Chapter Five: Here I Am, Wounded (#21)

Sunday dawned warm, as if spring, timid, was slowly stretching along the city's edges. In Soledad's room, however, the air was thick, laden with something nameless that weighed heavier than any season.

The sun filtered through the poorly closed curtains, drawing golden lines across the floor and desk. There, rested the manuscript Tomás had given her weeks ago, without demands, without expectations. He just left it there. Like someone leaving a piece of themselves in someone else's hands and walking away.

"Seasons of Loneliness."

She still hadn't moved it from where he left it. Not because she didn't care, but because she cared too much. Because if she opened it now, she felt she couldn't bear the weight of her own decisions. Because after what she had done, she feared reading those words and finding a farewell in them.

She sat on the bed, her hair loose and tangled, her eyes still swollen from the crying she hadn't wanted to admit the night before. Her cell phone lay face down on the nightstand. There were no new messages.

He wouldn't look for her.

She knew it with a certainty that pierced her chest. Because she knew him. Or at least, she had believed she knew him well enough. She knew that if it depended on him, he would never bother her again. Not after what he saw. Not after seeing them together.

He wouldn't come back. Not out of pride, but out of respect. Because Tomás was like that.

And that was the worst part.

Because she also knew that if she called him, if she wrote anything, he would come back. Silent. With that wounded gaze that never reproached her for anything. With that gentleness that demanded nothing, but offered everything. And he would let himself be destroyed again.

"Idiot…" she whispered, with a lump in her throat.

It wasn't clear if she was talking about him or herself.

The weight of guilt crushed her chest.

Not just for hurting him, but for playing with the most sacred thing someone can give another: their soul. Because that's what he put into that kiss. And she had known it. She had felt it.

She remembered the way his lips had rested on hers. The silent surrender. The trembling of his breath. The way he held her as if she had finally reached a safe place.

And she…

She had kissed him knowing she shouldn't. That she wasn't free. That her heart was already somewhere else… or so she kept telling herself to keep from breaking.

"I just wanted to make sure I didn't love him."

The phrase, thought many times before, now sounded dirty, vile, like a shoddy patch on a deep wound. Because deep down, she knew she had loved him, at least a little, though she didn't know when, or how, or why.

She slowly stood up, took a few steps towards the desk, and caressed the manuscript's cover with her fingertips. His words, firm, looked at her like a condemnation.

"Seasons of Loneliness."

"What kind of monster am I…?" she asked the air, her voice trembling.

The silence didn't answer, but the entire room seemed to hold its breath, as if even the walls knew she had made an irreparable mistake.

She knew Tomás wouldn't come back.

Not unless she called him.

And she also knew she shouldn't. Because if she called him, he would appear, with empty hands and a full heart, ready to rebuild what she had destroyed without even asking for explanations.

She sank to her knees in front of the desk, not even noticing her cheeks getting wet. She rested her forehead against the wood.

She couldn't call him.

She had no right.

But she desired it with all her might.

And that… that destroyed her a little more with each passing minute.

The light of early spring began to warm the city with a newly learned softness. The trees, still timid, showed their first buds, and the wind had lost that wintry edge that cut through thoughts. Soledad left her apartment with a light coat and no fixed destination, convinced that the fresh air would do her good. She thought that if she walked far enough, if she let the sun caress her face, she could dissipate the constant pressure she felt in her chest.

She walked unhurriedly, crossing avenues, getting lost among familiar streets. The laughter of children playing in the squares seemed to reach her from another world, one to which she no longer belonged. She wasn't thinking of going anywhere in particular; she just wanted to breathe, to get away from herself for a while.

But when she walked down the cobblestone street that bordered the coastal promenade, she knew it immediately.

Her feet had brought her there.

The salty wind hit her face, bringing back a memory so vivid that she had to close her eyes.

That was the place.

That exact path, by the sea, where they had walked hand in hand, where their footsteps echoed on the wooden boardwalk and the murmur of the waves filled the silences between them. Where her laughter mingled with his. Where she kissed him.

Her stomach churned.

What are you doing here, Soledad?

But it was too late to turn back. She walked to the bench where they used to stop to watch the sea. The same one where Tomás used to sit with his hands in his pockets, hunched, as if he were always cold, even on a mild day. She would watch him, pretending not to notice his trembling hands when he touched her, pretending not to read in his gaze all that he never dared to say.

She sat down slowly, her back rigid and her soul undone.

Before her, the sea stretched endlessly, with that blue that once seemed beautiful to her and now felt cruelly indifferent. She caressed the edge of the bench with her fingers, remembering the way Tomás held her hand with a tenderness that sometimes hurt her, as if he feared breaking her, as if each caress were a promise he couldn't say aloud.

"Don't look at me like that," she once told him.

"Like what?"

"Like you're going to leave me."

She bit her lip hard.

And she had.

She had left him, but not abruptly. She had let him go little by little, disguising her distance with jokes, her rejection with a smile, her guilt with games. And he… he accepted it all. With his way of swallowing pain without showing it, with that silence that was not indifference, but surrender.

She rested her elbows on her knees and hid her face in her hands. She didn't cry. She had no more tears left for that.

She just stayed there, on that bench, in that memory, in that place where she once thought she could play with love without life making her pay.

But the bill had arrived.

And it was too high.

She promised herself she wouldn't write to him again. That she would let silence take care of everything.

But, at the same time, she wished with all her might that he would break it. That he wouldn't give up. That he would appear as before, with his way of being there for her even though she didn't deserve it.

And the very instant she wished it, she hated herself a little more.