The alarm clock sounded cruel. Valeria opened her eyes, her throat dry, her head buzzing as if her pillow had been amplifying feedback all night. It was barely seven o'clock, but the world was already roaring outside her window with garbage trucks, honking horns, and the relentless murmur of a city that doesn't forgive slow dreamers.
She stared at the ceiling without moving, letting the weight of the previous day's emotional hangover settle with confidence. She still felt the sour taste of the argument with Julián, and the echo of that revelation at the bar continued to vibrate in her chest like a sustained note. How to continue? Why continue?
But something had ignited, small but persistent, like a spark that refuses to go out. She got up, poured herself a coffee so strong it could revive the dead, and sat down in front of her writing notebook. She reread what she had written the night before. Her fingers trembled. There was truth in those lines. Pain, rage, vulnerability. What she'd always wanted rock to mean.
That same day, without giving it much thought, she called Cami. She didn't talk about the rehearsal, or Julián, or the emotional turmoil she was carrying around. She just said, "I have a new lyric. It's raw. But it's ours."
Cami didn't need any more. They agreed to meet that night at the studio. This time alone.
When they arrived, the place had that distinctive smell of old cables, sweat, and battered wood. Like a kind of forgotten sanctuary. Valeria played the first chords of what would become the new song, and Cami followed with a solid but restrained rhythm, as if she were holding her breath along with her. They played once, twice, three times. The words came out, the notes sharpened, and when they finished, they looked at each other without speaking. They knew something had changed.
That night, Valeria returned home with a sense of beginning. Not of hope, but of truth. And that was more valuable than any promise of fame.
Over the next few weeks, Valeria and Cami became a sort of secret duo. They took advantage of every free moment to lock themselves in the studio, compose, and record homemade demos with a borrowed microphone and an old laptop that could barely run the software. The first track was called "Ruido propio," a mix of dirty riffs and lyrics that spoke of breaking the mold, of screaming even when no one was listening.
Then came "Calle sin nombre," a more melodic track born from a night spent aimlessly walking through the city. Valeria had recorded the sounds of traffic on her cell phone and integrated them into the background, creating a suffocating, urban atmosphere. They weren't polished songs, but they were real. Raw. Hers.
Valeria began writing like a madwoman. On napkins, on bus tickets, on the pages of her work planner. Some lyrics spoke of daily boredom; others were confessions disguised as rage. Rock, for her, was becoming not a goal, but a way to process the world.
And although Julián remained distant and didn't show up for rehearsals, the two of them didn't stop. Nor did they plan to stop.
One Saturday afternoon, Valeria arrived at the studio with a new notebook, a black cover with thick pages, where she planned to record only the finished songs. The first one she wrote was "Cenizas de jueves," inspired by her childhood, her missing father, and the words that were never spoken. Cami gave it a funeral march rhythm with dry cymbals and a snare drum that resembled a wounded heartbeat.
Each song was a scar made music. And the album they never thought they would make began to take shape.