The days rushed by like water through his fingers.
Between preparing for the university entrance exam, working at the Big Root, and the writing that accompanied him every night like a prayer, Tomás barely noticed the passage of time. Sometimes he found himself writing until dawn, other times immersed in study books, but deep down, he knew he was well prepared. He had done what he needed to do.
Sunny would drop by occasionally to study with him, though studying with her was more a mix of laughter, distractions, and a few reviews. It was like trying to lecture a hyperactive puppy. But it gladdened his soul to have her near, even if she gave him gray hairs. He had grown up with her, in a way, and taking care of her was an act of affection as natural as breathing.
And then, without him quite realizing it, his birthday arrived.
He didn't expect it; he hadn't celebrated it in years. The date would pass like any other, without cakes or candles, without off-key songs. Not out of sadness, but because he had learned not to expect anything. And this year didn't seem different.
Except for one thing.
Sofía called him.
Early in the morning. Her voice, a warm whisper on the other end of the phone, was enough to bring light to his day.
"I thought I'd missed the time," she said, almost jokingly. "I couldn't not wish you happy birthday."
He smiled, feeling that familiar pang in his chest. He missed her more than he could say.
"You didn't have to… but thank you. It was exactly what I wanted."
They talked for a long time, about trivialities that avoided saying what they both wanted to say, but just by listening to each other, they both knew that the emotions sustaining them remained intact.
Hanging up was hard. As if, by doing so, the only real thing he had that day would end.
But what he didn't expect was what happened next.
When he went downstairs, already dressed, thinking about preparing breakfast as usual, he found Daniela and Amelie, both in the kitchen, waiting for him.
"Happy birthday, sleepyhead!" Daniela said, giving him an affectionate nudge on the arm.
"We thought you'd like company for breakfast," Amelie added, with that seemingly nonchalant expression that couldn't quite hide the affection in her gestures.
On the table was freshly toasted bread, scrambled eggs, and fresh juice. Nothing fancy. But it was the first time in years he hadn't eaten breakfast alone on his birthday, and that hit him harder than he could have imagined.
"Thank you," he said, with a genuine smile. "Seriously, thank you."
The day continued. He arrived at the Big Root early as always.
He didn't mention his birthday, of course. No one knew… or so he thought.
Near the end of his shift, as they were clearing the last tables, Laura approached him with a cup of coffee and a wry smile.
"Happy birthday, Lambert," she said, without ceremony.
Tomás looked at her, surprised.
"How did you know?"
"It's in your contract, silly. Did you think I don't check what I sign?"
They both laughed. It was a light laugh, the kind that doesn't last long but eases the chest.
"Thanks, Laura. Really."
"No cake or balloons," she replied, raising her eyebrows, "but you can take a freshly baked bun. Consider that your gift from the house."
When his shift ended, Tomás didn't go straight home. He found himself wandering the downtown streets, looking at the illuminated shop windows as night slowly settled over the city.
He passed storefronts displaying clothes, technology, toys that no longer spoke to him. Until he stopped in front of a bookstore.
There was something special about those lit shelves. The spines of the books lined up, the colorful covers, the signs announcing new releases.
He stood there, motionless, looking through the glass, as if searching for something he couldn't name. And he thought, for the first time with realism, that perhaps his book would be there someday. Seasons of Solitude could occupy a corner of that display, with his name written in small letters below the title.
He smiled. Not everything was so bad.
But the thought soon faded, replaced by that absent presence that crept into the hollows of his soul. Sofía.
More and more, her absence occupied more space than memory could contain. Sometimes he remembered her with joy: her jokes, her sarcasm, the way she hugged him from behind while he cooked. Other times, he missed her with an intensity that physically pained him.
He wanted to bury his face in her neck, feel her scent, the warmth of her skin… but he couldn't.
Because he didn't know if she would return soon.
Maybe a year.
Maybe two.
Or never.
Nineteen years old.
It wasn't much for some things. But for him, who had known loneliness as a second skin, it was an entire lifetime.
And what he had lived with Sofía, with all its chaos, its tenderness, and its farewell, had given that loneliness a new depth.
A denser one. Sweeter. Crueler.
He walked back home slowly, holding his bun wrapped in paper and the memory of a voice that had greeted him that morning.
It was a good birthday, he told himself.
And it was.
But it was also the loneliest of them all.
And perhaps, for that very reason, it was impossible to forget.
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The sound of the email landing in her inbox didn't surprise her. Since she'd been away, Sofía had been attentive to important messages, invitations to readings, editorial corrections, details of the award she had received. It was part of the new life she had chosen—the life that, in her youth, she had dreamed of and then buried under layers of fear and resignation.
But this message didn't come from a publishing house.
It came from him. Tomás.
"I accepted to publish Seasons of Loneliness. When it's published, check the epilogue, because I changed it before sending it."
She read it once. Then again. And then she stared at the blank screen, as if the words still floated in the air.
Her heart pounded fiercely, with an echo that expanded in her chest, an ancient echo, full of emotions that hadn't faded with distance, nor with the passing of days.
She was happy for him, of course she was. She had seen how that story grew, how they corrected it, how they polished it, how he shaped it until it was his, profoundly his. She had witnessed every word. Every sleepless night. Every emotion poured between the lines.
But now… it was real.
It would be published.
It would be read.
And most importantly: the epilogue.
