On Sundays, Tomás maintained his routine of waking up early. He cleaned the house carefully, making sure not to wake anyone, and left breakfast ready. However, he ate nothing. The weight of everything that had happened during the week still weighed on him like an anvil. The peace and silence he so desperately sought had become unreachable, and the days to come promised to be no less turbulent. He still had to talk to Anaís, search for information about the professor's family, and give shape to a new novel that was already simmering in his mind. He had no shortage of ideas; it was time, the spirit, that seemed to slip through his fingers like sand.
After finishing his chores, he went for a aimless walk. The city streets embraced him in his melancholy, and his thoughts swirled as he walked the worn cobblestones and narrow passages that seemed to whisper stories of other times. The echoes of Bella, Professor Krikett, and his own loneliness accompanied him like persistent shadows. Several times, the temptation to call Soledad crossed his mind, but he resisted. He feared appearing needy, dependent. At his young age, he already understood that showing vulnerability was like exposing an open chest to a knife. He couldn't afford it.
The walk led him, almost unconsciously, to the seashore. He took off his sneakers and let the cool sand sift through his toes as he walked along the water. The waves, like him, came and went aimlessly, and although the sky was clear and the temperature pleasant, the autumn breeze whispered the inevitable omen of winter.
His mind wandered through possibilities. How could he find the information he was looking for? Perhaps if he located the address of the professor's old school, he could track down his family. It seemed like a logical, simple plan, but he couldn't shake the feeling that something else was missing, as if the real obstacle was within himself.
He was deep in these thoughts when the figure of a woman dressed in black appeared before him. The sun fell on her, bathing her in an ethereal glow that made her look like an apparition. Tomás squinted, seeking clarity, and when he finally recognized the face, his chest tightened. Black hair, pale skin... There was no doubt. It was Sofía. She recognized him too, and what crossed her gaze was a flicker of uneasiness, almost repulsion, as if she had just encountered a ghost from her own past.
"Of all the people I could have run into in this small town..." Sofía said, her voice imbued with a mixture of contempt and bitterness that would have shattered anyone.
Tomás straightened, trying not to be affected by the initial blow. "I suppose subtlety isn't your strong suit, Professor," he retorted with an ironic smile.
Sofía's eyes widened, and she brought her hands to her mouth. "I'm sorry... it was an impulse."
"Who wouldn't have the natural impulse to insult a student? It's the same desire that arises in me when I see a professor: to accept their humiliations," Tomás replied, his voice laden with sarcasm.
She took a step forward, digging her bare feet into the sand. "Don't play the victim now. You insulted me on the first day of class. Let me have this one."
Tomás's laugh broke the silence between them. "I didn't imagine you'd be so shameless. But since you're not at work and I'm not in class, I'm going to pretend we don't know each other and I'll go my way in complete silence. How does that plan sound?"
Sofía frowned. "Are you planning to leave me alone and embarrassed on this huge beach?"
"Weren't you alone a moment ago?"
She let out a sigh, almost of resignation. "Don't act tough. Come with me. We need to talk. And don't use 'usted' with me; you make me feel like an old woman."
"It's a deal then," Tomás said, offering her his hand. He had promised Professor Krikett to give her a chance, and although his instinct screamed at him to keep his guard up, he decided to keep his word. "I'll accompany you until you're satisfied or fed up with me. Or both at the same time."
Sofía looked at Tomás's extended hand, hesitating for an instant, before shaking it. The gesture sealed a silent pact, but both knew that this was fragile ground, full of thorns that could pierce them at any moment.
They walked together along the shore, their steps leaving parallel prints in the wet sand. Sometimes they laughed as they escaped the waves that threatened to drench them, and although the atmosphere seemed light, every word carried an invisible weight.
"I finished your novel the same day you gave it to me," Sofía said suddenly, breaking the silence.
Tomás looked at her sideways, alert. "Don't hold back. I'm used to criticism. Professor Krikett was quite harsh."
Sofía offered a slight smile. "I need to give it another read for a professional critique. What I'm going to tell you is as a reader. It's an addictive novel, very intense. The characters have a life of their own, and the suffering of each one feels real. But..." she paused, bringing her hand to her chin, as if searching for the right words, "...it's a book that doesn't leave a good taste. There's too much darkness, too much sadness."
"Something like that, to be honest," he didn't want to tell her that he wrote that novel when Amelia rejected him; that was too pathetic.
