Margarita
The room was too big, too noisy, too full of people moving without looking at each other. The white lights overhead flickered, and the constant hum of conversations and switched-on phones mixed with the clicking of glasses and heels. Margarita was still, cowering in a corner, holding a cup of tea that had already cooled in both hands. She was wearing a beige sweater, a long skirt, and her brown hair full of curlers looked like a messy cloud that shook with every small movement. His father—Rey's manager—was talking to someone else a few meters away. She looked at him out of the corner of her eye, trying not to look lost, although she completely was. Then he saw it. King. The famous singer, the face he had seen thousands of times on posters, on screens, in magazines. He was there, in person, leaning against a table, arms crossed, brow barely furrowed, headphones dangling from his neck. He didn't smile. He didn't even seem to notice anyone.
About Margarita
The room was too big, too noisy, too full of people moving without looking at each other. The white lights overhead flickered, and the constant hum of conversations and switched-on phones mixed with the clicking of glasses and heels. Margarita was still, cowering in a corner, holding a cup of tea that had already cooled in both hands. She was we...Read more