Soledad's message arrived two days after that Saturday. "Can you grab coffee this week? I need to apologize." There were no explanations, no excuses. Just that brief, contained sentence, as if that were enough to gently open a wound. Tomás read the message in silence. He thought about ignoring it, letting it slip into oblivion like so many things... but he couldn't.
They agreed to meet on Wednesday. It was the only day he didn't have a shift at Big Root. The weather seemed to match his mood: an overcast sky, humid air, a drizzle that came and went with whimsical constancy.
Tomás arrived at their usual coffee shop a little before the agreed time. He ordered an Americano and chose the table by the window, the same one where they had shared other conversations. He rested his elbows on the table and watched as the city blurred behind the fogged glass.
The memory of the empty platform, the two tickets in his hand, and that message that locked away hope with a cold bolt, was still too fresh. It wasn't the message itself that hurt, but the preceding silence, the lack of explanation, the lukewarm way he had been dismissed. And yet, he was there.
Soledad arrived on time. Her orange hair contrasted with the gray of the street like a fire refusing to be extinguished. She was dressed simply, but there was something in her walk that Tomás couldn't help but notice: the familiarity, the easy gesture, the almost guilty smile. She waved to him before sitting down across from him.
"Hi," she said, in a tone that aimed for cheerfulness, but her eyes hinted at a certain discomfort.
"Hi," Tomás replied, trying not to sound cold, though he didn't know if he succeeded.
She ordered a hot chocolate. As they waited, the silence between them stretched like a thin thread threatening to break.
"About Saturday..." she began, fidgeting with the napkin between her fingers. "Something came up last minute. Something important, and I couldn't go. I'm really sorry, truly."
Tomás nodded slightly, not quite looking at her.
"It's okay. It happens sometimes," he replied, with rehearsed neutrality. "It wasn't an obligation."
"No," she quickly countered, "but still... I wanted to go. I really did. And I felt terrible afterward."
Tomás didn't respond. His eyes were fixed on his cup, but his mind returned to that bench at the station, to the train that departed with an empty seat beside him. He didn't say that he had bought the tickets in advance, or that he had waited for her until the last second. What for? She hadn't asked him to. He was the one who had gotten his hopes up.
Soledad seemed to notice, and as so many times, she chose the exit she knew best: a mischievous smile and a touch of tenderness.
"You owe me another trip. I promise I'll go to the next one. I swear on my curls," she said, tugging at her hair as if that were a guarantee.
Tomás let out a brief, dry, but sincere laugh.
"That would be serious."
"What, that I wouldn't go or that I'd lose my curls?"
"Both."
Soledad relaxed a little. She took a sip of her chocolate and watched him over the rim of her cup.
"How was everything? Did you find the person you were looking for?"
Tomás nodded.
"Yes. It was difficult... but it was worth it."
"And were you alone?" she asked with feigned innocence.
He looked at her, not with reproach, but with a calmness that came from resignation.
"Yes. In the end, I always am."
Soledad looked down. For a second, her fingers sought his on the table, barely brushing, but this time she didn't dare to take his hand, returning to her cup as if nothing had happened.
"You know... sometimes you don't choose to be far away. You just... don't know how to be close."
"I guess it's easier when there's nothing at stake," Tomás said, almost in a whisper.
"And what if there is something?" she asked, almost inadvertently.
Their gazes met then. It was barely a second, but it was laden with everything neither of them was willing to say.
They continued talking for a while longer. Trivialities, jokes, scattered anecdotes. The kind of conversation you have when you want to avoid a definitive goodbye. When they left the coffee shop, the drizzle had stopped, and the sky showed just a sliver of light.
"Thanks for coming," she said.
"Thanks for inviting me," he replied.
They walked a few steps together. Then they said goodbye, without hugs, without promises. Just a wave of the hand and that half-glance that said "see you soon" without knowing if it would be true.
And as Tomás walked away, he thought that sometimes affection was just that: a place you return to, even knowing they won't be waiting for you.
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One night, a few days later, the hustle at Big Root had slightly decreased. Still, the exhaustion offered no reprieve. Tomás had finished his shift, but he'd stayed to help a little longer. Alelí had left early with a headache, and Don Giorgio—though proud—had had to sit for a while. Tomás had seen the slight tremor in his hands as he held the spatula, and although the old man said nothing, he asked Tomás to take over the griddle for the last hour. It was the first time he'd allowed him to be in charge of everything.
