Verdad o Reto?

A Brief Encounter 

I responded back to that whatsapp message from Enrique, greeting him back and indicating it was nice to see him and that I hoped he had been well and surviving the pandemic as best he could. 

At first, I didn’t think much of it. I’d been back in New York for a while by then — living in Queens, trying to rebuild after the HR Vault fell apart. I was consulting again, starting to figure out TikTok, realizing that people actually liked what I was posting. Life was cautiously normal for the first time since the pandemic started.

But seeing Enrique’s name on my phone did something. Not dramatic — just that quick tightening in my stomach, that note of memory. He was part of a night I’d always carried around, that Halloween in Bogotá — the plans that didn’t happen, the questions that never really closed.

He’d always been a little mysterious. When we first met, he was polite to the point of distant. Once, I’d tried to start a real conversation with him online, and he’d said something like, “You seem really kind, but I’ve had bad experiences talking to people’s boyfriends. And your boyfriend and I are 'conocidos' - I prefer a life of total tranquility, so we can always talk when we see each other out, but I prefer to not have DMs” . It was respectful, but final. So the fact that now, years later, he was the one reaching out — that felt like something. I remember him dancing with me in Teatron with warmth and enthusiasm but also the cold dismissal he gave to Cristian about "not having to babysit his boyfriend", I remembered the strange look he had given to one of Cristians groups of friend at the surprise birthday party - it was filled with enigma and contemplation. I remembered the last time I had seen him was early July at a local bar called Rockola, he handed me a cigarette and spent 10 minutes talking to me about how he had designed the light and shadow play and lanterns for the place last month and deliberately smiled and shrugged when I asked if this was what he wanted to do for work before walking back into the bar without a word. 

The first few days were casual. How are you, how’s Madrid, how did you get through the pandemic. His messages were calm, thoughtful, never too much. He had this way of talking that felt careful — he didn’t waste words, but what he did say had weight.

Over time, I learned he’d moved full-time to Madrid with his Mom, he was working as a light engineer, and did interior design on the side. He told me about little projects he’d done — always underselling himself. I tried to get him to show me photos of his work, but he wouldn’t. “I’m shy about it,” he said. I believed him. Sometimes he'd show me interior organization projects like unique bohemian closet set ups, or genius ways to create more storage in small rooms. He was very talented and I could tell he liked that I noticed at a more in-depth and functional level - observing details when most others would just say "super hot!" - he responded with a video note saying how nice that made him feel and that I knew who to contact if I ever wanted interior design help. 

Then one day, he posted a photo to his story  - a casual mirror shot, t-shirt and shorts - but pulled down to show an injury he had received the night before while building a dresser. It was a small deep cut in the shape of a small moon. Right above his hand, holding the top of his shorts below the scar was a bright light yellow and black pattern. Bikini briefs, very designer. It felt almost invasive for me to see it

I messaged him about it, saying while I hoped he felt better, the picture was worth it to know what kind of underwear he wore. He was silent for a while making me wonder if I said the wrong thing - until the perfect response. "Finally, the person I actually posted that story for sees it. Those are brand new, I wanted someone to see them, but the only person I want to show them to is in another continent"

From there, we started talking more. We texted during the day, late at night, about everything and nothing. He had this mix of charm and restraint that made it easy to keep the conversation going.

Then, one night, he told me he was bored - just home after a party, restless. He asked me to suggest something fun for us to do. Something unique or interesting. Within moments I had it. Truth or Dare. 6 a piece. All honesty, dares can't be beyond PG13. 2 passes. 

The truths ended up being the best part. They gave me a way to understand him — what made him tick, what he was afraid of, how he thought about himself. His answers were honest, sometimes vulnerable and always surprising. Mine were too. It felt like we were learning the kinds of things you usually discover through intimacy, only now we were trading them through screens.

The dares were small, playful, sometimes mischievous — little tests of curiosity. Nothing wild, just enough to keep us both aware of that thin line we were walking.

We played like that for weeks. Sometimes we’d skip a day or two, then one of us would send a new truth out of nowhere. “What’s something you regret not saying?” “What’s the most beautiful place you’ve ever been alone?” They were small, but they landed.

By then, it was December. He was planning another move, another restart. I was figuring out how to rebuild my own career. The world was slowly waking back up after two years of masks and empty shelves, and it felt like we were both doing the same thing — trying to remember how to live again.

We talked less as the year wound down. Not intentionally; it just happened. Work got busier. The holidays came. One day, I realized it had been weeks since we’d texted. There wasn’t a goodbye, or a reason. Just space.

Still, that short, quiet thing between us — it mattered. It was exactly what it needed to be: a brief reminder that connection, in whatever form, was still possible.

For a little while, it felt good to be wanted again.