She stopped abruptly, grabbing Tomás's shirt to make him stop too. Their eyes met in a silent, deep exchange.
"I wrote something similar at your age," Sofía admitted, her voice barely a whisper.
Tomás felt a slight shiver run down his spine. "The professor told me you won an award with that work. I looked for it, but I couldn't find it. I guess you used a pseudonym or something."
Sofía nodded slowly. "Of course I used a pseudonym. I was too young and didn't want trouble. But I'm serious, Tomás: writing like that is painful. There's too much of you in that novel, isn't there?"
Tomás looked away, uncomfortable. "Does it change anything if that's true or not? The important thing is that the plot moves forward. Whether it's based on my life or not matters little."
"Let's sit over there." They both walked to find the dry sand and sat looking at the horizon. "Tell me the truth..."
"You tell me the truth. If you insist so much on knowing why I do it this way, it's because you have something against it. It doesn't seem like simple professional concern to me."
"I have nothing to say."
"Then neither do I."
Sofía watched him intently, as if trying to decipher him. "Don't act like a child. We're not talking about my novel, but about yours."
Tomás closed his eyes for an instant, feeling the pressure increase. "And you? Why didn't you write anything after your first novel?"
The question dropped like a stone in the water, causing a silent but profound impact. Sofía's face paled, and her hands trembled as she clutched Tomás's shirt.
Tomás didn't stop there. "I told you what you need to know. Do you want me to tell you about my private life? Would you tell me yours? Why would someone who won such an important award only write their debut novel and nothing else?"
"It's none of your business!" she suddenly shouted, her voice broken by emotion. "Don't meddle in my life!"
Tomás looked at her harshly, and his reply was a cold echo. "Then don't meddle in mine."
He pulled free from Sofía's grip and stepped back, his face hardened by contained rage. "I suppose I shouldn't have opened the door. Please, close it tightly when you leave."
Sofía stood petrified, watching him walk away with a distraught look. Somehow, intimidated, there was fear in her nervous gaze.
Tomás walked away without turning back once, but his heart pounded fiercely. He was so angry that, had he found a wall on the beach, he would have punched it without hesitation. However, his thoughts stopped abruptly when he felt a weight pull him down onto the sand, crashing him down.
"Don't leave, you bastard!" Sofía yelled with a mixture of fury and urgency, her voice echoing over the sway of the sea. "Didn't you say you'd stay until I was fed up with you or satisfied? Well, I'm not satisfied, nor am I fed up. You can't leave yet."
Only then did he notice that Tomás's face was embedded in the sand. His body, partially covered by the golden grains, moved slowly.
"Sorry... forgive me, please." Sofía scrambled off him, grabbing his clothes to help him up. Sand fell from his face as if the beach itself clung to his skin.
"Now you want me dead, you idiot?" Tomás spat, shaking off the sand with rough swipes, sneezes, and spits.
"Hey, you can't insult me like that. I'm your teacher."
"You insulted me first, not once, but twice. And you slammed my face into the sand. What on earth were you thinking?"
"That you weren't going to keep your promise." Sofía looked directly into his eyes, as if to challenge him. "Are you one of those who make promises and then forget them? One of those traitors?"
"I always keep my word. You're the one who insists on prying where you shouldn't, and when someone asks you a question back, you act like a bully."
Sofía's head lowered slowly. Her voice softened, laden with contained regret. "I got carried away. I'm truly sorry. But you just don't listen to me. You criticize everything I say. Do you think you're my professor?"
Tomás scoffed, incredulous. "I'm going to say what I please, because that's what talking is about. Here, you're not my professor, we're not in high school." He sat on the sand and continued shaking off the remnants clinging to his clothes. Then he looked at her sideways. "You could have just called me. Was it necessary to tackle me?"
"I already apologized. Do you want me to humiliate myself?"
Tomás returned a furious, almost scorching gaze. "Don't copy what I say. And I'm not angry anymore. Forgive me too. Thanks to you, I didn't break my promise. Can we start over?"
Sofía looked at him for a few seconds before extending her hand with a faint, almost timid smile. "I'm trying."
Tomás took her hand, squeezing it gently. "I didn't know you could smile like that too."
"Do you want me to slap you?" Sofía replied with a mix of sarcasm and resignation. Then, she sighed and squeezed Tomás's hand for an instant longer than necessary. Her fingers touched his rough skin, marked by physical labor. "Do you work somewhere?"
"Of course, though not for much longer. I was fired this week. It was a regrettable end, and honestly, I'm going to miss it."
