Getting to All Five Women Before He Does
- harem
- isekai
- netori
- romance
- secret
- slow-burn
Five women loved Gabriel Ibarra across a hundred and forty-two chapters, and the idiot noticed none of it — you know, because you read the thing to its infuriating end. Now you've woken up inside chapter one, wearing the body of the best friend the artist never bothered to name, and you intend to reach all five of them before he does. You even hold a card the comic never drew: Alma's silent younger sister sells midnight streams under a man's name. And two of the five start falling for him this afternoon.
Three days ago you woke up in a rented studio three blocks uphill from the fish market, with someone else's student ID in your jacket and a whole life already fitted around you like a borrowed coat that somehow closes perfectly.
It took one walk across campus to understand where you were. Cinco Primaveras — the campus romance comic you read to the end twice, the second time out of spite. Atlantic Public University. Puerto Cielo, the harbor, the spring. Gabriel Ibarra: warm, generous, catastrophically oblivious. Five women loved him across five springs, he missed every single confession, and on the last page he raised a glass at the graduation asado and called them all my five precious friends. Nobody chose anybody. Everybody lost.
And you are inside his best friend — the woman the artist drew into forty backgrounds and never gave a full name.
You made your decision that first night, looking up at a ceiling the comic never bothered to draw. All five of them. Before he does.
Then the second night, this body handed you something no chapter contains. Her phone carries a paid subscription, renewed three months running, to a site you had to look up to understand. The channel is called Ciro: a man's shirt, a voice pitched low, the frame cropped above the eyes, Thursdays after midnight. Behind the left shoulder there is a yellow quilt you have sat on, in an apartment you have visited a dozen times. Vera Ríos — Alma's silent younger sister — has been paying her rent in front of strangers, and the woman whose life you are wearing was one of them.
You didn't sleep much after that.
Now it's Tuesday, twenty to eight, the rain thinning out over the harbor, and if the comic still runs on time, today is chapter one. At five this afternoon Gabriel carries the society projector down four flights because the elevator has been dead since March, and Alma Ríos begins to fall. An hour later, at the campus gate, he kneels over Vera's slipping bike chain, and so does she. Two of your five in a single day, to a man who will never once look up.
He's already under the bus shelter, two thermoses hooked in one hand — four years of friendship you met three days ago. He lifts the spare toward you before you've finished crossing the street. "I figured you'd be here."
The 7:40 comes around the corner behind him with its wipers going. He steps back and holds a palm out at the door, the window seat yours, the same as every morning.
You have until five o'clock. Whatever you're going to change, it starts here.
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You already read the last chapter
Five women loved him. He noticed none of it. You woke up inside the comic as the friend nobody named — and you're reaching all five before he does.
Cinco Primaveras, 142 chapters: Gabriel Ibarra gathers five women's hearts, misses every confession, and raises a glass at the graduation asado to my five precious friends. You threw the last volume across the room. Three days ago you woke up in chapter one, in the body of the girl the artist drew into forty backgrounds and never gave a full name.
And this body handed you a card no chapter contains. Her phone carries a paid subscription, renewed three months running, to a midnight channel called Ciro — a man's shirt, a voice pitched low, the frame cropped above the eyes. Behind the left shoulder: a yellow quilt you have sat on. It's Alma's silent younger sister, and the woman whose life you're wearing was already paying to watch.
Today is chapter one
At five o'clock Gabriel carries the society projector down four flights, because the elevator has been dead since March, and Alma begins to fall. An hour later he kneels at the campus gate over Vera's slipping bike chain, and so does she. Two of your five in one afternoon, to a man who will never look up. You know the hour. You know the stairwell. You have until five.
The five — and what each one will cost you
Alma Ríos — the coordinator who already takes care of you
She keeps a second mate gourd in the society cabinet with your initial on it in red nail polish, and every morning her checklist text ends with one line that's only for you. She is also Vera's older sister, so whatever you do to one sister lands on the other by dinner.
Vera Ríos — the secret the comic never drew
Reserved by day, surgical when cornered — and after midnight on Thursdays she is somebody else entirely, one room away from where her sister sleeps. What you know is leverage, a landmine and a betrayal at once, depending entirely on the hour you choose to say it out loud.
Luz Benítez — the technician who counts
She watches the room from its edge and misses nothing. She showed you where the auditorium booth's spare key hangs, and nobody else on campus knows that. She will notice who you looked at before you answered, she will tell you the number, and she keeps a running tally of every "later" you've spent on her.
Paula Acosta — the radio host with no brakes
Wednesdays at noon she is live on student radio, and she still introduces you as my ninety-second guest from the time she pulled you on air without warning. The fastest route to any of the other four runs straight through her. So does the fastest route to ruin.
Irene Vidal — the treasurer who keeps the receipts
Composed, exacting, quietly romantic. Her Pizarnik is already in your bag with a due-slip in her handwriting: this Friday, nothing else written on it. In the comic, that book went to Gabriel in chapter thirty-one. Something has already moved, and it moved toward you.
How the foreknowledge plays
- The comic holds only where you haven't touched it. Step into one scene and timing, attraction and trust all shift — and from then on you learn the consequences the way everyone else does, by living them on the day they arrive.
- Your memory covers what was drawn on the page. What the artist never showed — Ciro, a locked phone, a conversation held in a stairwell — you find out the hard way.
- None of the five is a checkpoint. Affection can stay on Gabriel, turn toward you, tangle with her sister's, or simply refuse. All five at once stays possible until your own choices close a door.
- Gabriel isn't a villain. He's your best friend, he saves you the window seat, and he'd hand you his jacket in the rain without being asked — which is exactly what makes racing him feel like theft.
The bus comes at 7:40. He's already saved you the window seat.