Tomás didn't quite understand how he'd ended up in Sofía's apartment. Everything had happened too fast, as if the rain had washed away his judgment and deposited him, soaked, in front of that door. Now he stood there, his damp clothes clinging to his body, silently observing from a window that overlooked a narrow, empty alley where puddles reflected the pale light of the streetlamps.
The place was... somber. There was no other way to put it.
Not gloomy in a sinister sense, but in that other, sadder way. Where things seem to have stopped mattering a long time ago. The furniture was sparse, and the only adornment on the walls was an old, faded framed photograph of what must have been her parents. A worn, dark leather armchair, its hide cracked at some edges, dominated the small living room. The kitchen, narrow and functional, was clean, but not well-maintained. The only thing that seemed to receive attention was the refrigerator: immaculate, modern, in contrast to everything else.
Sofía had gone into the shower without saying much. The sound of the water came muffled from the bathroom, like a distant backdrop.
Tomás felt out of place. He didn't know if he should sit, walk around, or simply stand there like another piece of furniture. In the end, he made a decision he knew might earn him a reprimand: he went to the kitchen.
"Let her scold me if she wants," he thought. "But at least she'll eat something decent."
He opened the refrigerator. Its contents chilled him to the bone: wine bottles, mineral water, eggs, a piece of cheese. Nothing else. He checked the pantry. Dry pasta. Instant noodles. A couple of rice packets. Salt. Pepper. "Good heavens," he murmured, as if he had just discovered a bitter truth. This woman survived on impulses and red wine.
He sighed, resigned, and got to work.
He put water to boil, separated two egg yolks with the care of an alchemist, and searched for a grater which he found—almost miraculously—among the dishes. He grated the cheese patiently, without looking at the clock, without thinking too much. It was the only thing he could do to keep from feeling like he was falling apart inside.
As the pot began to bubble, he delicately dropped in the spaghetti. He remembered Bella in the kitchen. This was not even a shadow of her skill. Carbonara without guanciale? Without even bacon? Bella would murder him if she could see him now. But he had no other option.
He mixed the cheese and yolks, seasoned carefully, reserved a little of the starchy water, and when the pasta was al dente, he incorporated everything into the pan, stirring it skillfully until he achieved that soft, golden, warm cream. He grated the little remaining cheese on top. Nothing else.
Sofía came out of the room with a towel on her head, slowly drying her hair. She saw him by the kitchen and frowned.
"What are you doing?"
"Cooking something," Tomás replied without stopping stirring the noodles. "It seems you haven't eaten anything normal in a while."
Sofía approached, still with the towel around her neck, her wet hair falling over her shoulders.
"Do you think this is your house?"
"No, but if you've already brought me this far, at least let me prepare something decent. Eat before it gets cold. Then you can continue scolding me."
She hesitated. Finally, she sat down and began to eat without saying anything. She took the first bite. Then another. On the third bite, she asked:
"Give me a bottle of wine. And a glass."
Tomás obeyed. He found an open bottle in the refrigerator, and the only clean glass on the counter. He filled it.
"Pour a little more," Sofía ordered, without looking up from her plate.
The glass was filled almost to the brim. Sofía took a long drink, closing her eyes for an instant. Then she resumed eating in silence.
"Are you going to scold me more?" Tomás asked cautiously.
"Do you want to ruin my dinner?" she replied, wiping her lips with a crumpled napkin. "Go take a shower. I left the largest clothes I found on the bed. Put yours in the dryer."
Tomás nodded. The shower was at the back, in her room. He quickly crossed the threshold, wanting to see as little as possible, but even so, he noticed everything: the unmade bed, a desk with stacked books, a chair covered in clothes, a dirty mirror leaning against the wall. Just enough. Nothing more.
The shower was quick, silent. He used her shampoo, her soap. He dressed in the sweatshirt she had left him and pants that barely covered his ankles. Seeing himself in the bathroom mirror, he had to laugh.
When he returned, Sofía was holding the glass in her hand, drinking more slowly. The empty plate was still on the table. Tomás approached and picked it up to wash it. She watched him with an arched eyebrow.
"You don't have to do that."
"Let me do it. Cook and wash. It's the only thing I'm good at."
She didn't insist.
When he finished washing the utensils, she stood up, took another bottle from the refrigerator, passed behind him, and effortlessly uncorked it.
"Disappointed?" she asked in a neutral tone, as she refilled her glass.
"About what?"
"About all of this. Did you think your teacher lived like this?"
"I imagined it," Tomás replied honestly. "You never seemed like someone who enjoyed luxury. But... I also didn't expect so much emptiness."
She looked at him in silence. Then she gave a dry laugh.
"A polite way of saying 'you're a lonely and messy woman'."
"No. A sincere way of saying you worry me."
Sofía lowered her gaze.
"You don't have to worry about me."
"Yes, I do. I don't want to see you unwell. I don't want you to come to class one day, and not be yourself. Or worse... not come at all."
She took another sip. Then another.
Tomás approached and gently took the bottle from her.
"Maybe that's enough for today."
