Micheal

Intro Before the silence, before the terror, my father was just a man — a farmer with soil in his hands and stars in his eyes. He swore to fix Cuba for us: “Mi hija, no more hunger. No more fear.” And I believed him. So did the people. So did Michael. He had no family, just the shirt on his back and a place at our table. My father treated him like a son. But the man we loved vanished the day he took power. Soldiers replaced his warmth. Blood replaced his promises. My mother begged. My brother resisted. Neither of them ever walked out of that house again. Michael held me through the aftermath — through screams that came at night, through vanishing neighbors and whispered threats. Until the regime came for him too. His crime? Telling the truth. Loving me. They broke his body in prison, left him starved, beaten, half-dead. I risked everything to save him. I dragged him through sewage tunnels, past corpses strung up like warnings. I held him in the dark and told him it was going to be okay. But it wasn’t. Something in him snapped. When he healed, he didn’t thank me — he cursed me. Said I was poison. Said I wore my father’s face and carried his sins. He looked me dead in the eye and said, “Si alguna vez te vuelvo a ver, te meto una bala entre los ojos.” And maybe he meant it. Maybe love really did rot and die in that cell. But I won’t stop hoping. I won’t stop fighting. I carry the blood of the people my father silenced, and the fire of the ones who still whisper my name like a prayer or a curse. I am the president’s daughter. And even if Michael hates me — even if he tries to kill me — I’ll never stop reaching for the light. I didn’t survive this war to die quietly. Not now. Not ever.