The apartment was silent.
Only the faint hum of the refrigerator and the distant murmur of the city drifted in through the half-open window. Sofía remained seated on the sofa, a blanket over her legs, the cup of tea already cold in her hands, forgotten. Hours had passed since Tomás left, but his presence lingered. Persistent. Warm. Unbearably sweet.
She looked at the corner of the couch where he had sat, where wrinkles still remained in the cushion, as if time didn't want to erase the traces of his body so quickly. She took a deep breath, closing her eyes for an instant.
He had won.
Tomás. Her student. Her friend. Her silent companion during the last months of darkness. That boy with the quiet voice and wounded gaze, who had appeared in her life without permission, without warning, and who, little by little, unwittingly, had become indispensable.
She smiled, because she felt proud. Because she had watched him grow between those pages, reconstruct himself. Because she knew that story, his, was more than good. It was honest. Raw. Alive. As alive as he was.
But, in the last few days, it wasn't just his writing that had been on her mind.
It was his eyes.
That way he looked at her. So fixed. So direct. As if by resting his eyes on her, he enveloped her completely. As if he truly saw her. As if, with every unspoken word, he was shouting that he would stay. That he was there, for her.
That clumsy caress that grazed her cheek when they hugged after the news. So brief. So contained. But so deeply intimate.
Sofía raised a hand to her face, unconsciously seeking the imprint of his fingers. What are we doing? she thought.
She clutched the blanket to her chest. She wasn't a woman who allowed herself weaknesses. She had spent too much time hidden among unfinished books, half-empty bottles, and meaningless routines. But he… Tomás had opened something. He had done it unwittingly, like someone lighting a lamp without knowing they are illuminating a ruined room.
She wanted to hug him. She desired it with a force that frightened her.
She wanted to tell him to stay.
But she didn't.
Because they both knew. Because she was an adult. Because her story had other rhythms, other wounds. Because even if he stayed every night, and cooked for her, and took care of her, and made her laugh with his sweet awkwardness… that was all it could be.
A refuge.
One wound healing another. Two seasons coinciding, knowing that eventually time would separate them.
She had felt it in his embrace.
In how he held her, in how he trembled when he touched her, in how he let his affection overflow for a second and then closed himself off again, feigning normalcy.
And in how she didn't stop him.
Not because she didn't want to. But because she couldn't allow herself to want him more than she already did.
She leaned back on the sofa, closing her eyes, letting the distant murmur of traffic keep her company. And as her mind replayed every gesture, every word, every shared silence, she knew that when the time came—the time she herself had brought about by sending her manuscript—Tomás would smile for her.
And then he would be alone.
Because that was him. Because he always stayed.
And that thought hurt her more than anything.
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The sizzling sound of oil filled the apartment with a warm, homely aroma. Tomás, sleeves rolled up, concentrated on stirring ingredients in the pan, while Sofía peeked from the doorway with a mischievous smile and an empty glass in her hand.
"Half a glass, chef?" she asked in that pleading, teasing tone she used when she knew she'd get her way.
Tomás shook his head, but his expression wasn't one of disapproval; rather, it was of resigned tenderness.
"Half a glass, and not a drop more." He walked closer, poured with a steady hand, and winked. "If I start seeing you dancing with the chairs, I'm not making you hangover soup this time."
Sofía chuckled softly, bringing the glass to her lips as she sat at the table. The tablecloth was clean, the bread freshly cut, the warm lamplight creating a golden bubble around them both.
They ate in silence for a few minutes, as comfortable as only two people who have shared so much can be.
"Are you going to come with me to the capital?" Tomás asked suddenly, without looking up from his plate. "To receive the award, I mean."
The question hung in the air like a kite without wind.
Sofía lowered her eyes to her half-empty glass. She didn't answer immediately.
"Tomás…" she finally said, her tone soft, as if fearing to break something fragile. "Can we talk about that after dinner, okay?"
He nodded. He didn't insist. He didn't need to. He already knew the answer.
When they finished, Tomás cleared the dishes without another word, and she helped him dry. Then they sat together on the sofa, one of those where they fit just right, shoulder to shoulder, with no room for lies or excuses.
The television was off. The city whispered outside the window.
Then Sofía stretched out her hand and took his. She intertwined her fingers with his delicately, as if offering him something she had been holding onto for too long. A small gesture, yet loaded with meaning. With guilt. With affection.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, without needing to explain everything. "I can't go. If someone sees us together… everything would come back. The rumors. The stares. You don't need that now."
Tomás didn't respond with words. He just squeezed her hand slightly, as if telling her he knew, that she didn't have to explain anymore.
They stayed like that. In silence. Clinging to each other like two branches floating in the same current.
Later, as so many times before, Tomás accompanied her to her room. He helped her lie down, covered her shoulders with the blanket, and caressed her hair with a tenderness that almost hurt. It was already a ritual, a nightly farewell that tasted of both promise and goodbye.
Sofía looked at him from the pillow, her eyes wide, slightly moist, her voice laden with something she didn't know how to express.
"Forgive me for not being able to be there," she whispered.
Tomás shook his head, with that soft, melancholic smile he sometimes wore when life took something from him.
"There's nothing to forgive. I understand. It's for the best."
He leaned in to kiss her forehead, as he did every night. But this time, when his lips touched her skin, they lingered a little longer, as if that contact could stop time, say what couldn't be said aloud.
Before he pulled away, she raised a trembling hand and gently caressed his face, a silent plea shining in her dark eyes.
"Don't be mad at me, please."
Tomás took her hand and kissed it too.
"I could never be mad about something like that," he replied, his voice hoarse.
He backed away slowly, until he reached the door. Before turning off the light, he looked back one last time. She was already closing her eyes, wrapped in her sheets, serene.
"I love you, Sofía," he said.
And though he whispered it, the words floated in the room, like a stone dropped into water, leaving concentric circles that would take time to disappear.
He turned off the light and left.
His footsteps in the hallway seemed heavier than ever. As if he carried a burden he couldn't share.
Because loving like that, in silence, was also a way of staying. Even from afar. Even if it was just for one more season.