She brought her hand to her chest, as if she could contain the impact those words caused.
There was something in how he said it. In that soft, almost indifferent way he dropped the most significant bombs of his life. It had always been like that. He never insisted, never pressured. He just gave, and waited.
She leaned back in the armchair of her small temporary apartment. From the window, the sunset colored the city's rooftops with warm tones, as if the world outside were calm, in absolute contrast to the tempest roaring inside her.
What had he written in that epilogue?
She could imagine it.
She could fear it.
Because if she knew him, and she knew him better than anyone, that epilogue wouldn't just be a literary closure. It would be a farewell. A final caress written in ink. A goodbye disguised as beauty.
And yet, she wouldn't open it yet.
She didn't want to read it at that moment, not because she didn't deserve it, but because she needed to be ready. She needed time to sit down and let what she found there hit her head-on, without witnesses, without distractions, without masks.
She took a deep breath.
That message reminded her of many things.
The way he looked at her while she wrote.
The way he prepared breakfast as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
His voice whispering "I love you" when he thought she was already asleep.
The way he never asked for anything in return, and yet had given everything.
And she also remembered the hardest part:
that she left.
That he had let her go without reproach, without pleas, with that serenity that hid a love so great it needed no conditions to exist.
Sometimes, when she allowed herself to close her eyes, she could still feel his embrace.
She could still hear the chime of his laughter.
And on the worst days, when words wouldn't flow, when insomnia visited her like a ghost, all she wanted was to turn back time and return to that silent routine they shared. To the warm soup. To their intertwined hands. To the quiet tenderness.
"Seasons of Loneliness…"
The title couldn't be more precise.
Because even though she was fulfilling her dream, even though she was about to publish too, even though everything seemed to be going in the right direction, nothing filled that space.
His space.
She sat down at her desk. The manuscript she was writing was halfway done. Sometimes it progressed quickly, other times she abandoned it for weeks. But now, something in her ignited again.
Perhaps it was time to finish it.
To tell the story they lived.
To tell what it meant to love like that, with days numbered.
And to say goodbye without anger, only with gratitude.
She took her pen.
And wrote only one sentence on the first page, as a title:
"The days I loved you."
Then she looked at her phone, and without thinking, sent him one last message that night:
"When I read it, I'll write to you.
I promise to do it calmly.
I promise not to cry too much."
And, as if he could hear her, as if her words pierced the distance, Sofía whispered:
"I still love you, you silly brat."
Then she went back to writing.
Because love, like true stories, doesn't fade.
It just changes form.
And she… carried it with her wherever she went.
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The city was still asleep when someone knocked at the apartment door.
Sofía, in her pajamas with a half-finished cup of coffee in her hands, frowned. She wasn't expecting anyone. Rarely did anyone come unannounced. She approached the door with a certain distrust and looked through the peephole.
A delivery person.
"Sofía Garay?"
"Yes… that's me."
"This is for you," he said, extending a long, rectangular package to her.
She took it. It was light, but firm. She recognized it even before looking at the label. A book.
The paper wrapping had no visible sender, but as soon as her fingers brushed the cardboard's texture, she knew who had sent it.
Tomás.
Her heart tightened for no apparent reason. She closed the door and walked slowly to her desk. The coffee was still steaming, but she no longer cared. She sat down. She carefully ran her fingers over the package's surface, as if it were something fragile.
She opened it delicately.
Inside, with its cover as familiar as the skin of an old wound, was the bound copy of "Seasons of Loneliness."
It was the published edition.
The official one.
The real one.
Her fingers trembled as she held it, and a pang of emotion shot through her chest. She turned it over. There was no note. No card. Just the book.
But she didn't need one.
She knew what was inside.
She opened the first page, reviewing it with reverential care, almost like someone touching a memory stored deep within. She slowly turned past the dedications, past the introduction. Her gaze stopped at the beginning of the epilogue. She felt her blood pounding in her ears.
"Sofía, if you ever read this, then you are reading the published version.
Thank you for being part of every word.
This epilogue is for you."
Her hands covered her lips. Her breath hitched.
She turned the page and began to read.
Every line spoke of what they had lived. Not with names, not with dates, not with explicit moments. But with truth. With tenderness. With a sincerity so luminous it hurt.
He spoke of a woman who was reborn, who started writing again, who started living again, and of a boy who was there to hold her when even she didn't know she wanted to be held. He spoke of soup days, of nights of shared silence, of books, of wines, of fleeting kisses that weren't part of any story and, yet, were everything.
And it ended like this:
"Perhaps I didn't know how to say everything I felt when you were still here.
Perhaps I never knew if it was right to do so.
But in every line I have written since, you are there.
I don't know if you will return.
I don't know if someday you will read this from where you are.
But if you do, I just want you to know:
Thank you for saving me.
Thank you for loving me, even if only for a short time.
I loved you too.
And I always will."
Sofía dropped the book and covered her face. She cried in silence, as if every word had found an exact corner in her chest and filled it with light, with gratitude, and with a sadness so beautiful she couldn't avoid it.
She stayed like that for a good while.
With the book open on her lap, tears falling unashamedly, and her heart beating with the strength of something that never disappeared.
Then she sat up, took out her phone, and wrote a message.
Just one.
"I read it.
Thank you for loving me.
I carry you with me too."
Then she held the book to her chest, closed her eyes, and for the first time since she had left, she didn't feel so far from home.