Sunlight slipped through the curtains of Mia's apartment. She had washed the coffee cups from the night before, swept the floor twice even though it wasn't needed, and now soft music played—a Jose Jose playlist that didn't distract but didn't let the silence settle in either.
She didn't know why she felt this way. Or well, she did. It was because of them. Because of Saval and Semiel.
Since that meeting, things hadn't gone back to normal. And that unsettled her more than she wanted to admit.
She had grown used to seeing them together. Their inside jokes, the way Saval would furrow his brow when Semiel said something absurd just to make him laugh. The way Semiel looked at him when he thought no one else was paying attention. It was a language not everyone understood, but she did. She had learned it over the years.
Oh, those two idiots don't realize they love each other.
And now, all of that was broken.
She poured herself some coffee and sat on the couch with her phone in hand. She thought about texting Semiel, but didn't know what to say. Thought about calling him. Same problem. She had already messaged Saval, but his replies were short. Not cold, just distant. As if he were afraid one word too many would drag them into uncomfortable territory.
She took a sip of coffee. Then another.
She couldn't stay still. Not when she felt like she was losing them both.
…
George was the first to arrive. They had planned to meet for a simple lunch, maybe order some pizza. He was wearing a large jacket with a blue paint stain on one sleeve that he hadn't noticed until Mia pointed it out.
—I was helping with some paintings —he said, letting out a long sigh as he sat down—. We made an artwork based on a story and the professor insisted everything be done by hand.
Mia smiled.
—And did it turn out well?
—The painting, yes. But I didn't get the story.
They laughed.
They ordered pizza. While they waited, Mia eased into the conversation like someone dipping their feet into a cold pool.
—Have you seen Saval?
George nodded slowly.
—In class. He sits farther up now. Not so much with us. I think he's... I don't know, retreating to his safe zone.
—Do you think he's okay?
—I don't know. He looks more put together. But that doesn't mean he's okay.
—That's what I thought too —Mia said, hugging her mug—. Sometimes, when someone starts putting everything in order on the outside, it's because they feel lost inside.
George looked at her sideways.
—And Semiel?
—I haven't seen him in days.
—Me neither. Though I did see him the other day at the faculty. He had that black notebook he always carries. Was listening to music, like he was disconnected from the world.
—He's always been like that, hasn't he?
—Yeah. But before, when he was with Saval, he'd come back. Now it feels like he stays there. In his own world.
….
David arrived half an hour later. He had been at a thesis advisory session, something about identity development in teenagers. He came in with a notebook full of scribbles and a cereal bar in hand.
How was the session, asked Mía, offering him a glass of water.
Heavy. The guy had a tough story. But also a lot of clarity when it came to talking about himself. Sometimes I think we underestimate ourselves when we believe we don't know what we're feeling.
Mía looked at him. It wasn't a coincidence. He knew where the conversation was headed even before it began.
Tell us about Saval and Semiel, said George.
David settled more comfortably into the couch. Took a sip of water. Then said:
They were more than friends. Or at least, that's how it looks from the outside.
Yeah, said Mía softly. And now they act like none of it ever happened.
Do you know what really happened, asked George.
I think Semiel confessed to him, said Mía after a pause. He didn't say it in those words, but… I could tell. And Saval didn't return the feeling. But he didn't push him away either. And that, in a way, is harder.
David nodded slowly.
Yeah. Because it's not a violent no, but one that carries guilt. Like he's not sure if he's doing the right thing.
And it's killing them, said Mía.
So what can we do, asked George. Tell them to talk? Sit down and fix everything?
I don't think it's that simple, said David. Sometimes talking hurts more. Sometimes silence is a way of protecting yourself. But it also becomes a prison if you don't break it.
…
The pizza arrived. They ate in silence for a while. Mía was thinking about the last time she saw them together. Not at the meeting, but before that. Walking through campus, laughing. There was a kind of simple joy between them. A nameless kind of closeness.
I don't want this to disappear, she said suddenly. I don't want them to end up like those friendships that just stop one day. Then you see the other person on social media, with different people, in another city, and you think "I loved them so much." I don't want that to happen.
Me neither, said George. But we can't force anything.
No. But maybe… Mía left the thought hanging, pensive. Maybe we can do something small. Something to remind them they're not alone. That there are still bridges. Even if they're made of paper.
David looked at his notebook. Then, he drew something quickly and turned it so the other two could see. It was a curved line, a person at each end. And a tightrope between them.
That's where they are, he said. And we're the net. Not to make them cross. But so that if they fall, they don't break.