The last few weeks were the sweetest and the bitterest.
And Sofía knew it from the very first moment.
From when she told him she was leaving. From when she felt him squeeze her hands with more tenderness than strength. From when he, without asking questions, agreed to take care of her with the same patience as always. As if his greatest pain was seeing her leave without having given her everything he could offer.
And she accepted it.
There was no other way to put it: Sofía let herself be cared for.
She allowed everything.
From the meals to the silences.
From the hugs to the kisses that, at first, she felt she shouldn't give him, but then couldn't resist. Because she desired them. Because, for the first time in a long time, she desired something without guilt.
Mornings arrived with light filtering through the window and the sound of him in the kitchen. That sound became home.
The clinking of cutlery, the opening of cupboards, the bubbling of boiling water.
Sometimes she would peek at him from the kitchen doorway, like a child with a secret.
Other times she would approach him from behind and wrap her arms around his waist, burying her face in his back, breathing in the scent of soap, coffee, and calm.
During the day, he stayed while she wrote.
He never said anything. He just was there.
Sitting nearby, with a book in his hands or reviewing his notes. Sometimes they drank tea. Sometimes coffee. But they always shared the air, the time, the small gestures.
Sometimes, she would stop writing just to take his hand.
It wasn't a theatrical or romantic gesture; it was an anchor.
As if her body was telling him "don't leave yet," though she knew he wasn't planning to.
Not until the very end.
And they kissed.
At first it was awkward. She had avoided it.
Guilt, fear, the age difference, her own history… all of that was a wall.
But Tomás didn't tear anything down. He just waited.
And when she kissed him, the first time, it was as if something released within her.
There were no more doubts.
They didn't talk about love.
They didn't say "I love you" out loud.
But love floated in the air, in the way he adjusted a blanket over her legs, in how she corrected a mistake in his notebook with a tired smile, in their walks to the market, where he always carried the heaviest bags.
Sometimes they shared food like a ritual.
A piece of bread she stole from his plate, a spoonful he blew on so she wouldn't burn herself.
They laughed at small things. They complained about the heat that spring brought. She teased him about needing to learn to season soups better, and he pretended to be offended.
And sometimes they were just in silence.
Sitting side by side on the sofa, not touching, not speaking.
But feeling each other.
Counting the days.
Without saying it, but knowing they were.
The nights were the hardest.
Because at night the world quiets and sadness weighs more.
Sometimes she pretended to fall asleep first. Just so he would think she was calm.
But many times, he knew, because he would take her hand under the sheets and caress it with his thumbs, as if he could hold her even while she slept.
Other times, she was the one who didn't want to let him go.
She would stop him just before he said goodbye.
She would just say "stay" and he would stay.
Sometimes they slept holding hands.
Sometimes she hid her face in his neck.
And he would kiss her forehead with that tenderness that asked for nothing, as if he were always saying a small goodbye.
The world outside kept spinning.
But in that corner of the universe, everything was suspended.
Two weeks.
They seemed like a lot.
They seemed like so little.
Sofía knew that when she left, nothing would ever be the same.
But she also knew there would be no regrets.
Because, for the first time, she was allowing herself to be happy.
And that, in her life, was something very much like a miracle.
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The last day dawned clear, as if the entire spring had decided to be benevolent just for a few hours.
Tomás arrived early at Sofía's apartment, as so many times, but that morning he carried a small, simple, yet meaningful gift: a cake she adored—one of those she had forbidden herself from eating because "they're fattening"—but which he had bought anyway, because he knew that day wasn't for prohibitions. It was for giving her sweetness, literally and symbolically.
He entered with his own keys, those she had given him without ceremony, as if they were nothing. But he had kept them like a talisman.
Upon entering, the sound of the suitcase sliding across the floor was the first thing he heard.
Sofía was with her back to him, kneeling in front of the closet, her hair tied in a messy bun, folding clothes with methodical movements.
She didn't hear him come in.
Tomás paused in the doorway for a second, just to watch her.
"Is that all you're taking?" he asked with a smile, without announcing himself.
Sofía turned her head, surprised, but then smiled softly.
"You came very early."
"I had to make sure you didn't forget your favorite shoes," he joked, leaving the cake on the kitchen table. "And... I brought this."
She looked at him, stood up, and walked over to see the cake. She laughed.
"You're an idiot. I told you that cake makes me fat."
"Exactly. Today it's allowed."
For the next few minutes, they packed the suitcase together.
He would bend down to pick up things she left on the bed, and occasionally comment:
"Are you sure you need four notebooks?"
"Yes."
"And this coat?"
"That too."
When the suitcase was finally closed, he took it and carried it to the entrance. Then they ate together for the last time in that house.
The cake, the tea, a comfortable silence between them.
Until Sofía, without looking at him directly, spoke:
"Don't wait for me, Tomás."
He lowered his gaze. He didn't seem surprised, but it hurt all the same.
"I don't know when I'll be back," she continued. "I know I'll return, because this is my home… but I can't tell you when. And I can't ask you to put your life on hold for me."
Tomás nodded, and there was no reproach in his gesture. Just a feigned calm, the reflection of someone who was restraining himself for love.
"Don't worry," he murmured. "Will you call me once in a while? Just to know you're still eating well… that you're taking care of yourself, that you're still writing."
Sofía swallowed, her eyes filled with tears, but not a single one fell.
She just squeezed his hand.
She knew well that if she asked him to wait for her, he would. He would without hesitation.
And if she knew him as well as she thought, even if he didn't say it, he would wait for her, until she told him not to anymore.
Not because he was weak, but because he was loyal.
Because he loved her.
Tomás caressed her hand with his thumb.
"Go peacefully, everything will be fine."
He stood up and hugged her tightly, with that strength reserved for hugs that want to last forever.
She hid her face in his neck, as if she could stay there. As if the world could stop.
"I love you, Sofía," he whispered, his voice broken.
She looked at him, as if that phrase had awakened something inside her.
She held his gaze for a long time, and then replied, without trembling, without hesitation:
"Me too. I love you more than you know."
He accompanied her to the vehicle. He carried her suitcase, as he had so many times carried her words, her tiredness, her faithless nights.
And when she looked at him, with that expression of "I don't want to leave, but I must," it no longer mattered if anyone saw them.
They kissed.
Hard, desperately, her hands clinging to his arms as if she didn't want to let go.
"I love you," she repeated, before getting in.
She wanted to tell him to wait for her.
She wanted to tell him she'd be back soon.
She wanted to tell him so many things.
But she didn't.
Because she had never liked playing with an uncertain future.
Tomás stood, watching the car drive away.
And though his heart ached, he didn't shed a tear.
Because she wouldn't have wanted it that way.
She saw him in the rearview mirror.
And she thought that if she ever doubted love, she would only have to remember the image of that motionless, steadfast young man,