"That novel is based on your story there, right?"
Tomás nodded, looking towards the horizon where the waves crashed powerfully against the shore. "In a way, yes. It's fiction, but not all of it. Curiously, some things happened after the novel was finished, as if it were a kind of prophecy. It was as fun as it was painful at the same time."
"So the characters in the book are based on the people you worked with?"
"Something like that. But they're better at their own game. Traitors only know how to betray. The loyal ones stay until the end. Those who love do it with all their heart. In real life, however, no one follows that pattern. Everyone pretends to be something they're not, like pieces on a board that never stops. And even though I've left that place, I feel like I'm still trapped in the damn game."
Sofía watched him attentively, her gaze filled with curiosity and something that could be interpreted as pity. "You should be honest, like in the book."
Tomás turned to her, his eyes narrowed, cold as steel. "You know well what the final outcome would be. But, anyway, it has nothing to do with the novel."
"You're the one who started mixing reality with fiction," Sofía retorted, her voice charged with a silent accusation. "Don't you think your actions are what the protagonist of your book would do in the same situation? Don't you do it to bring your own stories to life?"
The question landed like a hammer blow, but Tomás didn't hesitate. He returned a chilling, unsettling gaze. "Don't joke about that. My life is one thing, books are the damn books. I vent in them. I don't pretend to turn reality into fiction; I'm not sick. And yes, there are things similar to my real life because, for your information, my life is shit. It always has been and always will be. At least I have the right to write about it. Didn't you do the same?"
Sofía felt a knot in her throat. Her lips moved, but no words came out. The expression on her face betrayed her: pity, helplessness. "Don't do something you'll regret later."
"Don't give me life lessons. I'm doing the best I can with the little I have." Tomás crossed his arms, in a defensive posture, but his tone was honest, vulnerable. "And yes, this is my writing method, for now. But nothing indicates it will be forever."
Sofía sighed, letting her body fall onto the sand, as if the weight of the conversation had exhausted her. She didn't care about her dress or her hair. "Writers are complicated creatures. It's as if their minds live more in fantasy than in reality. I did it, and I made too many mistakes. Now I can't even write a novel. Ideas vanish from my head before I can give them form."
"Are you afraid?"
"I used to be. Now there's only frustration and hopelessness." Sofía raised a hand to shield herself from the sun directly hitting her eyes. "Do you know how long I've had the same first draft?"
Tomás raised an eyebrow. "No idea. But considering you published your first novel at nineteen and you're twenty-seven now... maybe nine or ten years?"
"More or less." A bitter smile formed on her lips. "Ten pages. Ten damn pages I've rewritten over and over again. I can't delete them because that would mean accepting that I stopped being a writer."
"Why don't you delete them and start over?"
"Because deleting would mean giving up, and I don't know if I can bear it."
For an instant, Tomás looked at her in silence. Then, in a calmer voice, he said: "I'll write so much that one of my works will be published. I'm sure of it."
"How envious." Sofía closed her eyes, letting out a sigh of resignation. "In your book, there was an older woman. What kind of relationship do you have with her?"
Tomás looked down, uncomfortable. "Is it necessary for me to say?"
"It's not essential, but I think it would do you good to tell."
"What's wrong? Now you think you're my psychologist?"
"Don't be an idiot. Remember I'm your professor and I can fail you if you don't answer."
Tomás laughed, a bitter laugh. "How professional of you to resort to threats."
"If it's so hard for you to answer, it's because there's something there," Sofía said, watching Tomás intently, as if she wanted to dissect him with her gaze. "You usually don't evade my questions. You even talk about the girls who left you, and although you're careful not to mention your family, you have no problem admitting that it's not exactly functional. So, if this time you're avoiding the topic so much, it must be because there's something hidden." She paused, raising an eyebrow mischievously. "Who would have thought our young Tomás had a weakness for sleeping with older women? I feel a little insecure right now."
The comment, biting but full of provocative intentions, hadn't fully left her lips when Tomás's hand closed tightly around her wrist. His gaze, distraught and full of barely contained anger, forced her to retreat from her usual tone.
"Don't talk about her. Don't talk about her like that." His voice was deep, trembling, but firm. "You can say whatever you want about me, but don't speak ill of her."
He took a shaky breath before continuing: "She's special to me."
Sofía tilted her head, bewildered. "Special? In what sense?"
