The trees were beginning to dress in fresh green, the streets smelled of newly opened flowers, and the sun was no longer shy about crossing the classroom windows. Tomás made the most of every minute of the day as if his time were running out. During classes, he concentrated intensely, and during breaks, he helped Sunny with her studies for the university admission test. Sometimes they corrected exercises in the library, other times they reviewed under a tree in the courtyard. Everything was part of a routine that seemed harmonious from the outside.
He went to the Big Root every other day, until closing. There, the warmth of the kitchen, the aroma of spices, and the constant bustle helped him stay in motion. The rest of the time, without fail, he dedicated to Sofía.
They spent Tuesday and Thursday afternoons together, all Saturday nights, and full Sundays. She wrote. And he accompanied her, often silently, preparing coffee, cutting fruit, cooking dishes he left ready for the week. He cared for her meticulously, as if she were a princess tired of life or—more often—a broken-hearted spoiled child just beginning to heal.
Little more than a month passed this way. A month in which every moment by her side was a jewel and, at the same time, a countdown.
Every night, upon returning home, Tomás would sit down to write with a need bordering on desperation. He felt he had to capture every emotion, every silence, every glance of those days. He did it not only to remember, but to honor what he had lived, what he was still living. He knew she would leave. He saw it in her eyes when she looked at him for too long. Every shared laugh was also a silent farewell.
Once, when they weren't so close, he had shouted that he would write while his soul burned. And now, his soul burned like never before. Not with rage, not even with sadness... but with love.
Words flowed effortlessly, as if they were already written deep within him and he only had to release them. The story he was writing needed no planning: it was born on its own, blossoming like the spring that was beginning to envelop everything.
When he finally finished the manuscript, he printed it carefully. He didn't want to put the title on the computer. He took a pen and, with his firm but rough handwriting, wrote on the cover:
"It was you.
By Tomás L."
Then he turned the page and wrote a dedication in black ink, with shaky calligraphy:
"To you, who filled my soul,
who gave me a reason,
who held me without asking for anything in return.
No matter where you go,
I will always love you."
As he moved away from the manuscript, his hands trembled. He closed his eyes and, for the first time in a long time, he cried in silence, letting the tears fall freely. He preferred to cry now, when he still had her near, rather than let the pain tear him apart the day he saw her leave.
He turned off the light, and in the dimness, he pulled a small wooden chest from under his bed. He opened it carefully and placed it on the blankets.
"Mom," he whispered, "I've told you so many good things lately that it almost seemed like life had calmed down… I guess it was just a pause." He looked down. "I've tried to do well. I don't want to regret, I don't want to be like him..."
His voice broke for an instant. Then he took a deep breath.
"As Don Giorgio said: 'someone has to stay strong.' She needs me whole, and that's what I'll be. I just hope... I just hope she's very happy. But I'm going to miss her."
He caressed one of the folded letters he kept in the chest, as if by doing so he could feel his mother's warm presence for an instant. Then he gently closed it and put it back under the bed.
The next morning, when the shops opened, he would go to bind the manuscript. He had finished it in time, before she left. He wouldn't give it to her yet. She shouldn't know. That book was a secret, a gift sealed with love, that should only be opened when he was no longer near.
Because within those pages were their days together.
And his farewell.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Sofía was waiting for him.
She had seen him from the window as he crossed the street, his tall figure carrying his backpack over his shoulder, his expression more serene than in recent days. She opened the door before he could knock.
"Good morning," she said with a half-smile, her hair carelessly tied back and wearing a shirt that was clearly for writing, not going out.
"Are you ready for your early birthday lunch?"
"It's not even this week."
"But I'm already preparing to celebrate you with food all month, so the celebration season begins."
She laughed, stepping aside with a theatrical gesture.
"How generous... Chef Lambert."
"When your birthday only comes once a year, you have to compensate well," he replied, entering as if it were his own home, because in many ways, it already was.
The table was half-set, but Sofía had clearly been writing. The manuscript she was working on lay next to her empty coffee cup. Tomás placed his backpack on a chair and began to take some containers from his thermal bag.
"Today I brought rice with sautéed vegetables, and a spinach and cheese tart." He proudly showed her the container. "And yes, there's dessert."
"You're spoiling me," Sofía said, watching him with her arms crossed.
"That's the plan."
As they began to eat lunch, amidst laughter and trivial anecdotes, Sofía raised her glass of water with an expression of theatrical resignation.
"Do you think I can ask permission to have half a glass of wine, at least? Come on, I deserve it... for all the wine I haven't drunk lately."
"Let me see..." Tomás pretended to think as he took a bite of his food. "Half a glass, only if you promise to eat all your lunch properly."
"You're treating me like a child," she laughed, raising an eyebrow.
"A child with the potential of a literary genius who sometimes forgets that wine isn't a food group."
Sofía slowly got up and went for the bottle. She carefully poured only half a glass, raised it with an almost solemn gesture, and said:
"To your patience."
"And to your stomach," Tomás replied.
