Chapter Five: Here I Am, Wounded (#11)

The message from Soledad arrived without warning.

After two weeks of deathly silence. After nights where her face crept into his hazy dreams, stealing his rest. After days when her name settled, quiet but persistent, at the edges of his thoughts. After all that… she simply appeared.

"See you at our usual cafe. Tomorrow at five. If you can."

He read it once, then again, and again.

It wasn't a particularly emotional message. There were no apologies. No explanations. Not a single word that justified the emptiness of the past few days, nor a phrase that even hinted that anything had changed.

Just an invitation, simple, direct, precise.

And yet, something inside him stirred. It wasn't joy, it wasn't relief. It was a tense mixture of expectation, fear, and that old longing that never quite left.

"I'll be waiting there."

That was his reply. Brief. Almost neutral.

And as soon as he sent it, he stared at the screen as if expecting something more to spring from it. As if suddenly, after two weeks of absence, a second message would arrive. But it didn't, and perhaps that was okay, it was better that way.

He thought about writing something more. Something that didn't sound so dry. Maybe a joke, one of those phrases they used to share so naturally, but he didn't. Because he didn't know how to position himself with her now, because he didn't know what remained between them and what had completely broken.

During those days of silence, he had promised himself he wouldn't seek her out until he had something real to offer her. And now he did. His manuscript was finished. Completely corrected, with the last page written with that mixture of relief and emptiness known only to those who had poured everything within them into words.

What he had written wasn't just a story. It was him. Not the Tomás others knew. Not the one who served hamburgers at the Big Root, nor the one who cared for his mother, nor the one who avoided noise in the school hallways. It was the Tomás who bled in silence, who broke without a sound, who didn't know how to ask to be chosen.

And for some absurd—perhaps selfish—reason, he wanted her to read it, he wanted her to see him whole, unfiltered. Without masks.

But she had gotten ahead of him. He didn't know what that meant. Was she regretful? Had she missed him? Was it simple curiosity, or a way to close the chapter?

All of this spun in his head, but one thing was already decided.

He was going.

He was going to show up at that cafe, at the same time, at the same table, as so many times before. Because he couldn't help it. Because her absence had hurt him more than he was willing to admit, because the silence she had left him with accompanied him like a shadow.

And because, if he had learned anything in those weeks, it was that feeling wasn't enough. You had to be there, and he was going to be there.

What happened next… that no longer depended solely on him.

The clock read 4:50 when he arrived at the cafe.

The same one as always. The one they had shared so many times, where Soledad's jokes always mingled with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee.

It felt strange to be there again, after everything that had happened.

He ordered a black coffee and sat by the window, where he could see her arrive. As he waited, his thoughts intertwined with uncertainty. He had tried to convince himself that Soledad's absence didn't affect him that much. His life had been too busy with school, finding the professor's family, and his new job. But in moments of quiet, when he had no distractions, he realized the truth.

She was still there, like an indelible stain in his mind.

It was hard to explain. It wasn't just that he missed her. It was the feeling that, somehow, something had changed after that afternoon at the beach.

And the worst part was that he didn't know what.

He had come to the conclusion that Soledad felt excluded from a side of him she didn't know. Perhaps that had hurt her, because she always acted as if she knew him completely. As if she could read him with insulting ease.

But… why had it affected her so much? For a moment, he wondered if she had fallen in love with him, but the idea was ridiculous. Soledad had never treated him as anything more than a game. She always talked about "practice," always made it clear that everything was pretend.

No, if someone had fallen in love, it was probably him, if he wasn't already in love without realizing it and what he felt was precisely "love."

The thought hit him harder than he would have liked to admit. No, it couldn't be. He wasn't that naive. He couldn't have fallen in love with someone who constantly reminded him that everything was just a game.

He sighed and looked at the door.

Then he saw her.

Soledad entered the cafe with her usual confidence. But something in her expression was different. It wasn't the same calm, she didn't have that teasing smile she usually wore when she saw him.

She approached the table, still wearing her coat, and looked at him for a moment before sitting down across from him.

"Hello, Tomás."

