To all the women who have ever loved in silence.

To those who swallowed their "I love you" not because they didn’t feel it, but because they were afraid of what might follow. Afraid of rejection. Afraid of the consequences. Afraid of losing even the little piece they had. To those who kept their love tucked away in the corners of their hearts, hidden behind polite smiles and unfinished texts.

To the women who have ever loved without permission.

Without promises.

Without being chosen.

This is for you.

To the ones who were told they were too emotional, too intense, too complicated.

To those who were judged harshly for giving too much and receiving too little.

For staying even when your intuition screamed to leave.

For hoping when logic said “let go.”

For loving someone who only ever gave you fragments, while you were ready to offer them everything.

To those who felt guilty just for feeling.

For loving in a world that told them they should know better.

For falling into spaces that were already occupied.

For becoming “the other woman,” not because they wanted to, but because they saw something real, and chose to believe in it—even if it came in broken pieces.

To the ones who spent nights wondering if they were enough.

To those who stayed up replaying every word, every silence, trying to decode what they did wrong.

To the women who broke themselves into smaller versions just to be loved a little longer.

You were never the problem.

You were never too much.

You were never wrong for loving.

Loving is never a mistake.

The pain only comes from giving your heart to someone who didn’t know what to do with it.

Someone who didn’t know how to hold your tenderness, who couldn’t see your worth, who only wanted the version of you that didn’t make demands.

But even then—hear this clearly—the love you gave was not wasted.

It was real.

It was brave.

It was your truth.

And that truth deserves to be honored.

You are not weak for feeling deeply.

You are not foolish for believing in love, even when it hurt.

You are powerful—for choosing to feel, to give, to hope.

That is not a flaw. That is your courage.

This diary, this story, is not just mine.

It is yours too.

It’s a space to release the guilt, the shame, the silence.

To finally say the things you were never allowed to say.

To give your heart a soft place to land.

If you were ever loved in the shadows, today is the day you start loving yourself in the light.

With no apologies.

With no hesitation.

You do not have to shrink to fit into someone else's limited capacity for love.

You deserve fullness.

You deserve to be seen, chosen, and held—entirely.

So to the woman who has ever asked, “What was wrong with me?”—

The answer is nothing.

Nothing at all.

You were just someone who loved with her whole heart in a world that sometimes only loves in halves.

But even then, your love was never less.

It made you brave.

This is for you. For me. For us.

Because our stories matter.

Because our hearts deserve a voice.

Because silence is no longer enough.

No one wants to become "the other woman."

That's not in any fairy tale we were told as little girls. We never heard stories where the main character dreamed of loving someone who didn't belong to her, much less becoming a hidden chapter in someone else's life.

But what they don't tell you is that the heart doesn't always obey reason; falling in love, more often than not, isn't a conscious decision you make. And though many people find it absurd, though they love to say "you choose who to love," the truth is... it's not always like that.

In my case, it wasn't like that.

I didn't choose to fall in love with him... it just happened.

No warning, no permission asked.

And if I'm being completely honest with you, I'll admit I would give anything to make it so it had never happened.

Maybe... if I hadn't fallen for him, my life today would be different. Maybe my world wouldn't be so full of cracks, my heart wouldn't carry these wounds, and maybe—just maybe—I wouldn't still think about him every night like I do now...

I wouldn't still love him the way I do, despite knowing that what we had... will never be possible.

Because I know. Because I always knew.

If you want to understand a little better why I say I never wanted to fall in love with him, you'll have to come with me to the past, to a time when my world was simpler—before my story turned into the mess I now carry with me.

Before I became the woman writing these lines... a woman marked by forbidden love, by a feeling that overwhelmed her and ended up trapping her in a web of lies she never imagined weaving.

And for the curious ones already wondering,

"Who is he? What's the name of the man who stole her breath and holds her heart captive without even knowing it?"

I'll give you the simplest answer in the world: his name is Fabián.

As simple and ordinary as any other name... but for me, the most dangerous, the most addictive, the most impossible to forget.

And how would I describe him?

I could tell you to picture the most perfect Adonis your imagination can create... and that was him.

Tall, very tall—maybe around six feet, maybe more. I never cared to measure him, because every time I stood in front of him, I felt small.

His eyes were swirling honey, sweet, hypnotic, able to make you lose all sense of time with just one look.

And his lips... oh, those lips... full, tempting, the kind that beg to be kissed, bitten, devoured.

I confess, I loved biting them when we kissed, pulling them between my teeth, feeling his breath quicken beneath my mouth.

His arms were wide, strong, able to lift me up and pin me against the wall when desire overflowed.

Those arms wrapped around me, held me, reminded me that in that moment, it was just the two of us.

His chest, broad and warm, was my refuge, where I could rest my head, listening to his heartbeat with my eyes closed, wishing time would stand still.

But if we talk about his best feature, without a doubt, it was the one we don't always mention but we all know matters...

A perfect length and thickness, capable of making me lose my mind just by seeing it.

Shamelessly, I admit there was nothing more delicious than feeling him inside me, moving with a skill and intensity that made me scream his name.

God had been incredibly generous with him... I used to joke it was unfair for a man to have it all—face, body, and... well, you know.

But calm down, girl... hormones, behave.

Because yes, his body was a masterpiece.

And if you're wondering, yes, he was also that cliché of a man who wins you over with a mischievous smile.

He wasn't blond, but his light brown hair perfectly highlighted his masculine features.

He could have easily been a brother to any Greek god from a romance novel.

Everything about him seemed perfect. Seemed... and here's where the big "but" of my story comes in.

