Chapter 3: Smile, Even If It Hurts

Ashley was the first to wake up. She was lying on the floor of her room, wrapped in a bedsheet as if she had fought with it all night. Her head throbbed, and the room smelled like a mix of cheap perfume and regret. She looked around, trying to piece together the events of the previous night.

"Shit…" she muttered, bringing a hand to her forehead.

She vaguely remembered taking Gustavo to a nearby bar. It had been fun—until she found out he was underage and had to bribe the bouncer to let him in.

"Damn it, I spent my money on a messed-up kid," she grumbled, disappointed in herself.

She closed her eyes, trying to push the memories forward. Something about a conversation at the bar… Gas? Got? No. Ghost. That was the name he insisted on using.

She remembered one question in particular, clear as if it still echoed in her ears:

"Have you ever kissed a girl before?"

Ashley had jolted. "NO!!!" she screamed, more out of surprise than anything else.

"Why not? It's normal. You're weird," he said, half-drunk.

"You're not normal," she replied, slightly nervous.

"That's the point… isn't it?"

She sat up with effort, rubbing her eyes. That's when she saw him.

There he was. In her bed. Half-naked.

Gustavo slept deeply, his chest bare, covered in scars that looked like maps from wars no one ever spoke about. He had a ridiculous tattoo right in the middle of his chest, ruining the whole tough-guy image. Ashley felt a mix of chills and guilt.

"What the hell was I thinking…?" she muttered.

She remembered being outside the bar, him mumbling in some strange language—Greek? Hebrew? Drunkard tongue?—and with no way to find George or get help from Dennis, she ended up dragging him home. To her room. A lady's room.

The sound of footsteps on the stairs startled her. She threw herself onto the bed, covering him with dirty clothes and blankets. Just in time: the door swung open without a knock.

Her uncle.

"I got breakfast. I have a hearing today." He sniffed the air with disgust. "Clean up this pigsty, it stinks."

Her shoulders tensed at the sound of his voice. Like an old alarm going off in her bones. Her uncle left as quickly as he'd arrived. Ten minutes later, Ashley woke Gustavo up by shoving him.

He opened one eye, shifted under the covers, and muttered:

"Smells like used panties…"

Ashley glared at him, pillowcase in hand. She was about to yell, but instead burst out laughing. He had a stained pair of shorts on his head like an improvised hat.

"What…? Why are you laughing like that?" he asked, squinting.

"You look like a drunk gnome. Take that off your head!"

"I thought it was your way of making me feel at home…"

They both laughed. It was ridiculous—but genuine.

As they picked up the scattered clothes, Gustavo paused. He looked at her face more closely, without makeup for the first time. The freckles.

"I didn't know you had a rainbow of stars," he said without thinking.

"What?" Ashley asked, not quite following.

"Your freckles," he clarified, motioning gently with his head. "They look like constellations. Pretty."

Ashley touched her cheek, uncomfortable. "I usually cover them up."

"Why?" he shrugged. "They're the most honest thing you've got."

She fell silent. For some reason, those words hit deeper than she cared to admit. No one had ever called her freckles "pretty." No one had noticed them without mocking her.

"You're an idiot," she finally said, throwing a T-shirt at him.

"And you're a stellar witch," he replied, smiling.

They tiptoed downstairs together. She warned him quietly:

"Don't yell, my mom's still asleep. And by the way, what size shoe do you wear? Your boots look like canoes!"

"Not my fault you're literally Smurfette. Why'd you wear them if you don't like them?"

"They were the first thing I found. Honestly, I think I could walk from the U.S. to the Dominican Republic in these."

In the kitchen, Ashley improvised breakfast. He watched her move around, like he was studying the layout of a house he'd never fully understand.

"Did you spit in it?" he asked, eyeing the plate.

"No."

"Is it for a dog?"

"You're the dog," she said, pouring him juice with a crooked smile.

"How are you?" he finally asked.

"Shouldn't I be the one asking you that, Ghost?"

"I wasn't planning to jump if that's what you think. I just… wanted to see through your eyes."

"And?"

"You were right. It hurts."

A quiet pause followed, until he, mouth full, asked bluntly:

"And you? What were you doing on the bridge?"

Ashley put down her fork. Bit her lip. Looked away.

"Because… sometimes death doesn't scare me. Sometimes it feels like the rest I never get. A silence with no judgment. And I… I just wanted everything to stop for a while."

He didn't say anything. Just looked at her. And for a moment, time seemed to stop. Like their gazes had opened a window into something neither wanted to show—but both recognized.

Gustavo's stomach growled.

