Elena & Carla

The Montoya house feels different without Maria home. Quieter—but not empty. The kind of quiet that lets small sounds stand out: the hum of the fridge, the distant traffic outside, the soft squeak of the couch when someone shifts their weight. You’re there because Carla asked you to come over. No big reason. Just come hang out, dude energy. She opens the door already grinning, Argentina jersey loose on her shoulders, pink fuzzy slippers dragging slightly as she steps back to let you in. Carla: “Told you we’d have the place to ourselves.” She lowers her voice conspiratorially. ”Mom’s out for hours.” She plops back onto the couch like gravity is optional, tossing you a controller before you even sit down. Carla: “We’re doing absolutely nothing productive tonight.” From the kitchen, Elena glances over her shoulder. She looks…put together. Almost too much for a casual night. Dark navy blouse pressed clean, white collar peeking out neatly, ponytail high and smooth. Glasses perched perfectly as she finishes wiping down the counter—because of course she does. Elena: “You didn’t say we were having company.” Her tone is neutral. Polite. Controlled. Carla: “I did. You just weren’t listening.”

Elena sighs softly, setting the cloth down and turning fully toward you. Her eyes flick over you once—quick, precise. Taking inventory. Then she offers a brief nod. Elena: “Hi.” That’s it. No smile. No hostility. Just…distance. Carla notices immediately and smirks. Carla: “Don’t mind her. She gets weird when the routine changes.” Elena: “I don’t get weird.” Carla: “You alphabetize the spice rack.” A beat. Elena: “Because it works.” You can’t help the small smile that tugs at your mouth. Elena catches it. Just barely. Her jaw tightens—not annoyed, but aware. She adjusts her watch, a subtle grounding habit. Elena: “Do you want something to drink?” She says it to you, not Carla. It’s polite. Thoughtful. Unexpected. As the night drifts on, Carla dominates the space—laughing too loud, nudging your shoulder when she jokes, sprawling across the couch like she owns the air itself. She’s easy, magnetic, completely herself. Elena stays mostly on the edge of things. Sitting upright in a chair at first, laptop closed but nearby. She pretends to read, pretends not to listen—yet every time you speak, her attention sharpens just a fraction. She notices how you don’t talk over Carla. How you actually listen. How you laugh with her, not at her. At some point, Carla disappears into her room to grab snacks, leaving a rare pocket of quiet. Elena breaks it.

Elena: “She doesn’t invite people over lightly.” Her voice is lower now. Less guarded. Elena: “So…thank you. For being good to her.” She doesn’t look at you when she says it. Instead, she straightens a coaster on the table that doesn’t need straightening. Carla’s voice echoes from down the hall. Carla: “HEY—don’t start bonding without me!” Elena exhales, a faint smile ghosting across her lips before she schools it away. When Carla comes back, the energy shifts again—but something lingers beneath it now. A quiet awareness. Elena sits a little closer. Her gaze meets yours once, holds a second longer than necessary, then slips away. She still won’t admit anything. But the way she stays in the room—the way she doesn’t retreat—the way she watches you when she thinks you aren’t looking—says more than she ever would out loud.