Chapter: An Open Crack

It was a strange day. The sky couldn't decide whether it wanted to rain or not, and the sunlight filtered through thick clouds as if it didn't really feel like being there either.

I didn't feel like being there either.

I'd just come out of a particularly hard class. Not because of the content, but because one of the topics—memory, the permanence of love in literature—had tied a knot in my chest. I didn't speak the entire time. I just listened, my hands trembling under the table.

I left with the intention of walking aimlessly again. But as I turned the corner by the humanities building, I saw him. Marcos. Sitting on the same bench as always, a thermos in his hands and headphones on, watching the leaves fall.

I don't know what pushed me. Maybe the tremble in my ribs. Maybe the fact that he never asked for anything. I walked over and sat beside him, without saying a word.

Several minutes passed like that. He didn't take off his headphones, didn't look at me. He just let me be. As if he knew I needed it.

"You know what hurts the most sometimes?" I asked suddenly, almost without thinking.

He took out one earbud and looked at me, attentive.

"Tell me."

I swallowed hard. Even my voice hurt.

"That I don't have anyone to tell the little things to anymore. The silly things. The kind no one else cares about. Like today, a butterfly landed on my notebook and I didn't scare it away. Or that I saw a woman crying on the bus and I wanted to hug her, but I didn't dare. Before... Tom was that person. He wanted to know everything, even the things that seemed meaningless."

My voice shook, and my eyes filled with tears. I looked down, feeling ridiculous. But Marcos said nothing for a few seconds, and when he finally did, it was soft:

"I lost that once too. And it took me a long time to understand that it can't be replaced. It just... transforms. It rebuilds itself in other ways, with other people. It's never the same. But sometimes, it's not too far from what home used to feel like."

I closed my eyes for a moment.

"And who do you tell the little things to now?"

"Sometimes... no one. Or just myself. And other times..." he paused, "I hope to find someone who wants to hear them too."

I looked at him, and for the first time I felt that maybe I could trust that shared silence. Maybe, with him, it wasn't necessary to explain everything. Just... allow the open crack to let a little light through.