We all have done "something" for love. With all its desires and expectations, with all its uncertainty and epiphanies, with all its lies and rewards and grudges. With all the bliss it provides. Ignacio del Valle immerses himself in a relationship, delves into the building of love, in its gradual wear and eventual destruction. The whole is a universal process, an imaginary, the daily struggle in which the happiness of two people is resolved. Two voices that intersect throughout the novel, with all the excitement and all the fatigue. Humor, empathy, bitterness. Love, "that feeling of happiness that drowns us into idiocy", as Turgenev so wisely defined it. Always unfathomable, full of scars. Always full of hope and devastation. That first eye contact, the art of seduction, the first kiss, sex. The routine, the small miseries, the daily stress, the economy. Dilemmas, heartbreak... The end and silence.

Just because history repeats itself, but it is not alike.

Because the story.

But it doesn't look alike.