The Girl from Tomorrowland

During my recent summer vacation, I was sitting by the pool in Spain, letting the sun soak into my skin, when the news popped up on my phone: Tomorrowland’s main stage, Belgium’s legendary EDM and techno cathedral, had gone up in flames.

It was July 2025, just days before the festival was set to begin. No one was hurt, thank God, but the photos were surreal. A blackened skeleton where dreams were supposed to drop with the bass.

The kids were splashing nearby. The Mediterranean shimmered. And my mind drifted, not to the fire, not to the music, but to Agustina.

Because years ago, under very different skies, I had met the biggest Tomorrowland fan of them all - and found myself spellbound.

She was from Argentina.

And this is our story.

The End of One World

It was 2013. April in Texas is a season of sun and bluebonnets. Wildflowers bloom along the highways, and the Hill Country vibrates with life. But for me, it was the loneliest spring of my life. My wife had left me after 17 years of marriage, for a ranch hand. Someone who lived in the guest cottage with his girlfriend and whose paycheck I had signed. It was humiliation layered on heartbreak.

While the divorce was being finalised, I got custody of the kids and the ranch, but not much else. My pride? Shattered. My confidence? Nonexistent. My sense of manhood? Torn to shreds.

The ranch near Austin felt empty despite its acres. The silence was deafening.

Enter Carlos, the Brother I Needed

To cheer me up, my old friend Carlos flew in from Spain. He didn’t come with solutions, just good energy, great stories, and a burning desire to show me I wasn’t dead inside. Carlos is one of those rare souls who seem to live at 200%. He wore loud shirts, talked to everyone, danced like no one was watching, and drank like there was no tomorrow.

We started going out in Austin. Not just out, we went hard. Another of my ranch hands, Storm, would drive us in the ranch truck into the city while his wife watched the kids. Around 2 or 3 am, he'd pick us up again, often pretty wasted, half-ashamed, but a little less dead than the night before.

Kamikazes, Carlos Math, and 6th Street Legends

Our regular haunt was The Ranch on Austin’s 6th Street. Infamous. A known hotspot for flirty thirty- and forty-somethings. The kind of place where middle-aged men in cowboy boots still think they’ve got it, and sometimes they do.

We ordered rounds of Kamikazes, a sweet-tart combo of vodka, triple sec, and lime juice, the spiritual cousin of bad decisions, and chased them with Modelo, cold and solid.

Carlos had a method: talk to every girl. "Eight out of ten will reject you. But talk to twenty, and you’ll find your night."

That was Carlos Math. Bold. Relentless. Effective.

Me? I couldn’t do it.

I was too raw. Too broken. Too awkward. Dating felt like trying to walk after a car crash. I didn’t even know where to start.

Sometimes my buddy David joined us, a married, loyal friend who somehow still had the confidence of a frat boy on spring break. He didn’t cheat. Ever. But he could break the ice with women like it was nothing. I loved those nights. We had fun. We laughed. And even though I wasn’t flirting, it felt good to just be alive again.

Sushi, a Radiant Smile, and the Moment Everything Changed

Then Carlos got food poisoning. One greasy burger later, he swore off American cuisine. “This country is trying to kill me,” he declared. And so we went sushi-only from that day on.

There was this one place in downtown Austin - Bar Chi. Actually, it is still there. Sleek, modern, low-lit. Black stone tables. Blue neon glowing softly under the bar. A DJ spun deep house tracks in the corner, his booth half-hidden behind bamboo. The vibe was equal parts upscale lounge and Tokyo backstreet cool. Sharp wasabi. Silky sashimi. The kind of place where you could lose track of time and drown your thoughts in sake.

Carlos loved it. I loved it. We must’ve gone ten times, maybe more.

And then, one night, we were back at Bar Chi, and David was with us too. We were nibbling on gyoza, drinking sake, easing into the music and the low hum of conversation, when I saw her.

Three Latin women walked in, radiant and laughing, their energy trailing behind them like perfume. But one of them, Agustina, seemed to shimmer in her own light. She was maybe 28 or 29, seven or eight years younger than me, Argentine by birth but with the elegance of a Parisienne and the flair of a Roman. Her hair was dark, glossy, loosely pinned in a way that said she hadn’t tried too hard, though you could tell she had.

Her dress was simple but perfect, hugging her in all the right places, fluttering slightly as she moved. Her skin had that sun-warmed olive tone you only get from actual sunshine, not a bottle.

And her hands, she talked with them like a conductor sculpting sound out of the air. Her laughter wasn’t loud, but it rippled through the room.

She wore almost no makeup, or at least, the kind of makeup that takes an hour to look like none at all. That French-Italian sorcery. Clean, matte skin. A hint of something on her lips. Mascara, maybe. Or just very good lashes.

Of course, I was drawn to her beauty. How could I not be? But it was something else, something beneath the surface that really got me. She had presence. Gravity. A kind of unmistakable charisma that didn’t shout for attention, but somehow made everyone turn. The way she listened to her friends. The way she held the space around her.

