That night, Tomás arrived home without remembering exactly how he had walked there. His legs had carried him mechanically, his body was still intact, but his soul was shattered. He didn't turn on the hallway light or stop to clean or tidy up. He locked himself in his room and closed the door with a dry thud. The sound echoed in the solitude of the house, but did nothing to alleviate the weight he felt in his chest.
He turned on his computer with a contained rage that burned his hands. His fingers drummed impatiently on the keyboard, as if his body knew what it needed to do before his mind accepted it. He couldn't cry. He couldn't scream. He could only write.
Words poured out of him with overwhelming speed, as if his pain had turned into ink and each keystroke was an open wound bleeding onto the screen. The plot of his work took shape amidst the chaos of his emotions: an abrupt goodbye, a lost love, a cry no one heard. He didn't stop to think. He didn't allow himself to organize his ideas. He just let the story flow, because if he stopped, if he took a breath, reality would drag him back into the abyss.
Bella's image was a fire in his mind. Her eyes, flooded with tears, her broken voice, her fragility at the moment they parted... Everything hurt him as if he were burning from within. And the worst part was that he didn't want that pain to disappear. He deserved it. He needed it.
His hands trembled when he remembered the weight of her body in that last embrace, the way her face had buried itself in his neck as if she wanted to stay there forever. Why had he let her go? Why hadn't he held her a little longer, a few more seconds, one more instant? He wondered if he should let go of that feeling, if he should tear away the guilt, but his own heart rebelled against the idea.
At times, he would get up from the chair, his chest about to burst. He walked back and forth, fists clenched, breath hitched. A couple of times he hit the wall with an open palm, letting the physical pain momentarily extinguish the one tearing him apart inside. But it was useless. Bella was still there, in his mind, on his skin, in every word he wrote.
He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to erase the image of her smile, the memory of her scent, the feeling of her hand intertwined with his. But the more he tried to chase her away, the more she clung to his soul.
The question pierced him mercilessly. Should he have waited for her a little longer?
His throat closed. Should he have said everything he held in his heart?
A dry sob climbed his throat, but he held it back with clenched teeth. He furiously wiped away his tears and returned to the keyboard. He couldn't stop. He mustn't stop. Because if he did, if he allowed the void to devour him, if he accepted that she was no longer there... then what was left for him?
Anxiety devoured him, leaving behind a husk of what he had been.
At dawn, the manuscript was almost finished, but Tomás was nothing more than an empty body on the bed. His fingers still trembled from exhaustion, his chest rose and fell with an unsettling heaviness. His eyes, reddened by the computer light and by so many silently shed tears, simply gave up. There was no resistance, no struggle against sleep. Just an inevitable collapse.
He let himself be dragged by fatigue like one falling into an endless abyss. At that moment, he didn't want to dream, or think, or remember. He just wanted to vanish into nothingness.
The world continued without him. Sunlight filtered through the cracks in the blinds, illuminating the disorder of his room: the keyboard covered with loose papers, the cold coffee cup abandoned on the table, clothes strewn on the floor, as if the space reflected the chaos within his soul.
But the truce didn't last too long.
The sound of the phone burst into the room with unbearable brutality. At first, his mind ignored it, lost in the depths of sleep. But the persistence of the call jolted him from his lethargy. He blinked several times, disoriented, feeling reality hit him again like an icy wave. His head weighed tons. His throat was dry, and his muscles protested when he tried to sit up.
With effort, he stretched out his hand to the phone and answered with the rough voice of someone who had slept little and suffered much.
"Tomás?" Eleonor García's voice resonated on the other end of the line, with her sweet, yet determined tone.
"Mrs. Eleonor...?" he murmured, still trying to shake off the sleep.
"I'm traveling to the city. We'll meet soon. I want to see Emanuel as soon as possible."
The words floated in his mind for a few seconds before settling. The news fell on him like a slab. Reality was reclaiming him, giving him no respite, not allowing him to linger in his pain.
He ran a hand over his face, trying to compose himself. He couldn't show weakness; he couldn't let anyone see the mess he had become in just one night.
"Alright. I'll wait for you at the station."
He hung up before his voice betrayed the knot in his throat.