Tomás swallowed painfully and released her wrist, letting his hands fall onto his knees. His voice lost strength, becoming almost a whisper:
"I'm very fond of her. She's a wonderful woman, and I'd like her to be truly happy. She's trapped in a storm right now, but no storm lasts forever."
"I see," Sofía murmured, with a hint of doubt in her words. "That doesn't fully answer the question. In your book, the protagonist had a relationship with the employee. Do you have that relationship with her?"
"No."
"Do you desire her?"
Tomás lay back on the sand, letting his body relax, though his expression was far from conveying calm.
"If I could give her more than affection, I would certainly want her with me. But she needs something I can't give her. The only thing I can do for her is to be there when she needs me."
"And if she asked you to sleep with her?" Sofía asked, her tone firm, but in her eyes, there was a mixture of curiosity and genuine concern. "Would you help her break her own marriage?"
Tomás's answer came without hesitation, laden with an intensity that left Sofía speechless for a moment.
"I would do whatever is in my power. I don't care about the consequences. If she needs me and I can do it, I will. No matter what it is."
"You're crazy, Tomás. You're a ticking time bomb. Unstable women can ask you for any madness, and you would do it to make them momentarily happy. Use reason. Don't let your heart cloud it. Passion must be there, yes, but it cannot drive all your actions. Think about yourself, about what's good for you and for her."
Tomás sat up slightly, his face tense, as if every word he uttered cost him the world.
"Would you prefer that she stayed with her husband?" he asked, his voice broken by indignation. "That unfaithful bastard who parades in front of her nose with the woman with whom he unleashes his disgusting lust."
Sofía closed her eyes and covered her face with both hands. Her whisper was barely audible:
"I don't know. It's not something we can decide. It's something she has to resolve."
"Then you're one of those who watches someone get beaten in the street without lifting a finger because 'it's their decision to defend themselves'." Tomás's voice rose a notch, laden with a contained rage that finally overflowed. "That damn bastard not only cheated on her. It wasn't enough to betray her, he had to parade with his mistress in front of one of the kindest people I've ever known. I should rip his damn eyes out." He took a deep breath, as if trying to contain himself, but his tears betrayed his effort. "If it weren't for the fact that she doesn't want to destroy everything, I swear that seeing everything burn in flames wouldn't have been enough to calm this rage."
Sofía, unable to hold his gaze, looked away towards the horizon.
"You don't understand. I don't love her. We don't have that kind of relationship, if that's what you meant. Nothing has ever happened between us. I simply adore her. She's a wonderful woman, with a big heart. She was always good to me, and I don't want to see her suffer." His voice broke, a contained sob. "What can I do for her? I wish I knew. Because if I don't do something soon, I think I'll go crazy."
Sofía slowly sat up and extended her hand towards Tomás, gently touching his shirt.
"The arrogance of someone who wants to give advice can be very tough. I'm not going to tell you not to do anything, but at least don't do something you might regret later."
Tomás looked at her with a mixture of sadness and resignation.
"Don't think badly of me for these dark feelings, but I can't just let it go."
"Believe me, I understand you very well."
At that moment, the sound of Tomás's cell phone interrupted the silence. He took the phone from his pocket and read the message. Sofía watched as his face darkened even more, as if the words he was reading were the final blow to an already wounded heart.
"What happened?" Sofía asked, in a low voice, almost fearing the answer. "You seem to be on the verge of taking a thorny path."
Tomás sighed deeply, letting the phone slide through his fingers until it fell into the sand.
"It's her. She wants to see me today."
"Are you afraid?"
"No. I'm not afraid to follow this path. I know it's tortuous, but I can't leave her alone." He fell back onto the sand, his eyes fixed on the sky. Another tear rolled down his cheek. His voice came out broken, almost inaudible. "I know what I have to do, but I also know that I won't come out of this unscathed. I'm sure that in the end everything will work out for her, but I... I'll be left alone."
Sofía looked at him in silence, her lips pressed together, as if trying to contain the words that struggled to come out. Finally, she said:
"It's your decision, Tomás. And perhaps it's your responsibility, because you gave her hope when no one else did. But don't let that responsibility devour you."
Tomás closed his eyes, letting the weight of the conversation sink him a little deeper into the sand. He knew Sofía was right. But reason, at that moment, was the cruelest of counselors.
