Soledad hurried along the crowded city sidewalks. She had left work late, and the day had slipped through her fingers like sand. As she rounded the corner towards the bus stop, something caught her eye: a familiar figure, waiting in the shelter's shade, a backpack slung over his shoulder, his gaze lost in thought.
Her heart skipped a beat. Tomás.
For an instant, the world stopped. The people around her, the roar of engines, even the ticking of the traffic light seemed to fade. It was him, and yet, it wasn't. His hair was a little longer, his posture a bit more upright, but there was something in his face that remained unmistakable: that blend of melancholy and strength he had always carried.
Without a second thought, Soledad started walking towards him. At first, her steps faltered, but then they grew firmer, almost a run. She didn't even know what she would say if she reached him. "Hi, how are you? I'm sorry. I miss you." No words seemed sufficient, but still she felt she had to try.
When she was a few meters away, the bus arrived. She watched Tomás climb aboard with slow steps, as if he were in no hurry to get anywhere. She wanted to shout his name, but the words caught in her throat. She could only stand there, watching the bus slowly pull away.
However, before the vehicle disappeared into the distance, Tomás turned his head towards the window. He looked at her for a brief moment, and a barely perceptible smile formed on his lips. It wasn't a wide or warm smile, but there was no resentment in it either. It was faint, almost sad, with melancholy in it, but sincere.
Soledad remained motionless on the sidewalk, her eyes fixed on the bus disappearing into traffic. A tear slipped down her cheek, but this time it wasn't from guilt or pain. Perhaps, just perhaps, that smile had been forgiveness. And though she would never hear the words, she preferred to think it was so.
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The afternoon sun streamed through the apartment window, warm and serene, bathing the dust-covered furniture that Tomás had so diligently cleaned. He had opened the windows to air out the stale air, as he did every time he came, even though no one else set foot in the place for months. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee mingled with that of wood cleaner and a faint trace of lavender.
He had placed one cup on the dining room table and another next to his own, out of habit, out of stubbornness… or out of affection. He didn't know exactly why, but every time he came to clean, he left a cup for her.
Just in case she came back.
Two years had passed since her departure. Two years in which he had continued with his life, his studies, his writing. Sometimes happy, other times filled with a serene nostalgia, like someone remembering a beautiful song that no longer played. He didn't expect her every day, but he never stopped thinking about her.
He was in her bedroom, carefully arranging books on the shelf, when he heard it.
The sound of a key turning in the lock.
He froze.
It wasn't possible.
His heart began to pound fiercely, so much so that he felt his pulse thrumming in his ears. He walked into the hallway with slow, controlled steps, almost fearing it was an illusion.
And then he saw her.
There she was.
Sofía.
Standing in the doorway, gripping the doorknob, a small suitcase beside her, and her eyes shining with contained emotion. Her hair was a little longer, her skin slightly tanned by the sun, and a smile that broke down all his defenses.
"Hello," she said, almost a whisper. "Is there coffee?"
Tomás couldn't speak immediately. His chest ached from holding back the emotion. He took a couple of steps towards her, slowly, as if he didn't want the moment to break.
"There's always coffee," he finally managed to say.
She let the suitcase fall to the floor, not caring about anything else. Their steps met halfway down the hallway. And then they embraced.
There were no words.
There were no questions.
There were no explanations.
Only a long, strong, warm hug. A hug that contained all the silences, all the days, all the thoughts that had crossed between them during that time. The world disappeared in that instant, and the only sound that remained was that of their hearts, beating in unison.
"I'm back," she whispered, her voice broken. "I don't know for how long. I don't know how everything will be. But I'm back."
Tomás held her tighter. He closed his eyes and stroked her back with the same delicacy with which one caresses a cherished memory that finally becomes real.
"You're home," he replied. "That's all that matters."
And she, without letting go, rested her forehead against his chest. For an instant, they were neither writer nor professor, neither past nor future. They were just them, with all they had lived on their shoulders, but with their souls intact.
The coffee grew cold on the table.
But neither of them cared.
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The salty wind caressed the old facades of the coastal neighborhood, carrying with it the scent of salt, freshly baked bread, and something more… something new.
Tomás pushed open the glass door of a small restaurant on the corner. It didn't have a sign yet, just a handwritten note in black marker taped to the window: "Opening Soon."
It was a modest, charming spot. Light wooden tables, white curtains, fresh plants in the windows, and that comforting smell of basil, tomato, and strong coffee.
