Sofia
Sofia closed her apartment door behind her. She had wandered for hours after her encounter with her student, a weight on her chest that seemed to drag her to the ground. The click of the lock echoed dully, amplified by the emptiness of the place. She took off her shoes, leaving them by the entrance, but didn't bother to put them in order, as if she no longer had the strength to do so.
The apartment was small, a refuge she had chosen out of necessity rather than desire. There was hardly any furniture: an old sofa that seemed to groan every time she sat on it, a worn wooden table, and a single chair she used for eating or for writing and rewriting a manuscript that wasn't progressing. The white walls were bare, save for a photograph of her parents, hung in a corner, almost invisible in the shadows of the night. The rest of the space was empty, devoid of any detail that could give it a touch of warmth.
Sofia walked towards the kitchen, opening the refrigerator to look for something—anything would do—but there were only two things inside: water and wine. She took out a half-finished bottle of wine and a glass, but didn't bother to look for a corkscrew; it was already open. She slumped onto the sofa with the bottle in one hand and the glass in the other, and poured some of the dark liquid, which swirled as it fell.
The first sip burned her throat, just a little, but that burn was preferable to the one she felt in her chest. It was always better to numb her emotions with alcohol, to allow the sharp edges of her thoughts to wear down until they were easier to ignore.
She looked around the apartment, her refuge and her prison. It was a place to hide from the world, but also a constant reminder of her loneliness. On nights like this, she felt small, lost in a space she had never managed to fill.
Her gaze fixed on the photograph of her parents, the only decoration she had allowed herself. What would they think if they saw her now? What would they say if they knew what she had become? Her mother used to say that Sofia had a brilliant mind, a promising future. Now, with a glass of wine in her hand and a deafening silence around her, that promise seemed distant, almost unrecognizable.
The memory of Tomás invaded her thoughts, like a specter she couldn't shake. His gaze filled with rage, his defiant smile. There was something about him that infuriated and moved her at the same time, a mixture of arrogance and vulnerability that completely unsettled her.
"Why did I react like that?" she murmured, bringing a hand to her forehead. "God... what's wrong with me?"
But she had no answers, only an empty glass and a bottle that emptied with every sip she took. She knew alcohol wouldn't fix anything, but for now, it was enough to make her forget, if only for a while.
She rested her head on the back of the sofa, closing her eyes as the world blurred around her. In the gloom of her refuge, with the wine muffling the screams in her mind, she allowed herself to sink into oblivion. Because at the end of the day, it was easier to numb the pain than to face it.