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Our last night together

When the thunder released all its force upon the earth, Fina jolted in bed. She hadn't fallen asleep yet, not only because of all the emotions her return had stirred in her and in the others, but also because of every little noise, which felt foreign to her despite having grown up in that house, and every loud crash coming from outside, which reminded her of the sleepless nights she had endured in Buenos Aires. She sat up in bed; the long white nightgown that had remained in the house was still hers: Manuela had washed it, unaware, and had given it to Marta, who had felt angry at having lost something that could remind her of the scent of the woman she had loved. And still loved.

Fina had smiled at that story, thinking of how many times she had missed an object, a dress, a memory of the woman who was now sitting in front of her, telling her anecdotes of the past year as if almost nothing had happened, nothing had changed. She picked up the pillow and tried turning it over: sometimes she slept better with her head resting on something cool. She sighed. Once, and then again. The rain crashed against the windows; the wind lashed the walls of the house as if it could tear them down at any moment. Was she afraid? Yes, but not of the weather outside. She was afraid of herself, of what she had imagined, of what she would have wanted, and of what, inexplicably, she couldn't bring herself to do.

She got up and opened the bedroom door, heading toward the kitchen. For that night, at least, she would sleep in Isidro's old room, and even if everything still reminded her of him, she had managed to accept the idea without breaking down further. The darkness startled her, until a flash of lightning lit up the table, the sink, and the glasses that Manuela had put away with her usual precision. She turned on the tap, filled a glass, and drank all the water in one gulp, watching what was happening outside the window. Thoughts piled up like air molecules that, suddenly set in motion by the vibration of an object, are thrown here and there by a sound wave. She heard footsteps from the upper floor, the sound of someone who, like her, couldn't sleep and was probably just pacing the room hoping to soothe their spirit.

And what if...? Her legs moved on their own, without her needing to tell them where to go: the staircase leading upstairs had always been forbidden to her. When she ran through that house believing it was hers and that she had no rules to follow, and later, as an adult, when she had never been able to live with the woman she had fallen in love with. The director, Marta De La Reina. In what was her family home. Marta's bedroom door stood before her; she knew perfectly where it was, even though she had never entered it, despite the curiosity she had felt more than once. Should she knock? Whisper Marta's name softly, hoping no one would hear and that the woman would let her in? Or simply open the door. Did she lock it every night? And slip slowly beside her, into her bed, caress every inch of her skin, kiss her neck slowly, tell her she had missed her and undress her as she had dreamed so many nights?

She let her body lean gently against the white wood, her hand close to her face. Eyes closed.

Marta had recognized Fina's footsteps; she had always recognized them since the first time she had had to admit she was in love with her, jealous at the mere idea that Gaspar might even pretend to stand by her side. Restless after everything that had happened in the past few hours, and with her heart racing in her chest knowing that Fina was sleeping in that same house, she hadn't been able to fall asleep and, no longer able to write in her diary everything she was feeling, she had simply begun to pace the room, trying to put her thoughts in order. And reliving the moment when Fina's body and eyes had almost magically reappeared before her.

"I was so sure I would never hear from you again," Fina had told her, gently taking her face in her hands, "that as soon as I received your letter I looked for a flight to come back here, to come back to you."

Fina's voice was almost a whisper, yet for Marta it had the power of an operatic aria that takes your breath away. She had wanted to answer, but the words wouldn't reach her lips: there were so many, too many, after all those months, after everything she had learned. Pelayo's threats, Fina's exile in a distant and unknown country, far from the few people she could call family, the months of manipulation Marta herself had endured and the trust she had placed in the wrong person. None of it allowed her now to express everything she truly felt. The only woman she had ever loved was there, in front of her, she had come back, and all she wanted was to hold her, never let her go again. And yet, she didn't feel entitled to do so.