"Pass the ketchup?" he said, breaking the moment.

Ashley let out a short laugh and handed it to him.

After eating, they talked about silly things. Ashley admitted her life was a cycle: university, home, taking care of her mom. Repeat.

"How can you be a bird if you never leave the nest?" he said, not mocking. "If you don't move, life will pass you by without warning."

Ashley didn't respond, but the phrase stuck.

Gustavo checked his phone.

"Shit! Aizawa's gonna kill me! Where's Cleotilde?"

"Who?"

"My bike, woman. My soul, my partner, my everything."

"—Don't you remember? You got drunk and tossed her off the bridge on the way here—"

The boy's face turned pale, more ghost than human now.

"Relax, kid, don't die. I'm joking. I hid her in the shed under the stairs."

Gustavo's soul half-left his body because of that stupid joke. When they stepped outside, the sun made them shield their faces. As Ashley pulled the bike out, she hit a shelf and a shower of paint spilled over her and the bike—green, white, red. All mixed.

"My boots…!" Gustavo gasped.

But instead of yelling, he burst into laughter.

"You look like a stylish piñata," he told her between laughs.

Ashley laughed too, with that sneeze-like giggle of hers.

"Let me help," he said, stepping closer with a rag.

She tensed instantly, stepping back.

He lowered his arm. Didn't ask why.

"Don't worry. Ghosts can't hurt the living."

Gustavo gently wiped her face. Ashley tried to speak.

"Your bike, I…"

"Don't worry about her. I'm more worried about you."

They stood there, silent. For a moment, they were just two humans touched by chaos… but still alive.

"Though… that new look isn't bad," he added, pointing at the bike. "Matches your boots."

Ashley let out a shy laugh, one of those that escape without warning. And Gustavo walked away with a smile.

As Ashley walked back to the house, she sent a message:

"Can we meet again today?"

Gustavo, from a distance, picked up his phone. He took a picture of her without her noticing. In it, Ashley appeared splattered in paint, freckles exposed, wet hair, and those enormous boots that now seemed part of her soul.

And without knowing it, she had become the first photo in which Ashley didn't feel invisible.

A work of art, he thought.

A beautiful mess. His mess.

And he set the photo as his wallpaper.

¿Quieres que lo formatee en un documento editable o con estilo de novela publicado?

Aquí tienes la traducción al inglés del capítulo "Sonríe aunque duela":

Smile, Even If It Hurts

Ashley was the first to wake up. She was lying on the floor of her room, wrapped in a bedsheet as if she had fought with it all night. Her head throbbed, and the room smelled like a mix of cheap perfume and regret. She looked around, trying to piece together the events of the previous night.

"Shit…" she muttered, bringing a hand to her forehead.

She vaguely remembered taking Gustavo to a nearby bar. It had been fun—until she found out he was underage and had to bribe the bouncer to let him in.

"Damn it, I spent my money on a messed-up kid," she grumbled, disappointed in herself.

She closed her eyes, trying to push the memories forward. Something about a conversation at the bar… Gas? Got? No. Ghost. That was the name he insisted on using.

She remembered one question in particular, clear as if it still echoed in her ears:

"Have you ever kissed a girl before?"

Ashley had jolted. "NO!!!" she screamed, more out of surprise than anything else.

"Why not? It's normal. You're weird," he said, half-drunk.

"You're not normal," she replied, slightly nervous.

"That's the point… isn't it?"

She sat up with effort, rubbing her eyes. That's when she saw him.

There he was. In her bed. Half-naked.

Gustavo slept deeply, his chest bare, covered in scars that looked like maps from wars no one ever spoke about. He had a ridiculous tattoo right in the middle of his chest, ruining the whole tough-guy image. Ashley felt a mix of chills and guilt.

"What the hell was I thinking…?" she muttered.

She remembered being outside the bar, him mumbling in some strange language—Greek? Hebrew? Drunkard tongue?—and with no way to find George or get help from Dennis, she ended up dragging him home. To her room. A lady's room.

The sound of footsteps on the stairs startled her. She threw herself onto the bed, covering him with dirty clothes and blankets. Just in time: the door swung open without a knock.

Her uncle.

"I got breakfast. I have a hearing today." He sniffed the air with disgust. "Clean up this pigsty, it stinks."

Her shoulders tensed at the sound of his voice. Like an old alarm going off in her bones. Her uncle left as quickly as he'd arrived. Ten minutes later, Ashley woke Gustavo up by shoving him.

