Love
In the early mornings, when the sky was just beginning to turn orange as the sun slowly crawled its way into view, her thoughts ran free.
They followed the usual paths she had laid out for herself—
What’s for breakfast?
Huevos pericos y arepas. Mamá’s go-to.
Did Camilo trip her on purpose or was it a genuine accident?
It was always on purpose and she was getting sick and tired of it.
Where was Abuela?
Sleeping or sitting out by the window, talking to Abuelo.
...would she have said ‘yes’ if Mariano had managed to finish his proposal?
Sí. Para la familia.
But did she want to say yes?
No.
Why?
She didn’t know.
Liar. Why?
Because—
Isabela forcefully yanked her thoughts off that track, glancing around the blessedly dark room to make sure no one had noticed. Her pulse thundered in her ears and flashes of a teasing smile, half-hidden by fluttering sheets of laundry and bright purple petals floating through the air ran through her mind.
----
When Isabela first saw her, violets sprouted on her head, their dark purple petals dotting her shoulders and stems tangling in her hair.
She was hanging laundry and the afternoon sun reflected off her face, highlighting the smooth bridge of her nose and the redness of her cheeks.
When they locked eyes, Isabela felt like all the air had been sucked out of her lungs. Like her feet had suddenly grown roots and she could not move— away or towards— no matter how much she wanted to.
And, oh, how Isabela had wanted.
She wanted to move towards the woman, wrap them both in one of the sheets hanging on the line, and watch the shadows dance across her face. She wanted to know what the woman looked like with crimson spilling across her cheeks, what her favorite food was and how her arms would feel wrapped around Isabela’s waist. She felt an indescribable urge to spread her arms wide and welcome the warmth of her smile like a sunflower stretched towards the sun.
Instead, she just stared.
The woman smiled, brilliant and blinding. “You have a little something—” She gestured at Isabela’s head. “—there.”
Isabela felt her cheeks heat up and more flowers sprout on her head. She spun sharply on her heel and sped off, leaving a few lingering petals behind. She did not run away. She walked quickly and gracefully until she turned the corner then broke into a dead sprint.
Dios, she could not breathe. Her face tingled and her legs shook enough to make her slow down, lest she twist her ankle by accident. Wouldn’t that send Abuela to an early grave? Isabela could see it now: Hi, Abuela, don’t worry about me— I just twisted my ankle running away from a pretty girl!
She collapsed, well, it felt like she collapsed, to others she probably looked like she just elegantly draped herself over a nearby boulder, and buried her face in her hands. Her heart was still racing and that smile was branded into her brain, playing over and over.
This was what she was supposed to feel around Mariano, not some random townsperson hanging up laundry.
“Dios, what is wrong with me?” she groaned as she dug the heels of her palms into her eyes hard enough to see stars.
Too many things, she thought. Too many to count.
----
The first days without her gift were the worst.
She never took notice of the thrum of nature around her, she could barely remember a time when it was not there. It had been a quiet hum, that echoed in the back of her mind and trembled at the tips of her fingers. It had been a soothing, consistent comfort on her lonely nights when she felt nothing but isolated from even herself.
And now it was gone.
The silence was loud. She wondered if this was how Dolores felt— not being able to hear the wind in the leaves or the heartbeats of their famila.
Isabela would catch herself flicking her wrists or tapping her foot on the ground, expecting the rush of warmth as her power surged through her, twisting and writhing, eager to leave and create.
But every time, without fail, she just felt empty.
----
Without her gift she was lost, floating from day to day with only the guiding hands of Mamá and Papá telling her where to go and what to do.
She was restless, with unused energy collecting in her limbs with no way out because she could no longer just snap her fingers and make beautiful fields of flowers spring to life.
Perhaps, that was why she found herself creeping through the house one night with shaking hands and even shakier breathing. Soon, Isabela found herself in the bathroom. The moonlight shone in through the high window, slotting against her face, casting her half in shadow and half in light.
She looked terrible.
Her eyes were rimmed red and hollow with deep bags beneath them, her cheeks were pale and splotchy and her lips trembled with the fresh wave of tears.
When had she started crying?
Her hair was frizzy and curling every which way, no longer the shiny, perfectly glossy she had been so proud of before.
She hated it. She hated how it reminded her of everything she had lost, of all the time she had wasted trying to mold herself into something she was not.
The scissors on the counter caught her attention and before she knew it, Isabela had grabbed them, the cold metal biting into her hands, and gathered up a fistful of hair.
She hesitated for the briefest of moments before shutting her eyes.
SNIIIP!
Her eyes flew open and she gasped loudly. Her hair fell around her clenched fist and she stumbled back a step, feeling her breathing begin to escalate.
“Ay, dios—” she gasped, dropping the cut hair as if it had burned her. “Ay dios mio, no, no—”
What had she done?
The door to the bathroom creaked open and Isabela whirled around, barely registering her hermana’s in the doorway.
“Isa?” Luisa asked, moving to step inside.
“Get out!” Isabela hissed, reaching for the door and attempting to slam it closed. They could not see her like this— messy, imperfect, crying—
A large hand shot out and stopped the door from closing. Isabela struggled for a moment before giving up with a huff.