Yes... you've probably already guessed it, because in stories like mine it's almost obvious.

Everything was beautiful, exciting, addictive... until the cruel truth hit me:

Fabián had a girlfriend.

That's right... a girlfriend.

A woman I never met but whose ghost was always between us.

And that's where my beautiful fairy tale came crashing down.

All the love, all the passion, all the unspoken promises... drowned in the poison of betrayal.

Because I never wanted to love someone like that.

I never dreamed of being "the other woman."

I never wanted to live in anyone's shadow.

But by the time I realized it... it was too late.

My heart already belonged to him, my body already craved him, and my soul had already surrendered... to every caress, every word, every lie disguised as desire.

And the most ironic thing?

Even knowing we'd never have a future...

even knowing I would always be a secret story to him...

I couldn't stop loving him.

And here I am, telling you my truth.

Not so you'll judge me.

Not so you'll understand me.

Just so you'll know... sometimes the heart doesn't ask. It just feels.

And by the time you realize it... it's already too late to escape.

Because no one wants to be "the other woman"...

but some of us end up becoming one, loving in silence, suffering in the shadows...

and still... loving.

At the age of 13, I experienced what would be my first love: a 22-year-old man who was the dance instructor for my sister's best friend's quinceañera. He had a bowl haircut, a style that was very trendy before the Korean boom we see nowadays. He had an extroverted personality and dancing skills that I found incredibly attractive. With him, I understood what people always said: we're drawn to opposite personalities.

He had an ease when it came to talking to anyone in front of him; he could even get me to talk for several minutes about various topics, which was a complete mystery in my head. When he got tired of talking or wanted to change the dynamic of rehearsals, he would simply pull me out to dance, unleashing a world of sensations in my body that, up to that moment, I didn't understand.

They say a woman knows — no matter her age — when a man is interested in her. It's what we call the sixth sense. I felt that he had a certain interest in me, even if it was just physical attraction. My heart would pound every time he pressed his body against mine, dancing to the rhythm of a romantic merengue. I wished with every fiber of my being that he would be my first kiss.

One random afternoon, while I was reading at home, something unexpected happened. He passed by my block and stopped right in front of my house when he saw me lying on a brick ledge that separated my home from the neighbor's. My head was facing the street and my feet were resting against the wall. As I said before, my way of dressing was always liberal, so I was wearing my usual cheeky shorts and a gray spaghetti strap top with a buckle on the chest that created a deep neckline effect, even though it wasn't truly revealing.

When I saw him, out of reflex, I lowered the book in my hands — it happened to be one I still consider magnificent, "La fuerza de Sheccid" by the wonderful author Carlos Cuauhtémoc Sánchez. I lifted myself slightly, trying to get a better look at his face from the right angle. The expression on his face as he watched me contort myself without moving from that wall was a poem in itself. You could clearly see how aroused he was, how his imagination ran wild just from looking at me. But for some reason I couldn't understand, he held back.

I knew he was almost eleven years older than me and was probably worried about the consequences all this could bring. But my God — if that man didn't kiss me, I was ready to make the first move.

—Hello, kind sir, what brings you around here?

—Uh... I was running a personal errand and decided to pass through this street. I really didn't know you lived here.

—Really? —I replied, raising an eyebrow, hinting that I didn't fully believe him, while smiling flirtatiously.

—I swear, I'm not lying. But what about you? What are you doing out here reading in front of your house at this hour?

—I like to read. I'm not a fan of TV, and I was tired of being cooped up, so I decided to come out here and read.

—You're messing with more than one marriage on this block reading like that, lying the way you are and dressed like that. You really have no idea how many sensations you stir up —he had never been so honest with me. I don't know if it was because we were alone for the first time that he dared to say it, and his smile also had a flirtatious edge to it—. You have beautiful legs and a very well-shaped body... you shouldn't be so cruel.

—Do I seem cruel to you? —Maybe I had never kissed anyone or had guy friends, but one thing my books had taught me was how to be a bit flirtatious, maybe even bold, without crossing the line.

—Honestly, yes... And before it gets any later, I better go —I noticed he shifted uncomfortably and subtly adjusted himself in the crotch area, which made me smile as I realized he was trying to get out of there before things got out of hand.

—Okay, take care —I laid back down in the same position I was in when he passed by, looked at him from the corner of my eyes and, seeing he hadn't moved yet, I let out innocently—: Weren't you leaving already?

He reacted a bit abruptly, with a hint of nervousness:

—Don't move.

I saw him approach my face, from that upside-down position I was in. He leaned in and brought his face close to mine. My heart immediately began to race. He started with a kiss on my right cheek, very close to my lips, but not quite touching them. Then he moved to the left cheek, repeating the same kiss, while holding my face in his hands. Then he left a kiss on my chin, and I felt like my heart was going to burst out of my chest. He continued with a kiss on my nose... I didn't understand what it all meant, but to me —a virgin in every sense— those kisses awakened an unknown sensation, an emotion that made me tremble inside.

I waited anxiously for the final kiss, the one I had longed for, the one I had dreamed of ever since his eyes first caught me dancing. He rested his forehead against mine, the contact was warm, enveloping. And when he lifted his face and looked at my lips, I thought the moment had finally come.

But no.

To my total and absolute disappointment, all he did was slowly exhale a soft breath of air over my mouth and then gave me one last kiss... on the forehead.

I stayed there, frozen, completely frustrated, thinking: "WHAT THE FUCK."

I didn't say a word. I just covered my face with both hands as I watched him walk away with firm steps. My face was burning. I knew it — I must've looked as red as a tomato.