Bella's message told him to wait at seven at the old train station, a place that seemed torn from time. Decades of abandonment had left their mark on the peeling walls and weather-beaten benches. It was a forgotten place, like so many things in Tomás's life, a reflection of what he felt inside. Not even children played there; it was a dead corner of the city, isolated and enveloped in a silence that seemed deeper than anywhere else.
When he arrived at the parking lot, it was still an hour before the agreed time. He sat on one of the benches, old, splintered wood that creaked under his weight. He had arrived early on purpose. Not because he wanted to see Bella sooner, but because he needed that time, that desolate space, to gather the courage he knew he would need. It was a moment to face his own thoughts, to calm the shouts of uncertainty resonating within him. He closed his eyes and clasped his hands, like someone praying for strength, though he didn't direct his pleas to anyone. He just wanted to summon the necessary courage to endure whatever was to come.
Time passed with an almost physical agony. Each second seemed to stretch interminably, as if the universe wanted to test his patience. His heart pounded fiercely, out of rhythm, as if anticipating a storm that had not yet broken. When the time finally arrived, the emptiness hit him first as a whisper, then as a roar: Bella wasn't there.
Her absence felt like a weight, a shadow enveloping him. He looked at his cell phone with trembling hands, checking the message's timestamp again and again. Yes, it was seven. There was no doubt. "Maybe she's delayed," he thought. "Perhaps something stopped her... but she can't be long." And so began his wait, where minutes passed with infinite slowness, until suddenly the hours began to escape with cruel speed. One hour turned into two. Then three. The lights of nearby businesses began to dim, and the few remaining sounds of life around him died out. Night grew around him like an unforgiving shroud.
At midnight, the certainty hit him like a slap. He had waited five hours, and no one had arrived. He looked at the message once more, searching for any sign, any word he might have misinterpreted. But there was nothing. A bitter smile formed on his face, one that was nothing more than a reflection of his disappointment. "Again," he thought. "Again the emptiness, again the rejection." He stood up slowly, as if the weight of the world held him back, and began the walk back home.
The journey back was a spiral of emotions that dared not surface. The knot in his chest was so tight it hurt to breathe, but he didn't shed a tear. He repeated to himself, like a mantra: "Something must have happened. She wouldn't lie to me. There has to be a reason." He said it, but he didn't fully believe it. It was like trying to convince a broken heart that it could still beat.
When he arrived home, the usual silence and darkness greeted him. The house was the same as always, but he wasn't. The waiting and uncertainty had worn him down. He entered the kitchen and turned on the small light above the stove. It was the only one he used, as if the rest of the lamps were too bright for his mood. The sound of the knife on the cutting board was the only thing that broke the silence as he prepared his dinner for that night. It was a mechanical process, a routine he followed even when his mind was miles away.
And then his cell phone vibrated.
The noise startled him. For a moment, his entire world stopped. He pulled the phone from his pocket with trembling hands and read the brief words: "I'm sorry." Two words that carried immense weight, that were both an apology and a confirmation of his worst fear. He looked at the screen for a long moment, as if the words would change if he stared long enough. But they didn't.
The response left him before he could stop it. "I waited for you, but don't worry. If you need me, no matter the time or day, I'll always be there for you." He wrote it with heartbreaking sincerity, without thinking about the pain sending that message would cause him. Perhaps he did it to give her hope, or perhaps to convince himself that his devotion had some meaning. But, as he read the words on the screen before sending them, he knew they were an act of sacrifice more than of love. He sent them anyway, because that's what he was: someone willing to give everything, even if nothing was left for himself.
When the message was sent, the weight in his chest didn't lessen. If anything, it grew heavier. He leaned his hands on the kitchen counter and closed his eyes. His mind betrayed him, replaying the image of Bella again and again, the possibilities of why she hadn't appeared, the reasons he would never know. He didn't cry that night, because he was too tired to do so. But the tears were there, waiting in the depths, ready to fall at any moment.
Loneliness took hold of him like a permanent shadow, while the sounds of the kitchen continued its work. The only company he had was the bitter certainty that, in his heart, he was always willing to wait a little longer, even if he knew what he expected would never arrive.