They finished dinner together without saying much more. The warmth between them filled the empty spaces. The food was delicious, as always, but Sofía couldn't stop looking at him as he ate with his characteristic naturalness, as if he didn't know the hurricane he had unleashed in her heart.
When they finished, Sofía leaned back in her chair, and in a soft voice, asked for something more.
"Would you give me one more gift...?" she said, directly. "Like that time... could you... stay tonight?"
Tomás looked at her tenderly. He said nothing, just nodded. She took his hand with a fragile smile.
"Don't leave. Not tonight. Just hold me... until the end."
He gently guided her to the room, as he had done so many times. He arranged the blankets around her, but this time he didn't leave. He lay down beside her, and she snuggled against his chest, in silence, the book still in her hands. And without saying anything, she rested her forehead against his lips, and he kissed her delicately, again and again, as if with each kiss he wanted to prolong the moment, as if he could hold the whole world with such a simple gesture.
And so, with the weight of love in their arms and tenderness filling the air, they fell asleep, clinging to each other, not thinking about tomorrow, not thinking about what would hurt when it was time to let go.
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Another month slipped through her fingers.
Spring was now in full swing, and the city smelled of fresh blossoms and warm evenings. The apartment windows stayed open almost all day, letting in the gentle breeze and the distant hum of life. And within that light, Sofía felt different. More alive. More herself.
It had been a long time since she had felt so happy.
The routine at school was a polished mask. They exchanged polite words, some brief glances. She had forbidden him from looking at her the way he did at home, as if he were writing poems to her with his eyes. Sometimes he forgot. And so did she. There were moments when their gazes lingered a few seconds longer than necessary, and Sofía could feel a blush igniting her skin. Then she would look down, as if that could hide what they both knew was happening.
But at home, everything was different.
The air was lighter, and although she feigned annoyance when he pampered her too much, the truth was she no longer knew how to live without that warmth. Every time he left, a part of her followed him to the door with an anticipated nostalgia.
And yes, sometimes she behaved like a child.
She asked him to stay.
Not to leave.
And he always nodded. Always.
Even so, she couldn't ask for more. Because she hadn't promised him anything. Because she was the one who had invited him into a house that didn't promise to stand much longer. He knew it, and said nothing. And that was the hardest part. That silent loyalty. That love that demanded nothing.
Thanks to the peace he brought into her life, she had started writing again.
Pages and more pages. Some nights she stayed up very late with the lamp on, the keyboard vibrating like a heart beating anew. And every word that came out bore something of him, of his tenderness, his patience, his clumsy but brave way of being.
And then it arrived.
The answer.
A terse notification. A straightforward email. The subject line was enough: "Congratulations, you have been selected."
She didn't even need to open it.
She knew.
She had known since she sent it. That she would win. Because this book, like his, had been a form of love.
And yet, when she read it, her heart sank.
One month.
One month.
One month was all she had left to live this life. To share lunches scented with soup and fresh bread. To laugh on the sofa like two late teenagers. To kiss him on the forehead and feel that, even if they didn't say everything, everything was already said.
Tomás didn't know yet.
And not because she wanted to lie to him.
But because she couldn't look him in the eyes and tell him she was leaving.
How do you say goodbye when love arrived so late, but just in time to bloom?
She looked at his manuscript, "It Was You," which still rested on her desk. She caressed its cover with her fingers as if she could memorize its touch. Soon she would have to do the same with him. Memorize him.
And still, a part of her made an irreversible decision.
She would give herself completely.
Like him.
Like that boy who cooked her soup so she wouldn't get sick, who dried her tears in silence, who never asked for anything and yet gave everything.
That way, when she left, there would be no regrets.
Because everything they had, though brief, would be eternal in the most human and real way she knew: memory.
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Two weeks passed.
Sofía knew it.
Every day that passed, she knew it more strongly.
The clock had started ticking the instant she read the acceptance email. But only now, two weeks later, had she gathered the courage to tell him.
That night, like so many others, Tomás cooked for her.
He had prepared a simple but comforting dinner, with that care so characteristic of him. Sofía ate little. Not from lack of hunger, but from the knot in her stomach that wouldn't leave her alone. He noticed something, of course, but said nothing. He knew how to wait. He always did.
After dinner, while he washed the dishes, she stood for a moment in the kitchen doorway, watching him.
The sound of the water, the warm steam rising from the dishes, the sight of his back… everything was so ordinary, so perfect in its simplicity, that for an instant she thought about keeping silent. Never telling him. Disappearing without hurting him.
But she couldn't.
He deserved the truth.
She approached slowly.
She wrapped her arms around his waist from behind, and rested her forehead on his back, right between his shoulder blades.
Tomás paused for an instant; only the slight clinking of a plate hitting the crockery marked the silence.
"I have something to tell you," Sofía murmured, her voice small, almost childlike. "But please don't turn around… I don't want to regret it."
Tomás knew immediately.
He had sensed it for weeks. The way she looked at him a little longer than necessary. How sometimes she would fall silent after laughing. He knew she would leave. He just didn't know when.
"I'm leaving… in two weeks," she said in a whisper.
His heart ached.
And yet, he held himself together. Because she shouldn't see him crumble. Not her.
He carefully placed the plate on the drying rack.
The water was still running.
"Can I say something too?" he asked, without turning around.
Sofía nodded against his back, a slight movement of her head, almost as if she were seeking refuge in him.
"Then… I have two weeks left to take care of you."
The words weren't grand or brilliant, but they were so profound that Sofía closed her eyes and felt her breath catch.
He knew. And he didn't complain. He just wanted to be by her side.
Because, although Tomás didn't say it, she knew what he kept silent was even stronger.
She knew he loved her.
And she knew it without the need for words.
The water stopped running.
Tomás turned off the faucet, calmly dried his hands, and turned around.
She looked at him.
Her eyes gleamed, but she wasn't crying.
And then he approached.
Not to kiss her forehead, as he always did.
That night was different.
Tomás took her face in his hands with a trembling delicacy, as if holding something he didn't want to drop.
And he kissed her.
Not with urgency, nor with sorrow, but with a love so contained it seemed to hurt his lips.
He kissed her sweetly, like someone leaving a promise on her skin, like someone saying goodbye with the hope of returning.
As if his soul whispered softly in her ear: Thank you for staying, even if you're already leaving.
When they separated, neither said anything.
Sofía rested her forehead against his chest again, and he wrapped his arms around her.
Time was already counting down.
But not that night.
That night there was no rush.
Just two hearts embracing as if they could stop the world.