“Please,” she whispered, bringing her hands up to her face. “Please, go away…”
“Isa,” Mirabel said as she stepped forward, hands out in a placating gesture. “Put the scissors down.”
Isabela shook her head, moving away from her and further into the bathroom. Mirabel followed, gaze full of nothing but gentle understanding. Isabela moved until her back met the sink and she spun around, catching her reflection in the mirror once more. If she thought she was a mess before, then she certainly was one now. Her hair fell in uneven strands around the right side of her face. The left side remained untouched, as close to perfect as it could be.
What had she done?
Her hands trembled and she vehemently shook her head. “I— I can’t— I don’t—”
Hands— larger than her own but infinitely more gentle— pried the scissors from her grip and set them on the edge of the sink, out of reach. She bonelessly collapsed against Luisa, who kept her steady without so much as a grunt.
“What’s going on in that head of yours?” Luisa asked, gently gathering her into a hug. Isabela shrugged, burying her face into Luisa’s shoulder. A muffled sob escaped her and she clung tighter to Luisa’s broad frame. Her hermana was a steady anchor beneath her, holding her in place and keeping her from floating away with her thoughts. She felt arms wrap around her from behind and Mirabel nuzzled in between her shoulder blades.
“You can talk to us,” Mirabel whispered. “You don’t have to bottle it all up.”
Isabela shook her head, curling her hands tighter into the fabric of Luisa’s shirt.
“Take your time,” Luisa whispered, carefully pressing her thumbs against the nape of Isabela’s neck, rubbing gentle circles up her skull. Isabela felt the headache that had been relentlessly throbbing in the back of her mind recede. Her shoulders drooped and the grip she had on Luisa’s shirt loosened slightly.
“I don’t know who I am anymore,” she whispered, refusing to move from Luisa’s protective embrace. It was dark and safe there, away from prying eyes and the frighteningly unexplored seas of herself. “I’m like a leaf, blowing in the wind with no recollection of what I am or where I came from.”
Mirabel knocked her forehead against her shoulder and Isabela turned slightly. Her youngest hermanita stared up at her with a soft smile.
“That, my dear hermana mayor, is called an identity crisis,” she said, with a voice full of faux wisdom. “I had my first one when I was five.”
Isabela nuzzled into Luisa’s shoulder once more and shook her head. “I don’t like it,” she muttered. “I always knew who I was.”
“Did you really?” Luisa asked. Isabela glanced up at her with furrowed brows and Luisa awkwardly cleared her throat. “Did you actually know who you were or did you simply believe that’s who you were because that was who everyone wanted you to be?”
Isabela blinked at her and Luisa chuckled. “I’ll take that as a no,” she said. “It’s ok, though! There is no time limit to figuring yourself out.”
“And what’s even better,” Mirabel continued, knocking her forehead against Isabela’s shoulder once more. “Is that you don’t have to be perfect at figuring yourself out.”
Isabela let out a shaky laugh, twisting around slightly to pull Mirabel fully into the hug. Luisa adjusted accordingly and Mirabel’s arms wound tightly around Isabela’s waist.
“Gracias,” she whispered, burying her face into Mirabel’s curls. “How did I get such amazing sisters?”
“Flattery will get you everywhere,” Luisa said. “Like to the kitchen, for example, because I think this calls for some chocolate santafereño.”
Mirabel wiggled out of the hug and grabbed the scissors. “We should clean that up before we go anywhere.”
Isabela glanced at the mirror and winced. The right side of her hair now brushed her jawline, curling every which way since she lost most of her hair products when Casita fell.
“Do you trust me?” Mirabel asked, with a certain gleam in her eye, holding the scissors up. Isabela stepped back on instinct, immediately wary. They may have ‘hugged it out’ but she would not put it past Mirabel to do something irreparable to her hair.
Not that Isabela had done a great job herself, but the point still remained.
“No,” Luisa said flatly, taking the scissors out of her hand. Mirabel pouted but hopped onto the counter as Luisa nudged Isabela forward. She went with a jolt, staring wide-eyed at her reflection as Luisa gave her hair a once over.
Carefully, Luisa cut off the rest of her hair, patiently evening everything out, brows furrowed and tongue poking out slightly in concentration. Isabela stood still, barely breathing, with her shoulders almost up to her ears as the steady ‘snip, snip’ of the scissors echoed through the room. Mirabel gently pried her hand from where it clenched at her nightgown and began to tug on her fingers, pressing between the knuckles in small circular movements.
“You’re so tense,” Mirabel muttered, pressing harder in the space between her thumb and forefinger.
Isabela hissed in pain and tried to pull her hand away, but Mirabel was relentless. “I haven’t cut my hair in a few years—”
“Over a decade is more like it,” Luisa snorted.
“Because you’re so oldddd,” Mirabel sang and Isabela flicked the side of her head with a scowl.
“Oye!”
The three dissolved into helpless giggles as Luisa tried in vain to get her to stay still. Isabela ran a hand through her newly shortened hair and sighed.
It felt different but maybe… maybe that was a good thing.
----