The afternoon had begun with a gentle breeze, the kind that doesn't hurt but makes you close your coat a little. The sky was clear, and the city, as if also relieved from the week, had taken on a peaceful air. Tomás and Soledad walked through the center aimlessly, a habit they were slowly building, like someone building a house of cards without wanting to admit it's fragile.
"Have you noticed?" Soledad said, glancing at a shop window decorated with neon lights and mannequins with impossible expressions. "No one in the world looks like that, but there we go, believing that someday we're going to look that... perfect."
"I already look like that," Tomás replied with feigned haughtiness, pointing to his reflection in the glass. "It's just that the world isn't ready to accept it yet."
"Oh, right. It must be hard to carry such beauty," she said, spinning on her heels theatrically. "Come on, let's go in here. I want to try something on."
Tomás didn't have time to protest. Soledad had already dragged him inside the store, among racks and plush carpets, among scents of new fabrics and artificial lights that were too white. She seemed in her natural habitat, as if she could reinvent herself with every blouse, every dress she carefully took down with calculated precision.
"What do you think of this?" she asked, showing him a short leather jacket. "Too 'motorcycle bank heist,' or more like 'mysterious girl with a troubled past'?"
"I'd say more the latter, but I'd still be worried if you start riding a motorcycle with dark glasses."
She laughed and disappeared behind the changing room, leaving Tomás with his hands in his pockets and the discomfort of not knowing where to look. When Soledad reappeared, she was wearing the jacket, her cheeks slightly flushed with excitement.
"And now? Do you look at me and think 'trouble'?"
Tomás looked at her for a few seconds longer than necessary. The black leather highlighted her light eyes; her orange hair fell over her shoulders with carefree grace.
"Yes," he said with a soft smile. "But the kind you want to keep close."
Soledad looked down for an instant, the jacket still open, as if that comment had made her feel a little cold. Then, as always, she chose to cover the awkwardness with a playful gesture. She approached him and slipped a finger into the collar of his coat.
"Careful, poet. Don't fall in love. This is just practice, remember?"
"Right," he replied, swallowing. "Just practice."
They left the store without Soledad buying anything. They walked side by side, their steps unintentionally synchronized. She talked about anything and everything—a client who had yelled at her at the salon, a series she was watching, her younger sister who wanted to run away with a street musician. But every now and then, between phrases, she would glance at him.
The sun began to set, painting the city in golden hues. Shadows stretched between the buildings, and the lit streetlights gave the stroll a sense of suspended time.
"Tomás..." she said suddenly, not looking at him. "Doesn't it ever happen to you that something you started as a joke begins to feel too real?"
Tomás looked at her in profile. The way she spoke, as if addressing the air and not him, betrayed that the question was not entirely innocent.
"Yes," he replied softly. "It happens to me all the time lately."
Soledad stopped, as if the words had hit her in the chest. Then she pretended to search for something in her bag, as if the moment was nothing.
"Well, don't look at me like that," she said later, forcing a smile as they walked again. "I was just curious, you know... like in movies."
"Right," he murmured. "Just movies."
They continued walking, closer than before. And without saying it, without even touching, they both knew that something had changed.
Something they could no longer pretend didn't exist.
They entered a small corner cafe, one of those with windows fogged by the steam from cups and soft conversations. Soledad chose a table near the large window, from where they could see the streetlights turning on one by one, as if someone were patiently drawing them on the canvas of the evening.
"They make the best hot chocolate in the world here," she announced, hanging her purse on the back of the chair. "No arguments accepted."
"What if I say I prefer coffee?"
"Then you have no soul," she retorted, smiling.
They ordered their usual. Hot chocolate for her, a mocha for him, who preferred to vary a little. And a couple of warm croissants, freshly baked. The aroma of cocoa and butter enveloped them sweetly.
For a few minutes, they talked about trivialities: the unbearable client who complained about a haircut she hadn't given, the new waitress at Big Root who seemed afraid of Don Giorgio, the movie they both wanted to see but neither dared to suggest first. They laughed, interrupted each other, looked at each other more than necessary.
But then, as the sugar from the chocolate clung to the edges of Soledad's cup, silence arrived. One of those silences that aren't awkward but beg to be inhabited.
"I realized something today," she said, watching the steam turn into droplets against the fogged glass.
Tomás looked up. "Oh?"
"That lately, when something happens to me, the first thing I think about is telling you." She glanced at him sideways, not expecting an immediate reaction. "And that scares me a little."
He gripped his cup with both hands. He wanted to answer, to tell her that the same thing happened to him. That he had started counting the days they didn't see each other. That when he saw something curious on the street, his first impulse was to turn and see if she had noticed it too.
But he said none of that.
"Does it scare you because this was a game?" he asked softly.
She looked at him. The look she gave him was not her usual one, neither mocking nor flirtatious. It was the look of someone about to fall, but still clinging to the edge.
"Because if I stop pretending it's a game, then everything changes."
"And if everything changes... what happens?" Tomás wanted to know, barely a whisper.
"I don't know," she admitted, looking down. "I might ruin it. You might stop liking me the way I am now. This might become something I can't control."
Tomás thought about telling her that it wouldn't happen, that she could relax. But he didn't want to lie either. Because he, too, was afraid. Not of her. But of what it would mean to let her in more than he already had.
"Then," he finally said, "for now, let's not think about that."
"What if I still think about it?"
"Let's think about it together, if you want," he smiled sadly.
She laughed too, though her voice trembled a little. Then she reached across the table, took his hand with a caress that lasted only a few seconds, and returned to her place.
"Just promise me that if one day this stops being fun, you'll tell me."
"I promise," he replied, knowing he would keep it, even if it meant breaking a little more.
When they left the cafe, the night greeted them with an icy breeze. Soledad offered him her arm with her usual tone.
"Let's walk around the city again; I want to keep postponing going home."
Tomás accepted, and they walked like that, arms intertwined, as if the night were theirs. As if they were real, even though they still pretended everything was a game.