The weekend had been spent like the previous ones: pounding the streets, looking for work like someone chasing something unattainable. He walked until his feet burned and his whole body felt numb. He returned home with stiff muscles and hopelessness on his shoulders, but instead of resting, he plunged into his manuscript. Writing was all he had left, his only way to make sense of what had happened.
He couldn't stop thinking about Bella. His wound was still too fresh, like a scar that hadn't quite closed yet. And he, instead of letting it heal, wallowed in the pain. Perhaps because he deserved it.
The week of suspension passed faster than he expected, although a part of him would have preferred it to last a little longer. Outside of school, at least, he had the illusion that the world was still the same. But he knew that returning meant facing what had been left behind.
He had obtained reliable information about Professor Krikket's family. Finally, there was a concrete trail to follow. But he couldn't do anything yet. He would have to wait until next weekend to go after them. Still, feeling that his search was beginning to bear fruit was the only thing that kept him going.
That Monday, with his backpack slung over his shoulder and the manuscript safely tucked inside, he headed to school. He had been working hard on those pages for several days. Sofía had insisted that he enter the literary contest, and although he had hesitated at first, he finally gave in. Not for her, not even for himself, but because he needed to leave something behind.
But he wasn't prepared for what he would find upon his return. The feeling was immediate. As soon as he set foot in the classroom, he knew something was wrong.
The murmur ceased as soon as they saw him enter, as if an icy wind had swept away the conversations. No one bothered to greet him. No one even pretended to notice his presence. It was as if, in that week of absence, he had ceased to exist.
Sunny smiled shyly at him and Anaís gave him a quick glance before returning to her notebook. Samuel, however, avoided him completely.
Tomás blinked, bewildered. He had expected furtive glances, whispered comments, perhaps some bad joke. But this... this was worse. And, in a way, it was the best thing that could happen. The more peace, the better. Especially in stormy times.
He sat at his desk with forced calm and took out the manuscript. He had no interest in delving into the silent hostility of his classmates. If they wanted to ignore him, all the better. Anonymity suited him.
But the feeling persisted. There was something more in that silence. Something viscous. Something rotten.
And then he heard the whispers.
"They say that Professor Sofía and he..." someone murmured in the back row.
"At the beach... together..."
"Could it be true?"
"She hit him... but why were they alone?"
A shiver ran down his spine. So that was it. Someone had seen them the day Sofía hit him on the beach. Someone had interpreted the scene with the worst intentions. And now, a rumor as dirty as it was unstoppable was dragging everything in its path.
Tomás clenched his teeth. He didn't bother to turn around. He wasn't going to give them the pleasure of seeing him upset. He preferred to act as if it didn't matter at all, because, in those kinds of stories, the truth didn't matter.
Despite the whispers spread like a plague and the silence as thick as a concrete wall between him and his classmates, the day had passed with strange tranquility. Tomás was no stranger to the glances that darted away just as he met them, nor to the stifled giggles in the hallways, but he forced himself to ignore them. He knew that if he showed he was affected, the rumors would grow like fire in dry grass. And if he paid attention to them, it would be like legitimizing them. Instead, he decided to ignore them, to dress himself in indifference, and carry it like an invisible shield.
When the final bell rang, he gathered his things without haste. The manuscript weighed more than the books in his backpack. Not because of its actual weight, but because of everything it contained: every word written with rage, with relief, with a pain he didn't know he had until it started bleeding ink. He walked to the teachers' lounge with a firm step, like someone walking through a storm with his head held high.
The hallway was almost empty; the few students still circulating avoided him as if his mere presence were contagious. Halfway down, just before turning towards the lounge, he ran into Anaís.
She looked at him with an expression that wasn't quite disdain or pity, but something worse: a judgment already rendered. "You shouldn't get close to her," she said without even greeting him. Her voice was dry, measured, like someone offering advice they don't care if it's heard. "Because of you, the professor could lose her job."
Tomás observed her calmly. He didn't bother to frown or tense his body. He wasn't even surprised. He just looked at her with an raised eyebrow, and a half-smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Thanks for your concern, Anaís. How thoughtful of you," he said, with an irony as subtle as it was sharp. "I appreciate the gesture."
She glared at him, but said nothing more. She turned around and walked away down the hallway, the clicking of her shoes echoing like gunshots in the silence.
Tomás sighed. He didn't feel like responding with venom, although the temptation was great. But that would be falling into the game of those who had too much free time and too little life of their own. And he had had enough of dirty games.
When he reached the teachers' lounge, he didn't need to open the door to notice the atmosphere awaiting him. It was enough to put his hand on the doorknob to feel the atmosphere become dense, heavy. The conversation on the other side of the door died down as soon as he turned the handle and entered.
Heads turned in unison. Some disguised their scrutiny behind coffee cups or papers, others watched him shamelessly. A middle-aged woman, with glasses dangling from the tip of her nose, frowned as soon as she saw him. A bearded man gave him a look that couldn't be described without spitting.
Sofía was sitting at her desk, reviewing a stack of papers. When she looked up and saw him, she smiled. It wasn't a wide, or affected smile, but it had a warm nuance. Something almost like relief.
He crossed the room with a calm step, as if the weight of all those gazes didn't touch him at all. When he reached her, he took his manuscript from his backpack and placed it on the desk. "Here it is," he simply said.
Sofía looked at him in silence for an instant, as if evaluating not only the manuscript, but him. Then she nodded and took it with soft, almost reverent hands.
"So you decided to participate?" she asked in a low voice.
Tomás nodded, and without thinking too much, sat in one of the chairs in front of the desk. It was natural, habitual, like other times they had met to talk about literature, classes, or their differences. But today, every innocent gesture was susceptible to being interpreted with malice.
Sofía seemed to realize the effect. She looked around, also noticing the gazes that still hadn't moved away. She looked down at the manuscript, ran her hand over the cover as if she could read it by osmosis, and then spoke to him in an almost imperceptible tone, laden with something that wasn't fear, but prudence: "I'm glad you finished it, Tomás. Really. I'm glad more than I should be."
Tomás looked down, for a second almost ashamed. Not for her, but for what others were willing to do with those words. "I just wrote what I couldn't say," he answered, in a whisper.
Sofía nodded slowly. Then, without taking her eyes off him, she took a folded sheet from the inside pocket of her jacket and discreetly passed it to him. "Call tonight. There are things we need to talk about... about the manuscript, and about other things," she said, lowering her voice even more. "Meanwhile, please avoid looking for me. At least until this passes."
He received the note without saying a word. He didn't need an explanation. He understood. Too well, in fact.
For the first time since he arrived, he felt the desire to leave. Not because he was uncomfortable with her, but because there was something in that place, in that air laden with prejudice and half-truths, that was beginning to suffocate him. He stood up without haste, slipped the note into his pocket, and simply nodded. "Thank you, Professor."
She offered another smile. This time, a little sadder. "Tomás... no matter what happens, don't stop writing."
He nodded again, this time more forcefully. "I don't plan to."
"And when you do," she said, with a hint of dry humor, "I promise you another glass of wine. But let it be a good one this time."
"Deal."
They hung up after that. There were no long goodbyes or transcendental phrases. Just a click, and silence returned to cover the night. But this time, it wasn't a silence with claws. It was a silence that enveloped, like a blanket in winter. A silence of truce.
And Tomás returned to his desk.
To write.