Bella stood behind the counter, wearing a gray apron and her hair tied in a high bun. She was checking a list, concentrated, but when she saw him enter, she looked up and smiled.
"You're just in time, the coffee's just brewed," she said with that voice that had once been so familiar, now more serene, more at peace.
Tomás walked to the counter with calm steps.
"What about the chairs?" he asked.
"They arrive tomorrow. But I still like seeing it empty for now. It's like a blank canvas."
He nodded, understanding more than she said.
Bella had decided to start over, far from everything that had been painful. She had taken what was left of herself and turned it into a warm place, into this simple restaurant that still smelled of beginnings. And though Tomás wasn't part of this new world, not entirely, he was there to lend a hand if she needed it. And she had accepted that help.
In one corner of the place, a table was occupied. Sofía was drinking coffee alone, at the only table for now, with a half-closed notebook, reading as steam rose from her cup. Seeing Tomás arrive, she looked up and gave him a soft, almost imperceptible smile, but he felt it immediately.
That scene—Bella starting, Sofía observing, him walking between them—seemed like an instant suspended in time.
An old story finding its peace.
A new story blossoming.
And between them, he, simply grateful.
Bella returned to her notebook with her notes and Tomás sat down next to Sofía.
"Do you think it'll do well?" he asked, looking at Bella.
"I think so. Sometimes you have to hit rock bottom to know how to build again. And she's building something beautiful."
Tomás nodded, looking at the place as it filled with light from the afternoon.
Yes. Sometimes, even the most broken hearts can become home again.
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The evening sun slowly fell over the city, dyeing the streets a warm, soft gold. The air was light, mild, as if the world was calmly breathing after a long winter. People walked at a slow pace along the sidewalks, some with bags of books, others with ice cream in hand, as if celebrating the season was an everyday act.
Tomás and Sofía walked side by side, unhurried. Their hands intertwined. The silence between them was comfortable, full.
They had been open for a while now. There was no longer any need to hide. They could walk together without a shadow chasing them, they could go out to eat in broad daylight, talk without measuring their words, laugh without guilt. They slept in the same bed without counting the days. They woke up with the certainty that the other would be there, and that, for both of them, was a new form of happiness.
Turning a downtown corner, they stopped in front of a bookstore window.
Sofía was the first to stand still. Tomás looked at her and, following her gaze, understood why.
They were all there.
"Seasons of Loneliness", with its autumnal cover, occupied a special place in the display, like a silent witness to a path that had almost broken him in two.
Right next to it was "It Was You", with a dedication that only she had read first, with words that would never die as long as that book existed.
And next to both, was Sofía's book: "The Days I Loved You." A title that was an open, straightforward confession. A letter without a sender, but with an obvious recipient.
Tomás swallowed. He didn't need words. Sofía squeezed his hand tightly.
"Are you okay?" he asked, in a low voice, almost afraid of breaking the moment's magic.
She nodded, without taking her eyes off the glass.
"I've never been better."
It wasn't pride they felt. It was something deeper. Gratitude.
To life, for having given them back to each other.
To words, for having been their bridge when the heart didn't know how to speak.
To shared days, silences, tears, laughter, stolen hugs, and necessary goodbyes.
And above all, to love. Because it had survived even distance.
Tomás looked at her. In her eyes, there was no longer any storm, no shadow, no weight.
Only light.
The same light he had once quietly cared for, and that now returned to him like a lit beacon.
She smiled.
"Shall we go?"
"Where to?"
"Home," she replied. "Wherever you are."
Tomás didn't answer. He just looked at her tenderly and kissed her forehead, with the intact sweetness of those days when love was impossible. But not now. Now it was present.
They crossed the street and walked away among the people, as the storefronts faded behind them.
Autumn would come soon,
then winter,
spring,
and another summer.
But this time, the seasons wouldn't be of loneliness. This time, they would have each other.
They passed the bookstore one last time before going home.
The covers shone under the soft twilight.
"Seasons of Loneliness", "It Was You", "The Days I Loved You."
Tomás took Sofía's hand firmly, she intertwined her fingers with his as if she had never let go.
"See?" she said, with a faint smile. "It wasn't wasted time."
Tomás looked at the books, then looked at her, and replied:
"No. It was the most beautiful story I've ever lived."
And they kept walking, unhurried, unafraid.
Because now, at last, they could write the rest together.
The End.