He nodded with a slight smile. "Hello."

For a moment, neither of them said anything. The silence between them wasn't awkward, but it wasn't the same as before either.

"You haven't changed much," she commented, breaking the silence.

"Did you expect me to change in two weeks?"

Soledad smiled softly, but not with her usual mischievousness. "Perhaps."

Tomás took a sip of his coffee and then said, "Why did you call me?"

She looked down, as if she were choosing her words carefully. "Because…" she paused, "because I didn't want it to end like this."

Tomás felt a knot in his stomach. "Like what?"

"Like nothing ever happened."

He frowned slightly. "I don't understand."

Soledad sighed and rested her elbows on the table. "Look… I don't know what happened to me that day. Really. It wasn't fair to you."

Tomás didn't respond immediately.

"It hurt you that I didn't tell you before."

She nodded. "Yes."

"But… why?"

Soledad looked him in the eyes. And for the first time in a long time, he felt she didn't have an answer.

"I don't know," she finally said, shrugging. "I just… felt distant."

Tomás observed her in silence; he didn't know what he wanted to hear. But he was sure of one thing: this Soledad, the one in front of him, was different. She wasn't the one who played with him regardless of the rules. She wasn't the one who saw him as just practice. She was someone who, for the first time, seemed to have lost control.

And that… that meant something.

Whatever they had built between them, whatever connected them, was changing. And although he didn't know where it would lead, something told him there was no turning back.

Tomás couldn't remember the last time he had felt so comfortable with Soledad. Not because they weren't laughing, not because they were in perfect sync with their games and provocations. But because, for the first time, she wasn't playing with him.

And he preferred it that way.

He told her so.

"I like this," he murmured, observing her. "That you're not playing with me."

Soledad blinked, surprised by his frankness. "What do you mean?"

Tomás rested his elbows on the table and looked at her steadily. "That this feels more real."

The word struck something inside her.

Real.

Her stomach clenched. That was a dangerous term. One she didn't want, couldn't accept. She couldn't allow this to be real, because if it was, it meant that everything she had tried to avoid, everything she had denied, was true.

And she wasn't ready for that.

She said nothing. She simply buried that thought deep in her mind, where it couldn't reach her.

Tomás, unaware of the internal storm he had just awakened, took something from his bag and placed it on the table between them.

A manuscript.

Soledad looked down and saw his name on the cover. "What is this?"

"I finished it," Tomás said, with a calm that she found terrifying. "It's my story."

She looked up and found his eyes fixed on her, with an intensity that left her breathless. "I haven't shown it to anyone else," he continued. "I hope you like it."

At that instant, Soledad understood something. If she took that manuscript, she would be entering a place from which she couldn't easily leave. It would be accepting that he mattered more than he should. That what was between them had never been a simple game. And, most terrifying of all, it would mean accepting that he had already stolen her heart.

She couldn't.

She shouldn't.

So she did the only thing she knew how to do well: she retreated.

"Are you sure you want me to read it?" she asked with a lopsided smile, leaning towards him. "What if I make fun of every page?"

Tomás watched her for a moment, and then smiled. "Then I'll have to prepare to endure it."

She let out a light laugh, taking the folder with a nonchalant gesture. "Fine, but if it's boring, I'll use it as a pillow."

"You have permission to do so," he replied, still looking at her.

And at that moment, Soledad knew that Tomás had understood. That he understood that other Soledad, the one who had briefly appeared in the cafe, was no longer accessible to him. That this more real side of her was forbidden, because that was her weak and less lively side, the one that tossed and turned in bed waiting for a message, the one that was nervous and fragile, one she was not willing to reveal.

And he accepted that without argument.

And Soledad understood. Tomás was letting her decide, as always. Like when she pushed him away and he obeyed without saying anything. Like when she left without explanations and he waited without reproach.

The conversation drifted to more trivial topics. Coffee, work, the weather. But they weren't the same anymore.

Both knew something had changed.

And even if Soledad pretended everything was still the same… the manuscript on her lap weighed like an unspoken truth. An open door to a place from which, if she entered, she couldn't leave without leaving something behind.

