Day two of Tomás's absence.
In the apartment, the sound of cardboard opening broke the silence of the dining room. Daniela frowned at the steaming pizza in the box.
"Pizza again?" she protested, crossing her arms like a small child.
Amelie, sitting on the sofa with a glass of water in her hand, didn't even bother to look toward the kitchen.
"Do I cook when he's here? And you expect me to now?" she replied in her usual dry tone.
"You could try! It's almost day three. If this keeps up, I'm going to turn into mozzarella."
"Then go to the kitchen and make yourself a salad, you're good at talking, but lazy about chopping tomatoes," Amelie responded, with a half-smile that didn't quite betray that she missed him too.
Daniela huffed, but ended up sitting in front of the open box and took a slice with resignation.
"This is no life."
At school, the buzz of recess enveloped the playgrounds as usual. Sunny flitted through the hallways like a restless butterfly, jumping from group to group, commenting on anything that came to mind, as if silence were her greatest enemy.
But every now and then, when the laughter quieted a bit, her gaze would drift back to that empty desk in the classroom. The seat where Tomás used to be. She didn't say anything, nor did she linger long, but she always cast one last look before returning to her cheerful chaos.
At the Big Root, the smell of caramelized onions and toasted bread filled the kitchen. Don Giorgio was leaning slightly in the chair he used when chopping vegetables, an old cushion beneath his thigh and his brow furrowed.
"When's the boy coming back?" he grumbled, a slight tremor in his hands that he didn't want anyone to notice.
From the office, Laura looked up from her papers and replied loudly:
"In two days, Dad! Just a couple more days!"
"Bah, at this rate I'll be stiff. Tell him to hurry up," the old man mumbled, though the smile that formed on his face at the thought of the boy softened the grunt.
And in an apartment further north, Sofía rested her elbow on the table as she ate directly from the last glass container. With messy hair and an oversized sweater, she chewed listlessly until she noticed something had slipped to the floor.
A folded piece of paper.
She bent down to pick it up and opened it with the curiosity of boredom. Her eyebrow arched as she read the tight, somewhat clumsy handwriting:
"If you run out of food before I get back, eat what's in the freezer."
For an instant, everything in her face softened. She let out a brief sigh, then a slow, almost invisible smile formed on her lips.
"Silly kid..." she whispered, carefully folding the note again, as if it were something precious.
She put the paper in her jacket pocket and looked back at the almost empty container. Tomás wasn't there, and yet, there he was. In the freezer. In the notebook that now rested beside hers. In the coffee maker that already brewed for two. In his armchair, in the lamp he had changed, in the smile that sometimes escaped her without permission. In the shared silence she had learned to love.
And right there, alone in her kitchen, she realized how true it was: he had flooded every corner of her life.
And letting go of that... would be anything but simple.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Day three of Tomás's absence.
The auditorium in the capital was packed. The Élan Publishing award ceremony proceeded smoothly: names, titles, applause, brief speeches. The atmosphere was festive, yet measured, as if everyone present knew they were there for something important, but weren't quite sure how to behave.
When Tomás Lambert's name was announced for the "Editor's Choice," polite applause filled the room. No one stood up. No one cheered. Just formal, firm clapping. Some of the other awardees had brought their classmates, teachers, their families. He was alone. He walked toward the stage with calm steps, trying not to show the discomfort that tightened inside him.
"And here I am, wearing my best clothes..." he thought ironically as he accepted the award.
The trophy was lighter than he expected. Shiny, simple, elegant. He held it with both hands as a quick photo was taken, then descended the stage in silence, again enveloped by cordial applause.
He had planned to stay another day. Explore the city, visit bookstores, maybe sit in a coffee shop and write something. That's what he had thought the night before.
But when he exited the auditorium and the cold capital air hit his face, he knew he wouldn't stay.
He put the award in his bag, wrapping it in his sweater so it wouldn't scratch, and headed to the bus terminal with increasingly quick steps. He didn't think much about it. He didn't check schedules. He took the first bus heading south. He settled by the window and rested his forehead against the glass, watching the city recede.
He couldn't take it anymore.
It had only been three and a half days. Barely. But it felt like an eternity.
"Sofía… what have you done to me?" he murmured, unable to stop a half-smile from forming on his lips.
He, who had always believed himself self-sufficient. Who had learned to live with pain, to tame nostalgia like one caresses a wounded animal. Who had transformed abandonment and loneliness into a wall that protected him from the world.
He, who thought no one was indispensable.
And yet…
Closing his eyes, he saw her: with her teacup in her hands, her hair messy, words between her teeth, her voice tired but alive. He imagined her sitting at her desk, with the lamp on and the cursor blinking, writing another page of the story she hadn't yet told him.
He knew—he knew, though no one had told him—that Sofía intended to leave. He saw it in her prolonged silences, in the way she sometimes clung to his hand as if she didn't want to let go. He didn't know when it would be, but her eyes spoke a language he had learned to read.
And still, he was returning.
In a hurry. As if something inside him was dragging him back.
He wanted to see her. He wanted to hug her. He wanted to bury his face in her neck and breathe the scent of her hair. He wanted to stay with her until the sun set, and the warm lights of the apartment enveloped him like a secret refuge.
He wondered, with silent chuckles, if she had already finished the lasagna from the freezer. He had left her two trays, but when she got into writing, she ate more, as if making up for the lack of wine she no longer drank as frequently.
"That's so you…" he murmured, watching the landscape speed by.
And then, with a serenity he hadn't felt in a long time, he knew. He couldn't pinpoint the exact moment it had happened. It wasn't a revelation. It was more like the silent certainty that something had settled within him like a quiet seed, and had blossomed without asking permission.
He was coming back because he missed her. Because not being with her weighed on him. Because her absence unsettled his soul.
He was coming back because he loved her.
There was no longer any doubt.
That sudden return, that need to share the joy with her, that urge to see her even before his own family, even before telling anyone else what he had won…
It was love.
Simple.
Profound. Inevitable.
And, though he knew it was fleeting, though something inside him whispered that Sofía would leave soon, he couldn't help it. He would return as many times as necessary, like a satellite that knows nothing else but to orbit its star.
The last curve in the road revealed the lights of the south in the distance, flickering through the haze.
He was almost home.