I thought about every word she had thrown at me over the past few days. She carried the pain the way someone holds something heavy—without pushing it away, just letting it exist.
She stared toward the door of my room for a long time. Our eyes met for a moment before exhaustion pulled me back into sleep.
The second time I woke up, the light in the room had changed again—softer, later in the afternoon.
Susan was sitting beside my bed.
She wasn’t sleeping. She watched me with the careful focus of someone who had been waiting a long time for something and didn’t quite know how to respond now that it had happened.
I tried to say her name and managed something close to it.
She leaned forward.
Then she wrapped her arms around me gently, the way you hold something fragile, pressing her face into my shoulder.
The sound she made was deep, relieved crying—the kind that comes when someone finally puts down something unbearably heavy.
I couldn’t lift my arms very much yet, but I managed to rest one hand on her back and hold her there.
Susan told me that she heard people shouting behind her and saw everyone suddenly running. When she turned around and saw me lying on the ground, she said she had never run so fast in her life.
“I read the letter,” she said after a while, her voice muffled against my shoulder. “I read it three times.”
I stayed silent.
"Aún no te perdono", continuó en voz baja. "Pero yo tampoco quiero perderte."
Le dije que ya era suficiente.
Más que suficiente.
Chris nos llevó a casa justo ayer.