"And what do you know?" Sofía murmured, but without force. Without resistance.
"Not much. But I know that this"—he pointed to the bottle—"doesn't heal you. It just dims you."
"What if I want to dim myself?"
"Then don't invite me to light you up again."
She looked at him for a long time. The silence between them was thick. The night surrounded them with its heavy darkness, and yet, between them there seemed to be a light that wouldn't go out.
"I guess you know my worst side now," she murmured.
"No," Tomás replied, without hesitation. "I only know someone who has been carrying all of this alone for too long."
"How daring. Do you think you know everything?"
"I don't know anything. But I'm here. That's something."
Sofía put the glass on the table and ran her hands over her face.
"Do you like them like this? Broken women?"
Tomás looked at her with steady eyes.
"I like people who don't give up. Even if they're in pieces."
She smiled, barely. A sad, exhausted grimace.
"I guess that includes me. For now."
"For now is fine," he said.
Sofía remained silent for a long time. Her fingers idly caressed the rim of the empty glass, as if the glass could answer the questions she didn't dare to ask. Outside, the rain had stopped, but the humidity lingered on the windows. The air smelled of wet earth, empty streets, and hearts thirsty for something they couldn't name.
"You know?" she finally said, her voice barely a whisper. "While I was reading your manuscript... I couldn't stop thinking about that older woman."
Tomás didn't respond. He knew who she was talking about, he thought it might be her.
"That woman who loves with fear," she continued. "Who hides in her solitude, as if it were her only refuge. Did you create her or did you find her inside me?"
"Don't answer that," she added immediately, shaking her head. "I don't want to know. Because if it was you, then I'm more exposed than I thought. And if it was me... then there's no turning back."
Tomás swallowed with difficulty. Tiredness began to weigh on his shoulders, but more than that, it was the pain of seeing her like this. Vulnerable. Hurting herself with words as sharp as needles.
Sofía refilled her glass, though she wasn't drinking it at the same pace. She brought it to her lips, held it for a second... and laughed humorlessly.
"Have you realized how easy it would be to love you?"
The words fell from her like coins into a well. They sounded heavy, irreparable.
Tomás straightened in his seat. The trembling that seized him did not come from the cold, nor from the silence, but from that sudden truth. Was that what she had been holding back for so long?
"But I won't," Sofía continued, her voice firmer, almost cruel. "I can't. Because if I did, I would destroy you. Like everything I touch, in fact, you should stay away from me, I will only hurt you."
Tomás felt his heart being struck, cracking. Not brutally, but one more crack. One more crack in that glass that had barely been held together by faith. He held her gaze.
"Does saying that help you?" he asked, dryly, hurt. "Does it make you feel better?"
Sofía looked at him as if he had just slapped her. Her glass trembled in her fingers and she put it down on the table with a small clink of glass against wood.
"No. But it protects me."
"From what?"
"From you."
The silence was more brutal than any scream. Tomás lowered his gaze. His heart felt heavy, and there wasn't a single word that could undo what had just happened. He raised his eyes only to find Sofía swaying slightly, as if her body suddenly remembered all the wine she had drunk.
"Come on," he said, approaching her.
She didn't respond. She offered no resistance when Tomás helped her up and guided her to her room. Her body felt light, as if the alcohol had stolen her soul for a few hours, and now she was nothing more than a sad shell.
They entered her room, and Tomás sat her on the edge of the bed. She tried to take off her sweater, but her fingers wouldn't cooperate. He knelt in front of her, gently took her hands, and helped her. Then, without saying anything, he carefully laid her down, making sure she was covered, that she wasn't cold.
"You have to stop doing this to yourself," he whispered.
Sofía didn't respond. She only looked at him with a sadness that was not of this world. An ancient sadness, like an echo that had been resounding within her for years.
Tomás went back to the bathroom. He took his clothes out of the dryer—they were dry enough to wear without problems—and changed in silence. He folded the sweatshirt and pants Sofía had lent him and placed them on the chair by the door.
Before leaving, he stopped at the threshold of her room. He watched her in the dim light, lying on her side, hugging the pillow as if clinging to an impossible dream. Her hair fell in dark strands over her face, tangled, still damp.
He took a step, then another. He leaned slowly by the bed, until he was facing her.
And, with a tenderness that hurt him to the bone, he caressed her cheek.
Her skin was warm, barely flushed from the wine. But her expression... her expression was that of someone who had learned to sleep alone for too long. And she didn't know how to stop doing it.
Tomás felt a knot in his chest, one that refused to unravel.
"You're just like me," he thought. "Only your loneliness is older. More feared. More terrible."
He caressed her cheek once more. Then he straightened up, gave her one last look, and left, quietly closing the door.
The building hallway greeted him with its dim light. He went down the stairs in silence. The world outside was still wet, the streets reflecting the orange lights of the streetlights. But it was no longer raining.
The air was cold, biting. But he barely noticed it.
He walked with his hands in his pockets, his face towards the ground. And in his chest, the weight of that shared loneliness seemed unbearably human.