoke the rest of that night, I sat in the backyard, staring at the house we’d made this quiet, beautiful space and the promise of potential as we explored it together. I found myself reflecting at how 10 minutes after moving in we were exploring the backyard together and we’d met our neighbors. It was very obvious the 30s something couple was curious and one of them even asked "oh are you guys...roommates?" and  Enrique smiled and said in his atrociously adorable English:  “Roommates?? NO NO NO BEDmates! HAHA This is my boyfriend - novio- and I am his! In Spanish NOVIOS- no husband, well no yet!" And we all laughed

'It already felt like a lifetime ago.

I don’t remember what the final straw even was.

Since that one night of snapping he had slept by himself in the living room and I said nothing. We avoided each other except polite greetings - I kept myself locked in my office while he ensured he was at the gym, exploring, meeting his appointments or doing design and architecture work on his computer. 

He knocked on my door while I was working and I remember thinking "god - finally, we are we at least going to talk?" but after politely apologizing for the intrusion, he announced he would be leaving. Caught off guard I asked for clarification: 

“Are you going to a hotel?” I asked. “Or an Airbnb?”
He shrugged. “Pretty much.”

I knew he was lying - he had 4 bags packed discreetly hidden to the side of the door. When he noticed I saw them, he stepped outside quickly. 

When the Uber pulled up, I followed him. Asking rapidly what was happening - that it was just a disagreement, he didn't have to leave, was he okay? Where was he going to go?

 He smiled at my intensity and hugged my weakly and told me "tranqqqqquillooo! I’m just being dramatic. I’ll be back in a few days. I just need to be alone, I need time to think and I dont want to be a bitch here when you are so good to me" 

He refused to make eye contact as he put his bags in the trunk  - and seconds later he gave a brief wave as his Uber pulled out onto the road - and I remember thinking: "He is leaving, isn't he?" 

The next morning, the house was still. His coffee mug was half full. His room smelled faintly of cologne and his hair product. He hadn't accumulated much stuff yet - but most of it was gone. There was a hamper of some of his underwear and socks. An old jacket folded up under a desk, a notebook next to his bed with an ashtray. 

For the first time in months, I could hear my own thoughts.

Relief came first. Then guilt for feeling it. I both missed and cherished the absence of that stupid song - I went to his bathroom and it was so surreal. Surely he was coming back - but why did it not feel that way?

He had texted me at almost 3am to tell me he had found a place and was fine - but to give him a few days as we had spent nearly 3 months together in constant company. I agreed and told him we'd talk soon. 

A few days later I went into his room - it all felt so surreal somehow - like this huge chapter that had just started was already over.  I stepped into his bathroom and was surprised to see myself getting choked up.

He wasn't coming back - he didnt just need a few days. He had made a decision to leave.

I began packing up what was left - there wasn't much, it could all fit in one box. 

As I looked over his room - now empty and lifeless, I noticed something clipped to the bedframe. It was this little portable speaker he’d bought right after crossing into the U.S. It was his personal promise to himself that he had accomplished his dream.

A powerful reminder of what he had gone through and how much he believed in himself. He used to talk about how sound changes a space, how music should move around a room. It was shaped like a silver lock in camoflauge colors.

I kept it.

It felt right that the first thing he ever bought here was something that carried sound—and that it looked like something meant to stay closed.