Monday dawned gray, as if the sky itself shared the weight of what had happened. Tomás walked to school in silence, his whole body remembering the previous night, but most of all, his mind heavy with the warm touch of someone else's cheek. He felt the echo of that intimacy still pulsing in his fingers, like a wound he didn't know whether to cover or let bleed.
When he arrived at class, he wasn't quite sure what to expect. Perhaps a new wave of comments, a new version of the rumors. But it wasn't like that. The school, as always, went about its business, oblivious and cruel, revolving without asking about anyone. Laughter in the hallways, quick greetings, trivial conversations. Everything the same, everything as always. Except for her.
Sofía wasn't the first teacher of the day, but when she entered the classroom to begin her class, Tomás knew that nothing that had happened was going to fade so easily. Not for him. And apparently, not for her either.
Her hair was loose, messier than usual, her lips colorless, her face slightly paler. She greeted them in a voice barely lower, lowered her gaze as she placed her things on the desk, as if that place no longer quite belonged to her. She sat down more quickly than usual, and began the class as if she could lose herself in it.
But she couldn't avoid it. Tomás looked at her. Not like an infatuated idiot, not like a student confused by a fantasy. He looked at her like someone who knows a wound, like someone who has touched the edge of the abyss and recognizes its shape in the eyes of another.
She avoided that gaze. At first, firmly. Then awkwardly. Her eyes swept across the room as usual, seeking out students, asking questions, giving explanations. But when they met Tomás's, even for just a second, the silence between them weighed more than any words.
It was like that all morning. A tense dance between two people pretending that nothing had changed, when everything had.
As night fell, when the world began to grow quieter, Tomás's phone vibrated. He was reading, lying on his bed, with the manuscript on his chest, looking for a minor correction he couldn't quite bring himself to make. The name that appeared on the screen made him sit up instantly.
Sofía.
He answered in a neutral tone, trying not to betray the emotion that squeezed his chest.
"Hello?"
There was a second of silence before she spoke.
"Hello," her voice was low, lower than usual. "Don't be scared. I'm not calling because of... anything strange."
"I'm not scared," he replied, unable to hide the calm hearing her brought him.
Sofía sighed.
"I wanted to tell you that... that you can't look at me like that during class. You can't... do that."
Tomás fell silent. He knew he had done something, but he didn't know how to defend himself against something so natural. He wasn't looking at her to provoke her. He looked at her because it was inevitable.
"It wasn't my intention to make you uncomfortable."
"It's not about me," she cut him off, quicker than he expected. "It's about you. About the rumors. About everything. You can't keep giving people more to talk about, much less with me. I'm your teacher, Tomás. And you're my student. That's all there is between us."
The last sentence fell on him like a stone. Not because it was a surprise, but because the coldness with which it was said seemed deliberately constructed. As if she herself needed to believe it more than he did.
"I know," Tomás said, his voice hoarse. "Don't worry."
"And write," she added, a little more softly. "Just write. That's the only thing that should matter to you now. Your manuscript is the only thing between us that's worth keeping."
"Okay," he replied, as if accepting a sentence.
Silence settled between them like an old acquaintance. Neither wanted to break it, but neither knew what to say. Finally, Sofía spoke again, in a duller tone.
"Thank you for last night. The food, staying... taking care of me. You shouldn't have."
"It wasn't a sacrifice," he said. "It was the right thing to do."
"Sometimes doing the right thing is dangerous," she murmured.
He nodded, though she couldn't see him. And after another moment, she said goodbye.
"Take care, Tomás. Good night."
"Good night, Professor."
He hung up without adding anything else.
The room fell silent. Tomás put his phone on the nightstand, lay back in bed, and closed his eyes. The final sentence kept resonating in his chest: "that's all there is between us."
He wondered if it had ever been different. And what if she was right and he felt a certain weakness for women who suffered? No, that couldn't be true; a drop, or a couple, don't make a spring. The image of Soledad appeared in his mind immediately, her bright and expressive eyes. He preferred to silence those thoughts by writing; at least by doing so, he could feel some peace inhabiting him.