The Voice Note

The wine was $6.99 and already half gone.

Yara sat cross-legged on my couch, phone propped against a coffee mug, filming herself doing a face mask while I spread the carnage across the kitchen table. Three venue quotes. Two rejection emails. One voicemail from the florist who'd "love to work with me again" if I could put down a deposit by Friday.

Friday was two days away. My checking account had $340.

"Read me the Coral Gables one again," Yara said, peeling the mask off one cheek.

"Seven thousand for the terrace alone. That's before catering, before flowers, before the arch I was going to build myself out of driftwood and a prayer."

"And the Wynwood one?"

"Closed. Permanently. The owner's converting it into a coworking space." I poured more wine. "A coworking space, Yara. My dream venue is becoming a WeWork."

She snorted. "Mira, at this point, just get married in the parking lot."

"Rafe would do it too. That's the worst part. He'd get married at a gas station and mean every word."

"So what's stopping you?"

I didn't answer. Because the answer was me. It was always me. Three years of planning. Binders. Mood boards. A Pinterest account with 847 pins organized by season, color palette, and vibes. I'd planned forty-three weddings for other people. Forty-three couples who had budgets and parents who wrote checks and venues that didn't turn into tech offices. I couldn't even plan my own.

My phone sat on the table, El Rey's latest album still playing from the speaker I'd connected two hours ago. "Fuego y Fe." The song I'd picked for our first dance.

"Play that one again," Yara said.

I tapped the screen. The bass line filled the apartment, Rafe's ceiling fan clicking along on beat three, and maybe it was the wine, maybe it was the 2 AM delusion, but I opened Instagram. His profile. 47 million followers. The blue check. The latest post: a stadium, a silhouette, a caption that just said "SOON."

"What if," I said.

"What if what."

"What if I just... sent him a message."

Yara peeled the other cheek. "To El Rey."

"Yes."

"The biggest reggaeton artist on the planet."

"He's from the Bronx. Rafe used to see him at the bodega on Tremont."

"Girl. That was fifteen years ago."

But my thumb was already hovering over the message icon. The wine, the late hour, the math I couldn't make work no matter how many spreadsheets I built. I hit the voice note button.

And I talked.

Not a pitch. Not a polished request. Just me. Wine-drunk, mascara smudged, laughing and not laughing at the same time. I told him about the venue that became a WeWork. About the $6.99 wine. About the first dance song I'd been practicing alone in the kitchen while Rafe pretended not to notice.

"We were gonna play your album at our wedding," I said into the phone, voice cracking in the middle. "But we can't even afford the DJ anymore."

Yara was sitting up now.

"So... I don't know. Marry us instead?" I laughed. It came out wetter than I wanted. "I'm kidding. Mostly. Okay, fully. But also if you're free in March..."

I hit send.

Yara's face mask was dangling off her chin. "Marisela Maria Vidal. You did not just DM El Rey a voice note while wearing a camisole and no bra."

"He's not going to hear it. He has forty-seven million followers."

"You are UNHINGED."

I was laughing now, real laughter, the kind that doesn't care. "It doesn't matter. Nobody reads those. It'll sit in his requests forever."

"You told him you can't afford a DJ."

"I told him the truth." I finished the wine. "What's the worst that happens? He doesn't answer? He was never going to answer."

Yara took the bottle from me. "Bed. Now. Before you DM Bad Bunny too."

I collapsed on the couch, phone on my chest, the album still playing through the speaker. The ceiling fan clicked. Somewhere down the street, someone was playing dominos and laughing too loud. Miami at 2 AM. My city. My broke, loud, beautiful, impossible life.

I fell asleep with the phone still warm against my sternum.

At 7 AM, it buzzed.

Not a like. Not a repost. A verified blue circle in my DM requests, three words under the waveform of my voice note.

"I have an idea."