The silence in the apartment was absolute. Outside, the city seemed asleep under the overcast sky, and the lights coming through the windows cast elongated shapes on the floor, as if everything was stretching towards an end.
Sofía walked barefoot on the cold parquet floor. The half-full wine glass trembled slightly in her hand. Tomás's manuscript lay open on the counter, on one of the last pages, a page she had reread three times without wanting to admit she had memorized it. The electric heater hummed softly in a corner, her only loyal companion on that night without visitors.
She opened the refrigerator. There, where alcoholic disarray and shameful scarcity usually reigned, she found the well-sealed container Tomás had left. As she opened it, the aroma of stew and homemade seasonings filled her senses. She smiled involuntarily. He always had to leave something made, as if he didn't trust me to take care of myself... she thought, as she placed the container in the microwave.
She sat in the chair in front of the kitchen, the same one Tomás usually occupied while peeling potatoes or chopping onions. The hum of the microwave and the sound of light rain on the windows accompanied her thoughts.
What am I doing with him?
She had asked herself many times, but that night, with the warmth of the food and the wine invading her chest, the question felt sharper. Lately, she had let him come and go without protest. There were days when he would show up unannounced and they would end up talking for hours. Other times, like a strange ritual, he would cook, she would read, they would argue, accidentally hurt each other, and then forgive each other without words.
Tomás had begun to settle into her life like a persistent note in a sad melody. It wasn't noise... it was harmony. Unexpected, strange. And yet, undeniable.
When the microwave beeped, she stood up with the glass in her hand and carefully took out the container. She served the food onto one of her favorite plates—one of the few that wasn't chipped—and sat on the sofa, her leg tucked beneath her. The manuscript rested on her lap.
She read in silence as she ate. Every word seemed more intimate. He's not writing a book, she thought, he's showing me his soul, and I... I'm just reading it without the right. The stew tasted like home. Like something long lost. Like what she had denied herself.
She refilled her glass. The third, perhaps the fourth. It no longer mattered.
She remembered the way Tomás looked at her while he cooked, with that mix of attentiveness and shyness. She remembered when he gently took the bottle away from her, or when he covered her with a blanket when she pretended to be asleep. And she remembered what hurt her the most: the way he didn't demand anything from her, as if he knew that if he pressured her, she would break.
The manuscript will be finished soon... she thought, biting her lower lip. And when it's submitted, he won't have a reason to come anymore...
And then what? What would be left between them?
Was she going to stop him? Was she going to invite him back, without pretexts, without manuscripts, without excuses? Did she want to? Could she?
She caressed the marked page with her finger, leaving a barely visible wine stain. Her eyes clouded over. I'm not good at this. I never was. He deserves something better, something clearer, healthier.
But the idea of not seeing him anymore...
The empty glass hit the counter with a small clink. The rain was still falling, and in that luminous solitude of a night without a future, Sofía clutched the manuscript to her chest.
"Damn brat..." she whispered, as if that could get him out of her skin.
But it was too late.
He was already there, inhabiting all her silences.