Mila wandered through the city, her ears catching snippets of different languages, yet feeling disconnected. The familiar aroma of fresh bread from the Korean bakery mixed with the chatter on the bus, creating a vibrant tapestry of sounds. Despite the lively atmosphere, she felt out of place, as if she was missing a crucial piece of the puzzle.

Mila faced the harsh words of her classmates, their labels sticking like thorns. "You're not like us," the white kids said. "You don't even speak Spanish," the Brown kids echoed. Mila forced a smile, though her cheeks burned with shame. She whispered to her reflection, "Too white to be Puerto Rican. Too Puerto Rican to be white."

Mila's mom leaned in, her voice soft as she shared the news. "You and Papi are going to Puerto Rico for the summer. Abuela’s not feeling well. You’re going to help," she whispered. Mila's heart raced with fear and excitement. She wondered how she would navigate a language so different from her own.

Mila stepped into Abuela's home, where each corner seemed to hold a story. The lack of air conditioning was softened by the gentle breeze that danced through the rooms. Abuela's embrace was warm, though her words were a mystery to Mila.

Abuela pointed to a "flor de maga," and Mila drew it, bridging the gap between them. They shared quiet moments, Mila sketching while Abuela hummed familiar tunes. In the kitchen, spoons became maracas, and pots turned into drums, transforming the space into a lively fiesta.

Mila wished she could express everything she felt, but all she managed was a whispered "Te amo, Abuela." Abuela's gentle smile reassured Mila that words weren't needed to communicate love. On the flight home, Mila opened her sketchbook, capturing the essence of a summer that taught her a new way to speak.