And inside her, that word reappeared, like an annoying whisper, due to its weight, a weight so great that she wasn't sure if she wanted to accept it.

Real.

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Soledad closed her bedroom door, her heart pounding in her chest.

It had been a long day, too long. But at least, after everything, things with Tomás were back to normal. They had returned to their balance, their usual game, their friendship.

She had gotten her friendship back, and that meant everything was fine. Everything had to be fine.

She let out a deep sigh and looked at the folder in her hands, the manuscript Tomás had given her. With an almost mechanical gesture, she crossed the room and placed it on her desk, turning on the small lamp that always illuminated her study and work nights.

The warm glow spread across the wooden surface, casting soft shadows on the walls. For a moment, she contemplated the unopened envelope; she could leave it for another day. She could wait, but her hand was already tearing the paper with a decisive movement, as if her body knew something her mind wasn't yet ready to accept.

When the envelope yielded and the manuscript was exposed, Soledad's gaze fell upon the cover.

And she froze completely.

"Seasons of Loneliness."

The air seemed to leave the room.

Something dense and profound pressed against her chest, a silent pressure that left her breathless. She screamed inside with desperation, "No. No, no, no." Her mind wanted to rebel, to deny it, to not see the truth that burned before her with blinding intensity.

But it was already too late.

That simple phrase, that title written in black ink, had shattered the illusion she had so painstakingly built. She knew it in that instant. If she read those pages, if she immersed herself in what Tomás had written, there would be no going back. She couldn't keep pretending that she could move from one side of her emotions to the other, that she could play with her own feelings without consequences.

She would have to choose.

Move forward or retreat, accept or flee.

But the sword's edge was already beneath her feet, and all she could do was walk upon it until she made a decision.

With a mixture of fear and longing pulsing within her, she opened the first page. And she began to read.

Hours passed without her realizing it. She laughed, she cried, she paused to breathe when the words weighed too heavily on her chest.

It was Tomás in his purest form.

Not the boy who stayed silent when he should speak, not the one who seemed too mature for his age and yet so fragile. Not the one who followed her with his gaze without daring to reach for her.

It was Tomás disarmed.

True.

Painful.

Every page, every line, every sentence contained the essence of his soul.

The story spoke of two people who met in different seasons of their lives. Two people who shared ephemeral moments, who built an invisible bridge between them without daring to cross it.

There was so much of them in those pages that it was unbearable, as if he had written it knowing she would read it. Because every word wasn't just a story, it was a confession.

A silent act of courage.

A love hidden beneath the ink, disguised as fiction, but with a truth so piercing that it perforated her to her very core.

When she reached the last page, her vision was blurred.

She pushed the manuscript aside with trembling hands and lay down on the bed, her forearm covering her eyes, trying to contain the storm within her.

But it was useless.

The tears escaped, hot and treacherous, unchecked. Her heart had been squeezed with every page and now lay on her bed, like a discarded remnant of herself.

She couldn't simply accept that veiled declaration of love. She couldn't change her life for him. She couldn't allow everything she had built—her relationship with her boyfriend, her job, her certainties—to collapse because of something that wasn't supposed to be real.

She was the one in control. She was the one who knew him well. Not the other way around.

And then, with ragged breaths and a stomach twisted with guilt, she picked up her cell phone and typed a message.

"I really liked your book, thanks for letting me read it, you're a great friend."

Tears fell onto the screen as soon as she sent it; she bit her lip, nervous. She wanted to keep him close, but she didn't want to make a false move.

She pressed her lips tightly together.

That was the right thing to do. That was what she had to do.

But as soon as she sent the message, her cell phone vibrated with an immediate reply.

"Thanks to you for reading it."

A reply that seemed to know everything, understand everything. A reply with no complaints, no demands. A reply that accepted defeat.

And that was the worst part.

Because he always let her go. Even when she secretly wished he would stop her. Soledad pressed the phone against her chest. Her lips trembled. Her heart ached. And for the first time, she understood that real love wasn't a scorching fire, but a silent, deep wound that one cannot escape.

Tomás had shown her his.

And she, simply, hid.