Chapter 4: The Cracks
Three weeks. That's how long I've been seeing Alex in the corner every day. Three weeks of sharing that notebook that is now full of our words and drawings. Three weeks of feeling like, for the first time in years, someone actually sees me.
But life doesn't stop just because you found someone who understands you.
It's Friday night. I'm in my room, trying to read, when I hear the front door open. The unmistakable sound of keys falling onto the floor. Heavy, irregular footsteps.
My dad is home.
My heart immediately speeds up. It's a reaction I hate, but can't control. Seven years after Mom died, he still hasn't learned to live with that pain. He's only learned to drown it in alcohol.
I go down the stairs slowly. My grandfather is already in the dining room, wearing the tired expression he always has when this happens.
"Go to your room, Sofi," he tells me.
But I can't move. Because my dad is sitting on the couch, his head in his hands, and he's crying.
"I didn't want it to be like this," he murmurs. "I didn't want... any of this."
My grandmother approaches, trying to lift him.
"Come on, Héctor. Go to sleep."
But he pushes her away. He sees me. His eyes are red, lost.
"You look so much like her," he says. "More and more every day. And it hurts. It hurts so much to see you and remember what I lost."
The words hit me like stones. It's not the first time he's said something like that, but it never stops hurting.
"Dad, please," I say, my voice cracking. "Go to sleep."
"I don't want to sleep. I dreamt of her last night. And when I woke up and she wasn't here... it was like losing her all over again."
My grandfather finally grabs his arm, lifting him forcefully.
"That's enough, Héctor. That's enough."
I watch them go up the stairs. I hear the bedroom door close. And I stay there, standing, feeling how everything I built in these three weeks—that small light Alex brought—dims a little.
My grandmother hugs me.
"It's not your fault, my love. He's sick."
But I know it's not that simple. It never is.
On Monday, Alex notices something the moment he sees me.
"What happened?"
"Nothing."
"Sofía."
He looks at me in that way he has, as if he can see through the lies. I sigh.
"My dad had a bad night. That's all."
"Does he do that often?"
I don't answer. Instead, I open the notebook to a new page and write:
"Sometimes the people who hurt you the most are the ones you love the most. And that's the worst part of all."
Alex reads. Then he takes the pencil and draws something: a person carrying a backpack full of stones, but walking forward anyway.
"My old man left when I was born," he says suddenly. "I never met him. And my mom… she does what she can, but she works all the time. It's just my sister Lucía and me. And most of the time, I feel like I'm the one raising her, not my mom."
It's the first time he's spoken about his family. I realize we've been sharing so much, but always in metaphors, in drawings and loose phrases. Never directly.
"How old is your sister?" I ask.
"Twelve. She's a good kid, but… I don't know. Sometimes I look at her and wonder if she feels that way too. Alone. Pretending everything is okay."
"Have you asked her?"
"I don't know how."
I understand exactly what he means. There are conversations that feel impossible to have, even though they are the most necessary ones.
"My dad wasn't always like this," I say. "When my mom was alive, he was… different. He made me laugh. He took me to the park. But when she died in that accident, something in him died too. And what's left is this: a ghost who drinks to forget and who looks at me as if I were a living reminder of what he lost."
Alex doesn't say anything. He just takes my hand.
It's a simple gesture, but it means everything.