They stayed there for a long time, looking at the sky, barely moving, trapped in a silence full of cracks. Sofía still held Tomás's shirt, as if somehow, that simple gesture could keep him anchored, prevent him from plunging into the abyss she saw coming. She didn't want to know more about him, his life, his family, or his sorrows, but she also couldn't let him go. Although she disliked admitting it, perhaps fate had put her there for a reason. She didn't want to bear this responsibility, but how could she ignore him now? Not at that moment, not under those conditions.
"Professor Krikett used to work at a private school, San Uriel Seminary," she said at last, breaking the silence.
Tomás looked at her sideways, as if something lit a small spark inside him.
"I know where it is," he replied, allowing himself a slight smile, a flicker of hope amidst the exhaustion. "I guess now I know where I can start."
"Don't get into trouble," Sofía warned, her tone dry, though carrying a genuine warning. "I don't agree with your idea, but maybe... maybe you'll achieve something he couldn't himself."
They talked for hours, between jokes and small arguments, laughing and insulting each other with a lightness that barely hid the weight of everything that floated between them. But both knew that this peace was fleeting, a mirage in the middle of an emotional desert. Peace, like happiness, was nothing more than a brief and bitter wink.
"Starting tomorrow, everything goes back to normal," Sofía said suddenly, her voice abrupt, almost cutting. "We are not friends. We are student and teacher. Do you understand?"
"You didn't even have to say it," Tomás retorted, his tone laden with sarcasm. "It's something I understand very well. It's normal for adults to treat minors as children, to put themselves in a superior position, to separate worlds, to classify friendships. All so it's easier to carry fewer responsibilities, right? But don't worry. I know my place. I'm a stupid teenager, just another student, and that's where I'll stay. That way you can go home, tell yourself 'what a silly child!', and reaffirm how adult you are."
Sofía pressed her lips together, her brow furrowed tightly.
"Too much fuss for a child. You complain because you are what you are. Children always complain and want to be treated like adults. But as soon as they are treated as such, they run away and claim again to be seen as children. That's why I treat you for what you are: a stupid teenager who claims to be something he's not."
"Do you really think I want to be an adult?" Tomás stood up from the sand with a sudden movement, shaking himself fiercely. "Do you really think being eighteen years older will make any difference? I'd rather be a stupid teenager than a hypocritical adult. But don't worry. I know how to play this game. I'll be a good boy. I'll pretend we haven't talked about anything. I'll pretend you can't laugh, or be violent, or foul-mouthed, or have problems, or make mistakes. I'll pretend you can do everything. And I'll do it so well that even you'll believe it."
Sofía had no time to respond. Her hand rose like a whip, swift and precise. The blow echoed in the air, a dry crack that seemed to shatter any semblance of peace left between them. The force of the impact was such that Tomás stepped back, his face contorted with pain.
A thin trickle of blood emerged from his split lip, and a fine cut on his cheek began to burn where one of Sofía's rings had left its mark.
He looked at her then, his eyes moist but cold, and managed a twisted, bitter smile that seemed more a challenge than a gesture of resignation.
"Here's the mature adult, reacting with violence when the truth is put in their face. But don't worry, Professor." He ran his tongue over his broken lip, savoring the blood as if it were some kind of trophy. "I'm already practicing to be the best student. We don't know each other at all. You're my teacher, I'm the stupid student. How am I doing? Do you like it?"
Sofía, her face flushed with anger, clenched her fists so tightly that her nails dug into her palms.
"You're doing well." Her voice was tense, contained, her words dragged out by a fury that had not yet subsided. "You'll do great when you stop being an ignorant and insolent brat."
Tomás made an exaggerated bow, leaning in ironically. "Thank you, Professor. Have a good day. I'm leaving."
He didn't wait for a reply. He turned around and began to walk away, leaving a trail of red drops in the sand. Sofía watched him leave, his figure growing smaller with each step, until he finally disappeared.
Only then did she look down at her hand, which was still trembling. It burned, as if the blow had not only marked Tomás, but herself as well. The sharp pain in her palm was an echo of something deeper, something she couldn't calm with deep breaths.
"What's wrong with me?" she murmured to herself, barely a whisper.
Sofía took a deep breath, trying to hold back the tears that threatened to fall. She turned, slowly walking away, while the echo of her own actions continued to resonate in her mind. Every step she took sank her deeper into a sense of desolation that she couldn't ignore, a desolation that had accompanied her since she was Tomás's age.
She arrived at her apartment and let her body fall onto the bed, exhausted. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, but the memory of the blow, of Tomás's bloody face, and of her own fury, haunted her.
It was almost as if, by hitting him, she had also hit the younger version of herself.