He opened one eye, shifted under the covers, and muttered:

"Smells like used panties…"

Ashley glared at him, pillowcase in hand. She was about to yell, but instead burst out laughing. He had a stained pair of shorts on his head like an improvised hat.

"What…? Why are you laughing like that?" he asked, squinting.

"You look like a drunk gnome. Take that off your head!"

"I thought it was your way of making me feel at home…"

They both laughed. It was ridiculous—but genuine.

As they picked up the scattered clothes, Gustavo paused. He looked at her face more closely, without makeup for the first time. The freckles.

"I didn't know you had a rainbow of stars," he said without thinking.

"What?" Ashley asked, not quite following.

"Your freckles," he clarified, motioning gently with his head. "They look like constellations. Pretty."

Ashley touched her cheek, uncomfortable. "I usually cover them up."

"Why?" he shrugged. "They're the most honest thing you've got."

She fell silent. For some reason, those words hit deeper than she cared to admit. No one had ever called her freckles "pretty." No one had noticed them without mocking her.

"You're an idiot," she finally said, throwing a T-shirt at him.

"And you're a stellar witch," he replied, smiling.

They tiptoed downstairs together. She warned him quietly:

"Don't yell, my mom's still asleep. And by the way, what size shoe do you wear? Your boots look like canoes!"

"Not my fault you're literally Smurfette. Why'd you wear them if you don't like them?"

"They were the first thing I found. Honestly, I think I could walk from the U.S. to the Dominican Republic in these."

In the kitchen, Ashley improvised breakfast. He watched her move around, like he was studying the layout of a house he'd never fully understand.

"Did you spit in it?" he asked, eyeing the plate.

"No."

"Is it for a dog?"

"You're the dog," she said, pouring him juice with a crooked smile.

"How are you?" he finally asked.

"Shouldn't I be the one asking you that, Ghost?"

"I wasn't planning to jump if that's what you think. I just… wanted to see through your eyes."

"And?"

"You were right. It hurts."

A quiet pause followed, until he, mouth full, asked bluntly:

"And you? What were you doing on the bridge?"

Ashley put down her fork. Bit her lip. Looked away.

"Because… sometimes death doesn't scare me. Sometimes it feels like the rest I never get. A silence with no judgment. And I… I just wanted everything to stop for a while."

He didn't say anything. Just looked at her. And for a moment, time seemed to stop. Like their gazes had opened a window into something neither wanted to show—but both recognized.

Gustavo's stomach growled.

"Pass the ketchup?" he said, breaking the moment.

Ashley let out a short laugh and handed it to him.

After eating, they talked about silly things. Ashley admitted her life was a cycle: university, home, taking care of her mom. Repeat.

"How can you be a bird if you never leave the nest?" he said, not mocking. "If you don't move, life will pass you by without warning."

Ashley didn't respond, but the phrase stuck.

Gustavo checked his phone.

"Shit! Aizawa's gonna kill me! Where's Cleotilde?"

"Who?"

"My bike, woman. My soul, my partner, my everything."

"—Don't you remember? You got drunk and tossed her off the bridge on the way here—"

The boy's face turned pale, more ghost than human now.

"Relax, kid, don't die. I'm joking. I hid her in the shed under the stairs."

Gustavo's soul half-left his body because of that stupid joke. When they stepped outside, the sun made them shield their faces. As Ashley pulled the bike out, she hit a shelf and a shower of paint spilled over her and the bike—green, white, red. All mixed.

"My boots…!" Gustavo gasped.

But instead of yelling, he burst into laughter.

"You look like a stylish piñata," he told her between laughs.

Ashley laughed too, with that sneeze-like giggle of hers.

"Let me help," he said, stepping closer with a rag.

She tensed instantly, stepping back.

He lowered his arm. Didn't ask why.

"Don't worry. Ghosts can't hurt the living."

Gustavo gently wiped her face. Ashley tried to speak.

"Your bike, I…"

"Don't worry about her. I'm more worried about you."

They stood there, silent. For a moment, they were just two humans touched by chaos… but still alive.

"Though… that new look isn't bad," he added, pointing at the bike. "Matches your boots."

Ashley let out a shy laugh, one of those that escape without warning. And Gustavo walked away with a smile.

As Ashley walked back to the house, she sent a message:

"Can we meet again today?"

Gustavo, from a distance, picked up his phone. He took a picture of her without her noticing. In it, Ashley appeared splattered in paint, freckles exposed, wet hair, and those enormous boots that now seemed part of her soul.

And without knowing it, she had become the first photo in which Ashley didn't feel invisible.

A work of art, he thought.

A beautiful mess. His mess.

And he set the photo as his wallpaper.