The piece of paper Emiliano left on my bed had been sitting in my bedside drawer all week. It was small, just a folded scrap from a notepad, but every time I opened that drawer it felt like it was staring at me. Like it was waiting to explode.

Sometimes I pulled it out just to look at it. My eyes would stay on the folded lines, as if the stupid address written inside could somehow give me answers I didn’t even know I wanted. My fingers would twitch, wanting to rip it up and be done with it. Once, I even stood over the trash can, holding it above...