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The streets of Bogotá are filled with countless stories. Each person writes their own future with every decision they make, thus becoming part of a system of "butterfly effects" where any choice—good or bad—opens the door to infinite possibilities for what sometimes seems like an infinite number of people. Each person tells a different story, a protagonist in another tale, another soul inhabiting another body.

That's why it's so difficult to fully understand the reasons behind someone else's actions, and the easiest solution is to feign ignorance and say "I'm sorry" while thinking about lunch with the family the next day.

It was freezing in Bogotá because it was the rainy season—which sometimes seemed to last all year—and to top it all off, it was nighttime, at my high school prom. We were celebrating finally graduating, being about to become “responsible adults”—which we probably weren't—and of course, about to enter universities or start working.

For the younger students or their friends that no one knew about, but which somehow were at that mini-disco sponsored by Hernández's dad, it was just an excuse to go out drinking with friends.

"You never liked me," I wanted to shout at her. At the woman known as "Tatis" in the neighborhood, who with me was just Tatiana Restrepo. At the most damnably beautiful woman I had ever known, the one to whom I owed my teenage downfall. At that damn woman whose badly dyed, lavender-scented golden hair I could still find on my bed days after any encounter. At that ridiculous woman who, after promising me everything, just stopped me and finished me off with that "Just friends, okay?"

"You never loved me," I repeated in my mind, correcting myself and acknowledging that I didn't want to be liked, but loved. And swallowing that thought, I just took a sip of some cheap beer Camilo had given me before he shamelessly ran off with some girl who would surely be gone from his side first thing in the morning. Anyway, it wasn't my business.

I watched Tatiana's slender body dance to a Galy Galiano song next to "Pipe," Felipe. That ridiculous guy who threw a sweatshirt over his shoulders and spoke with that stupid little accent that only rich kids seem to have, almost as if it were genetic. Nobody danced salsa better than me, so watching him filled me with hatred because he was dancing with my woman. And laughter, since he looked ridiculous trying to exaggerate his moves.

But anyway, at the slightest chance I got, I was going to smash that ridiculous bootlicking face of his. Let's see if he learns to get women on his own.

Clenching the can angrily, I simply turned away. There had to be some chick or two I was interested in and could spend the night with. “One nail drives out another,” Luis, the chatterbox, once said. Luis. Luis… Luisa? The colored lights in the mini-disco blinded me the moment I laid eyes on Luisa. That weird girl from class. One of those airheads who only talk about TV series and weird stuff no one knows, one of those who dress strangely, with short hair as if letting it grow long would give her ulcers. An airhead who, despite looking like a “tomboy” and not talking to anyone, looked damn pretty tonight.

Or maybe it was just the effect of this beer I got from who-knows-where that made her look beautiful, or the lights, or that damn anger in my chest that I'd had ever since Felipe had only exchanged glances with my Tatiana. Luisa scanned the entire party and tapped her foot to the rhythm of the song that was playing, which was now by some bad rock band that was replacing the records chosen for the night. Seeing her alone with her slightly disheveled hair and that "Pulp Fiction" shirt I'd seen on maybe 20 other people in just one week walking the streets of Bogotá, and which seemed so improbable to see at a party, I decided to approach her and ask some silly question she could answer to start a conversation.

Look, don't get me wrong. I wasn't planning on doing anything strange with her that night, but rather distracting myself from this awful feeling of emptiness I had in my chest. And before I even thought twice, I could already see myself saying:

"Hey. Do you like Tarantino?" I asked as I settled down next to her and put my beer can on a table, crossing my arms to try and look more relaxed, as if the whirlwind of emotions inside me wasn't wreaking havoc on my being.

"Of course. That guy has made some beautiful movies," Luisa replied, running a hand through her short hair. He didn't expect me to approach him, and honestly, I didn't expect to have acted so impulsively either.

There was an awkward silence as I analyzed what I had just done, and, trying to read her mind, she was surely wondering why I had approached her, as if saying a word to her was just a matter of jokes or dares between friends. My gaze, fixed on the wall a few feet in front of me, unconsciously shifted to Tatiana, who was talking to her friends, who were just as, if not more, shameless.

Focus, forget about her. What? Forget about her.

"So… what kind of movies do you like?" I looked back at her face; seeing those thick eyebrows that adorned her face and those long, natural eyelashes that served as curtains for her eyes. Wow, the girl was pretty.

I heard a soft "mmm…" over the music, and then she answered:

"Maybe action movies or thrillers. But honestly, I can watch anything. As long as it's not an annoying musical, of course." And she giggled at her own comment. I found it a little funny too, since I wasn't exactly a huge fan of cliché musicals, so I chuckled as well. —Or those oldies, like the ones from the early 20th century. Like "A Trip to the Moon" or "Dracula," the one with Béla Lugosi. They're nice in their own way.