I caught just a few phrases of her conversation, Spanish, with that melodic Argentine lilt, and I could already tell she was sharp. Quick with words. Curious. The kind of woman who sees through things. Through people.

And in that moment, something happened to me.

I saw myself in a different life, a future life. I saw her on my arm, the two of us strolling down the promenades of Madrid or Milan, wind in our hair, shopping bags and secrets between us. I saw myself laughing again. Flirting again. Loving, and being loved. I saw someone seeing me. Really seeing me. I felt weight fall off my shoulders. The weight of betrayal. Of shame. Of silence. Of feeling invisible.

It was absurd. Over-the-top. Like something from a film trailer made for hopeless romantics. And now, with years of dating behind me, I almost cringe at how intense it was, how immediate.

But it was real.

And it was beautiful.

A flash of something I hadn’t felt in years. A moment of color in a season that had been nothing but grey.

But I said nothing. Not to her. Not to Carlos. Not even to David.

She was Carlos’ Girl

But Carlos had seen her too. And Carlos doesn’t wait. Within ten minutes, he was over at their table, charming them with his accent and outrageous confidence. Turns out, the other two women were Agustina’s sister and a friend. The six of us: me, Carlos, David, and the three girls, ended up bar-hopping all night. Speakeasies, rooftops, tequila, stories.

Carlos was on her, but I managed a few minutes alone with her. We clicked instantly. She told me about her time in Rome, where she had lived for several years, her Italian, Argentinian, American triple-citizenship, her obsession with Europe, and her fascination with stories of old cities and new beginnings.

I knew Italy well. I could keep up. I even made her laugh. We talked about Rome, about her favorite piazzas, about the strange beauty of Trastevere at night, the chaos of Buenos Aires, and the quiet dignity of old churches in Palermo. We talked about languages, about food, about the kind of cities that leave you breathless, not because they’re perfect, but because they’re alive. Carlos had charm, sure. But I had depth. At least I hoped I did.

But I didn’t dare hope.

Carlos had staked his claim. And there’s a code, unspoken but absolute. I accepted it. Smiled. Swallowed my feelings.

And yet... when Storm picked us up that night, I couldn’t stop thinking about her. The sun was just beginning to rise on the horizon, casting a soft pink hue over the hills. It mirrored exactly how I felt; something was awakening in me, faint and new, like dawn after a long, dark night.

The Morning After

When I woke up later that day, reality returned like a hangover and hit hard: I was a single dad, not even divorced yet, still licking my wounds. I had no business falling in love.

And so, while Carlos went out again to meet the girls a few more times, I stayed back with the kids. I tried to put Agustina out of my mind.

That same week, I had arranged a photo shoot on the ranch to start promoting it more seriously as a business. I put on my full cowboy gear. David was there too, along with the kids, Storm, and his wife. Some of the most iconic pictures of my life were taken that afternoon.

People still comment on them today, on how happy I looked, how grounded (see one here of David and myself). And they ask me: How could I look like that, considering everything that had just happened?

The truth is, I don’t really know. I was hungover. I hadn’t slept well. I was still deep in heartbreak. But something had shifted that morning. Maybe it was hope. Maybe it was a distraction. Maybe it was just the echo of something that had stirred in me the night before.

Whatever it was, it put a spring in my step. And somehow, it showed up on film.

On the funny side, we even snapped a few pics of Carlos and me together; he borrowed a hat, and we stood shoulder to shoulder next to our red barn like weathered Texas cowboys. Later, friends joked that we looked like something out of Brokeback Mountain 2. It was hilarious.

Agustina eventually flew back to Argentina. Her sister stayed in Austin with their friend, looking for work. Life was about to move on. Or so I told myself.

Not Just About Her

The sun was just beginning to rise on that unforgettable spring. But I didn’t know yet what kind of story was starting, or who would truly shape it.

Yes, Agustina had captured my imagination. Her beauty, her intellect, her effortless charm, they stirred something in me I thought was gone. But this chapter wasn’t just about her.

It was also about David.

He had been a rock throughout my divorce. He watched my kids. He drank with me when I needed to laugh, and sat silently with me when I needed to break. He even came to the court hearings with me, quiet, steady, unshakable. Everyone needs a David.

In 2018, he died in a tragic accident. And I still miss him. Sometimes, when I think of Agustina, I think of him too. That moment in time. That fragile little circle of loyalty, heartbreak, and unexpected hope. A few months when life felt like it might just begin again.

So no, this story isn’t just about a woman I couldn’t have. Or a friendship that almost turned into something more.

It’s about what it felt like to be alive again, to laugh, to hope, to feel something other than grief.

And yes, it’s also about Tomorrowland.

Because at the center of all this, this spiral of longing, healing, and memory, was a girl who believed in magic. In music. In lights and crowds and the pulse of something bigger. I didn’t understand it then. Not fully. But I would.

To be continued…