It was almost eleven when the place closed. Laura was in the office as always, but she hadn't come out to thank him for closing or to coordinate the cleaning. Something told Tomás that something wasn't right.
He gently knocked on the door.
"Laura? Can I come in?"
There was no answer. Tomás hesitated for a moment, but gently pushed the door open. It was ajar. Peeking in, he saw her hunched over the desk, not writing, not doing accounts, but simply... still. Her face was resting on one of her arms. With the other hand, she held a loose sheet of paper that barely trembled between her fingers. It was a state of silent defeat.
"Sorry," Tomás whispered, about to close the door.
But Laura slowly looked up. Her eyes were glassy, and although she wasn't crying, it looked as if she had recently. Her cheeks weren't wet, but there was that slight puffiness that comes from suppressed tears.
"Don't worry... I'm leaving now," she said, in a muffled voice.
Tomás didn't move.
"Are you okay?"
Laura let out a brief, humorless laugh.
"What kind of question is that? Of course not... would you be?"
Tomás didn't know how to answer. She let the paper fall onto the desk. It was a printed spreadsheet, with red annotations.
"Is the business... doing badly?" he asked carefully.
"Not that badly... but badly enough that I can't sleep peacefully." Laura rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand. "And the worst part is I can't tell my dad anything... he trusts me so much... and he's already so tired."
She paused and, for a moment, seemed younger. As if the manager's armor had fallen away, and underneath was just a daughter who didn't want to disappoint her father.
"He just wants to have a small, quiet restaurant. He does it because he loves to cook, not for money... but I... I got him into this. I was determined to make everything grow, to make it something bigger. I thought I could handle everything. That I was strong. But I'm not that strong," she admitted, her voice breaking.
Tomás took a step into the office.
"Laura..."
She raised a hand, as if she didn't want pity, but instantly let her guard down.
"And it's not just that... my brother wants to quit deliveries. He says he's fed up, that he wants to have a life. Alelí is thinking of looking for another job. And I... I can't handle everything. There are days when I go to bed and I don't know if I'm doing this for my family... or for myself."
Tomás said nothing at first. He walked to the desk and sat in front of her, in silence. For a long time, only the hum of the refrigerator in the background and the slight flicker of a neon light in the hallway could be heard.
"Can I say something?" he finally asked.
Laura nodded, without looking at him.
"I don't know much about restaurants, or debts, or all that. But I know what it's like to live with the feeling that if you fall, everything else collapses. And that's exhausting. More exhausting than anything in this world."
She looked at him then. Her eyes searched for something in Tomás's. Perhaps understanding. Perhaps a little peace.
"But you know," he continued, "sometimes you also need to let others carry some of that weight. Even if it's just for a while. Otherwise... you break."
Laura pressed her lips together, holding something back.
"And you, Tomás? Do you feel broken?"
"Sometimes yes... but when I'm here, even if I'm washing dishes until midnight, I feel useful. And that helps more than you'd believe."
A long pause. Then, Laura leaned back in her chair, took a deep breath, and said:
"You have something strange about you, did you know?"
"Strange how?"
"I don't know. Like you have a soul too old for your age... or maybe you're just too honest." She smiled tenderly, a very slight, but real smile. "Thanks for staying. You didn't have to, but thank you."
Tomás shrugged.
"You know what? I think you're wrong. I did have to stay."
Laura looked away, uncomfortable with the warmth of the moment, as if she didn't quite know what to do with it.
"Well... it's late. Go on, get some rest. I'll finish here."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes. I'm better," she said, and although her voice didn't fully show it, her eyes did. They shone brighter than a few minutes ago.
Tomás stood up, but just before leaving, he turned towards the door.
"I can come in earlier tomorrow, if you need help."
Laura raised an eyebrow, amused.
"Are you sure you won't regret it?"
"I'll know that when night comes," he replied with a half-smile.
She chuckled faintly.
"Until tomorrow, Tomás."
"Until tomorrow, Laura."
He left the office with a calm step, but with his heart beating faster than usual. Not because of what had happened... but because of what he had felt.
And in the office, when Laura was left alone, for the first time in many days, she thought that perhaps she wasn't as alone as she believed.