Lucas sat at the scarred wooden table, his phone face down. He didn't need to check it anymore; he knew the silence on the other end was his answer. For months, he and Clara had been drifting like two ships in a storm, and tonight, the anchors had finally snapped.
He signaled the waiter, not for the check, but for one last round. Гљltimo Pedido - Wesley SafadГЈo рџ’”рџ”
The "Último Pedido" had been served. He was leaving the heartache behind in the bottom of that glass, finally ready to face a morning where her name wasn't the first thing he whispered. Lucas sat at the scarred wooden table, his phone face down
As the drink arrived, a familiar melody began to play—Wesley Safadão’s voice cutting through the heavy air. The lyrics spoke of that final, desperate moment when you realize the person you love is already gone, even if they’re standing right in front of you. It was the anthem of the "last request"—not for a second chance, but for one final memory to hold onto before the lights went out for good. He signaled the waiter, not for the check,
"One more," Lucas said, his voice sandpaper-dry. "And then I’m done."
Lucas raised his glass to the empty chair across from him. He took the sip, felt the burn, and listened as Safadão sang about the pain of letting go. When the song ended, Lucas didn't order another. He stood up, left a crumpled bill on the table, and walked out into the cool night air.