He stayed in bed for a few seconds, staring at the ceiling. Then, he took a deep breath and forced himself to get up.
The manuscript was there, a silent witness to his agony, but he had to move forward. Even if he was broken inside, even if every fiber of his being screamed at him to stay in bed and become one with it.
He straightened up with an almost heroic effort, pushed his pain to the deepest corner of his soul, and went to meet Eleonor, wearing the mask of someone who could still stand.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
When Eleonor arrived at the station, Tomás was already there, waiting for her. He looked disheveled, with dark circles under his eyes and the tired demeanor of someone who had slept little and thought too much. Luckily for both of them, the station was almost empty, with just a few travelers waiting on the platforms and the distant murmur of loudspeakers announcing destinations they didn't care about. Meeting was easy.
Eleonor walked towards him with measured calm, though her gaze revealed a slight anxiety. Tomás greeted her with a slight nod, not smiling. There was no reason to.
"Before we see the professor, I want to talk to you," she said, without beating around the bush.
Tomás nodded. He didn't ask what she wanted to talk about; he had a feeling. Without another word, he led her out of the station to a small, nearby cafe. It was a modest place, smelling of freshly baked bread and strong coffee, but above all, with tables far enough apart to avoid prying eyes.
They chose the farthest one, near the window, where the grayish morning light filtered in lazily. Tomás ordered an Americano. Eleonor, an espresso. They didn't look at each other much while they waited, but when the cups arrived at the table, she broke the silence.
"How is he?" she asked, with an effort to sound serene.
Tomás wrapped his cup with both hands, as if trying to absorb its warmth. "Every time I see him, he seems to be worse," he admitted, in a low voice. "He tries to hide it, but it's obvious. I haven't known him for many years, but... he's not even a shadow of what he was."
Eleonor picked up her cup delicately, but as she set it back on the saucer, her fingers trembled slightly. "Are you sure he wants to see me?"
Tomás let out a sigh, looking away. "Yes... he said so himself. But I'm not going to lie to you. I asked him. Perhaps in a somewhat unfair way."
She pursed her lips and looked away towards the window. "Did he tell you about me?"
"No. And honestly, I preferred not to ask." Tomás took a sip of his coffee, letting the bitterness fill his mouth before continuing. "I don't want to know the details of his life. I just want to find his family."
For an instant, something dark crossed Eleonor's face, but it quickly dissipated. She reached into her bag, pulled out a small crumpled piece of paper, and placed it on the table. "That's his daughter's address," she said without preamble. "I don't know if she still lives there, but probably. She got married a few years ago."
Tomás immediately took it and put it in his jacket, as if fearing she would change her mind. Then, silence covered them like a curtain.
"Aren't you going to ask me anything else?" Eleonor said, observing him intently.
Tomás thought about the answer. It wasn't that he avoided the questions out of respect for the professor, but because he feared the answers. He didn't want to dig too deep. He had already seen his mentor reduced to a sick and lonely man; delving much further seemed like an act of unnecessary cruelty.
He looked away towards the street, searching for the right words. "The professor never seemed to be someone with many friends. At least, not from the visits he's received lately."
Eleonor let out a bitter laugh. "I'm not surprised. The friends he had were more friends of the marriage. When everything ended, they left too."
Tomás slowly stirred his coffee. "I suppose some friendships end that way."
"Most simply fade with time and busy lives," she said, her gaze lost in the window's reflection. "But he... he expected something different."
Tomás rested an elbow on the table and ran a hand through the back of his neck. "Perhaps they didn't forgive him for what happened. Betrayals are hard to forget."
Eleonor let out a dry, humorless laugh. "People tend to judge others' actions quickly. But when it comes to their own faults, they find ways to justify them."
Tomás said nothing. He simply took another sip of his coffee, which was already getting cold. "But it's too late to go back now," he added, almost in a whisper.
Eleonor nodded slowly and picked up her half-finished cup. The coffee had lost its warmth. She stirred the liquid with the spoon, though there was no sugar left in it.
"I'm not going to lie to you," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "So many years have passed that it's no longer worth it. After what happened, I spent a lot of time alone. I isolated myself from everything... or I was isolated. I'm not entirely sure."