They gently clinked their glasses. At that moment, the microwave clock read 1:17 PM. A random moment. But between them, it was charged with a quiet, warm intimacy, born not of grand gestures but of everything they shared without words.
Tomás didn't tell her, but during lunch, every now and then, he glanced down at his closed backpack.
Inside, a book that already had an owner lay sleeping.
The food was carefully served. She sat as if the dining room were a real restaurant, with a candle lit between them and soft music playing in the background. They ate amidst jokes and long gazes, comfortable silences and soft laughs. Sofía seemed happy. Truly happy.
"Aren't you going to make a toast to my eternal youth?" she asked, raising her glass.
"To your immortal beauty, then," Tomás said, clinking his water glass against hers. "And to all the years you don't have."
When they finished eating, Tomás stopped her when she tried to take the dishes to the kitchen.
"Not today. Today, you sit and indulge."
It was then that he took out the small case from his pocket.
"It's nothing much," he said, as if apologizing in advance. "But I thought... maybe you'd like it."
She took it without a word. Opening it, she found a simple silver chain, and in the center, a small Egyptian eye: the Eye of Ra. The symbol glinted for a second under the dim dining room light.
Sofía held it between her fingers and smiled, amused.
"Are you telling me I'm going to be watched?"
"More or less. It's in case you leave... so you remember someone is watching you fondly. Always."
She looked at him in silence, and for an instant, Tomás feared he had said too much. But Sofía stood up, walked to him, and without saying anything, turned her back and gathered her hair.
"Will you put it on me?"
He did so in silence, his hands trembling, carefully fastening the delicate chain around her neck. When she turned back, the pendant shone right above her chest, as if it had always been there.
"Thank you," she said. Not just for the necklace.
"I'm not finished yet," Tomás replied with a nervous smile.
He bent down to pick up the backpack he had left in the hallway. When he returned, he held the book in his hands. The only copy. The simple green binding. The title handwritten in bold letters:
"It was you. By Tomás L."
Sofía felt the air stop for a second.
He handed it to her with both hands, like someone offering a treasure.
"This is the real gift."
She took it with an almost sacred respect.
"What's it about?" she asked, though she already suspected.
Tomás swallowed, his eyes fixed on her.
"About you. And about everything I won't know how to say when the time comes."
Sofía held the book tightly against her chest. For the first time in a long time, her gaze blurred.
And although that day had begun with an air of celebration, when they sat together on the sofa, not speaking, with the book on her lap and their fingers intertwined as so many times, they both knew the same thing:
That gift wasn't just a book. It was a slow-burning farewell.
But also, a testament of love.
And that, like all true things, hurt and healed at the same time.
Sofía couldn't resist the temptation. As soon as Tomás began to prepare dinner—with his apron on and humming some tune she didn't recognize—she took the book in her hands and quietly retreated to her room. She closed the door softly, as if that gesture protected something sacred.
She sat at her desk, turned on the small reading lamp, and took a deep breath before opening the copy.
The handwritten cover seemed more intimate than she had imagined:
"It was you. By Tomás L."
Already, with that, her chest tightened.
She turned the page and read the dedication:
"To you, who filled my soul, who gave me a reason, who held me without asking for anything in return. No matter where you go, I will always love you."
The words fell upon her like a burning whisper in the center of her heart. She brought a hand to her chest and swallowed. There were no metaphors there, no disguises. It was him, speaking from the purest place in his soul.
And then she began to read.
Page after page, scene after scene, she recognized not only her story, but his gaze through Tomás's eyes, what she had been to him, what she had never allowed herself to imagine. Every sentence carried with it the sweetness and pain of days lived, the tenderness of shared nights, and the weight of everything they still hadn't said to each other. It was a silent, patient, luminous love... like him.
When Tomás opened the door to call her for dinner, he found her hunched over the desk, her shoulders trembling, tears falling unashamedly onto the pages of the manuscript.
"Hey," he said softly, with a warm smile, entering slowly. "You're going to ruin the pages with your tears... and then you're going to blame me for not printing it on waterproof paper."
Sofía looked up, her eyes red, her face completely disarmed.
"Tomás…" she whispered.
He said nothing more. He just carefully approached, took a tissue from his pocket, and tenderly wiped her cheeks, as if each tear were a flower he had to treat with delicacy.
"Did you think I wouldn't notice?" he said, resting his forehead against hers. "Don't worry... everything will be fine."
He hugged her gently, without squeezing, just enveloping her, as if his arms could protect her even from her own sadness. And she, for the first time, allowed herself to be hugged without any shield, without cynicism, without reservation.
"It's not fair," she murmured against his chest. "It's so beautiful it hurts."
"It's not a goodbye," Tomás assured her, stroking her hair. "It's a 'thank you.' For existing. For saving me without knowing it."
Sofía took a deep breath, clinging to him. But when her tears ceased, she blew her nose and, in an attempt to regain her usual irony, said with a feigned offended voice:
"Because of you, I'm going to need another glass of wine now."
"I accept the responsibility," Tomás joked, "but only half a glass, which is your limit according to what we signed."
"Idiot."
"I know."