Streets of Laredo

When I first saw the message, I almost laughed. It was always the same thing every single time, like clockwork. No matter how long he vanished, no matter how much time passed, he always came back the exact same way — “Soy Enrique, qué tal.” I remember just staring at the screen, shaking my head, because it almost felt like a parody of itself. It was so familiar that it didn’t even sting. I wrote back, and not long after, he sent me a voice message, just saying hi, how’s it going, in that easy tone he always had. It was strange hearing his voice again — comforting and disorienting at the same time — because it sounded exactly the same. He said he was in Guadalajara, and at the time I didn’t think much of it. I didn’t even really know where that was, honestly, and I just assumed it was another trip, another city, another move in his string of lives. I didn’t realize he was trying to tell me something.

We caught up for a bit, the way you do with someone you’ve known too long to pretend they’re a stranger, and I went to bed. When I woke up the next morning, he had sent me four or five messages. He must’ve thought I was ignoring him. I wasn’t — I was just sleeping. I didn’t answer right away, and honestly, the next week or so passed before I really looked again. At that point, my focus was razor sharp. I had one mission, and that was to get out of that apartment. I was budgeting every cent, packing up a few things each morning, making sure that every closet, drawer, and corner was one step closer to empty. I was obsessed with the idea of leaving, and not just leaving but escaping. I remember using that word for the first time, and how much it hit me — I didn’t think of it as moving. I thought of it as escaping. That’s how trapped I’d been, how small my world had become. The idea of freedom had become this bright, glowing thing that kept me going every single day.

And then one afternoon, I got a text that just stopped me cold. He wrote, “Hey, I know we haven’t spoken in a while, and I don’t know if you don’t want to talk or if you’re just busy, but I wanted to tell you that I just landed in Laredo. I’m in Texas.” I blinked at it for a second, reread it twice, and then I just wrote back, “You’re joking, right?” and he replied, “No.” Then a video came through — the sky bright and blue, the city in the background, and a sign that said Laredo. I think I actually said out loud, “You’ve got to be kidding me.” It didn’t make sense. When we’d talked before, when he was still in Bogotá, he’d told me he didn’t even know how to get a visa, that the whole idea of going to the U.S. was impossible. He’d never shown an ounce of interest in coming here. Out of all the people I’d met through him, he was the least likely to ever end up on this side of the border. So to see that video, to see that it was real, was just surreal.

I told him that I wanted to take a little time to write my response properly. I told him I was proud of him, that I couldn’t imagine how big a deal that must have been for him, that it must have taken everything in him to get there. I congratulated him, said I hoped it would open doors for him, that I wished him all the best. He wrote back something short and kind of sharp, saying, “Yeah, you’re right, this should’ve gone differently, but you let other people get in the way of us.” I remember staring at the screen and thinking, didn’t you date someone else? But I didn’t bother to say it. I just didn’t have the energy for it. I said something polite, something that closed the conversation, and then he replied, “Well, I’m hoping this leads to you.” That was the moment it shifted again. I asked what he meant, and he said, “Everything that happened in Mexico City happened, and we can’t change it. I have my version, you have yours, but we never really got our chance. Maybe now we can.” And I just said something like, “That’s not really where my head is right now.” He told me it was fine, that he wasn’t trying to push anything, that he just thought it was exciting to be in the same country. And truthfully, it kind of was.

Within a few days, we had slipped back into something familiar, something almost comforting. He started sending photos again — sometimes smiling, sometimes in his underwear, joking that he’d only had two pairs left because he had to leave everything behind. He said that when he made the decision to cross, he’d had to give up everything — he came with three shirts, one pair of pants, a notebook, and a phone. That was it. I remember thinking about how terrifying and freeing that must’ve been for him. He told me he was planning to go to Miami next, that he had a friend there who had promised to help him get on his feet, but that he wanted to spend a few weeks in Laredo first, just to take it in. He couldn’t believe he was really here.

Thanksgiving came, and he texted that he didn’t have anyone to spend it with, that everything was closed and he was just walking around the city. I told him that’s what happens here on Thanksgiving, that it’s not like other holidays. I ended up sending him a meal to his hotel — turkey, mashed potatoes, pumpkin pie — and he sent me a photo of it and said, “It’s perfect.” There was something sweet about it, something small and good, and I remember thinking that maybe this time things could be simple. Maybe we could just be kind to each other without all the weight.

By December, he had made it to Orlando. We talked often, sometimes about serious things, sometimes about nothing at all. I was still keeping him at arm’s length, but it was a gentle arm’s length. He was excited, curious, asking a million questions — how to get a driver’s license, how to set up a bank account, how to look for work — and I’d answer what I could, but I was already neck-deep in my own life again. Around that time, I realized I was cutting it close financially. If I was going to move, I needed more clients fast, and I had no idea how I was going to make that happen. And then, out of nowhere, my younger brother called to tell me his old boss had just launched a company and was looking for an HR consultant. A week later, I signed the most lucrative contract I’d ever had. It was like the universe had decided to throw me a lifeline. I couldn’t believe it. For the first time in years, I wasn’t scared. Things were working.

That same week, Enrique called again, and this time his voice was shaky. The friend he was staying with had just split up with his husband, and the whole situation had blown up. The husband accused them of cheating, even though Enrique swore they weren’t. It didn’t matter — he couldn’t stay there anymore. He said he didn’t know what to do, that everything had fallen apart again, and then he asked me the question I had been dreading: if he could come stay with me for a bit, just until he found a job, just until he figured things out. I told him that I was moving soon, that I didn’t even know where I’d be. He said it was okay, that he could help, that he’d come with me, that he’d cook and clean, that it would be fine. I told him I didn’t think that was a good idea, but he kept trying to make it sound like it could work, like it was no big deal. I think, deep down, he really believed it could be that simple. But I couldn’t.

I was already starting to onboard my new client. I had weeks left in that apartment. I still had to pack, clean, plan, and get ready to leave. There just wasn’t space — not in my life, not in my plans, and honestly, not in my heart. So that night, I wrote him a long message. I told him I was really proud of him, that I was happy for him, that I’d try to stay in touch, but that I was in a place where I needed to focus on myself. I told him, gently, that I didn’t have the bandwidth to take care of someone else right now. I wanted him to understand it wasn’t rejection. It was preservation.

And after I sent that message, I suddenly felt so tired I could barely keep my eyes open. It wasn’t normal tiredness. It felt like something heavy pressing down on me. I remember thinking I’d just lie down for a minute, and then I was out cold. The dream came almost immediately. I was walking through a city I didn’t recognize — bright, empty, endless — and the air shimmered like heat on pavement. It looked like a place that existed between worlds. The buildings stretched out like a mirage, and the light didn’t look like sunlight. I kept walking, and when I turned the corner, I saw the sign. It said LAREDO.

The streets were silent. There was music somewhere, faint and low, like a song carried by the wind — something old, maybe something from a western. I started to call out, and I saw a shadow moving just ahead of me, tall and thin, walking at the same pace I was. I called again, but the sound warped, like it was being pulled apart. And then it was gone.

When I woke up, the room was quiet. My pillow was damp. My phone was still in my hand, the screen half-lit. The dream was already fading, but one word stayed. Prophecy.