She took a last sip of coffee, as if seeking courage in its bitterness. "I had to change jobs. I thought Emanuel would stay with me. I genuinely thought so. Otherwise, I would never have done that to my best friend."
Tomás felt a knot in his throat. What she was saying echoed painfully in his own life. He couldn't help but think of Bella. If she had asked him, would he have done more for her? He knew the answer very well.
Eleonor set the cup on the saucer with a faint clink. "It was bitter to realize that what I thought was real... crumbled with such a crash. Sometimes love has too high a price."
Tomás swallowed. "Were you able to love someone again?"
Eleonor smiled, but it was a smile tinged with nostalgia. "I asked myself that question for years. In the end, I found someone who loves me every day. I have a family, children. We're happy."
Tomás didn't press. He didn't ask if she ever loved again like before. He knew the answer was in what she didn't say.
He finished his coffee and looked at his watch. It was time to go.
They took a taxi without saying much more. Outside, the leaden sky promised rain. On the way to the hospital, Tomás felt that, somehow, they were both going to face a ghost.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
When they arrived at the hospital, with each step they took towards the professor's room, Tomás felt the air grow denser, as if the hallway narrowed with each stride. It wasn't a particularly old or gloomy hospital, but the scent of disinfectant and the cold fluorescent light gave it an almost spectral air.
Upon reaching the door, he knew he was superfluous at that moment. Eleonor, on the other hand, didn't hesitate. She entered with a firm step, and the professor, contrary to what Tomás had imagined, smiled at her with an unexpected sweetness.
Between them, for a moment, there was peace.
Tomás raised his hand in a greeting gesture, but the professor barely spared him a glance. He knew then that he should leave. As he closed the door behind him, he caught a glimpse of Eleonor sitting on the small stool beside the bed, resting a hand on the sheets as if anchoring herself to something tangible.
He preferred to think that the conversation would be peaceful, that they would remember the good times. But he knew that was impossible. No one carries the past without scars, and they, no doubt, had theirs wide open.
He headed to a coffee vending machine. He inserted some coins and a metallic "clack" made him fear the machine would swallow his money without giving him anything in return. He hesitated for a few seconds before choosing. Something sweet. Mochaccino? Maybe. Like Soledad, today he also wanted to change a little, to find some comfort in the trivial. As the machine hummed, preparing the drink, Tomás let his mind wander.
If he listened closely, he could hear the professor's voice, broken, barely a murmur.
A cup dropped inside the machine and began to fill with milk. Tomás clenched his jaw. He didn't want to hear. He didn't want to understand. Because understanding meant accepting that the professor's loneliness was the price of infidelity, and if he accepted that, then he would have to remember what his father had done.
And that was something he could never allow himself to do.
The machine's beep pulled him from his thoughts. He carefully took the cup and walked back down the hallway. This time he stopped at the door. He didn't go in. He couldn't. But inside, those who were speaking weren't whispering.
He didn't want to listen. And yet, he listened.
Eleonor held the professor's hand. His skin, thin and almost translucent, trembled under the pressure of her fingers.
"Why did you leave without saying anything?" Her voice sounded restrained, as if for years she had rehearsed that question and, finally, as she uttered it, discovered that it no longer made sense. Her gaze wandered over his face, searching for something that wasn't there. "Now I can't even hate you."
The professor looked down. His eyes, reddened and watery, fixed on the sheets. "I was a coward." His voice was a whisper, a belated confession, a sentence he imposed on himself. "I'm sorry. I truly am sorry."
Eleonor blinked slowly, but didn't pull her hand away. There was a time when hatred kept her standing, a time when rage served as a shield. Now, seeing what was left of him, all she felt was a deep exhaustion.
She closed her eyes for an instant, as if searching within herself for the answer to a question that no longer made sense. "I don't know if that matters anymore," she murmured.
The professor barely turned his head towards her, but said nothing. There were no words that could change what had happened.
The air in the room became thick, almost unbreathable.
Tomás, still at the door, felt something inside him break. He took a step back, squeezed the coffee cup in his hands, and, without a sound, walked away down the hallway.