The way you should have years ago.
“You still drink coffee too hot,” you said when he took a sip and immediately winced.
He looked offended. “It builds character.”
“It burns your tongue.”
“History has shown that sacrifice is sometimes necessary.”
You laughed before you could stop yourself.
And there it was again—that old rhythm.
Not romance rushing back to erase the damage.
Not destiny pretending pain never happened.
Just familiarity finding its way through ruins.
Roberto smiled into his cup.
“I missed that sound,” he admitted softly.
Your chest tightened.
“So did I.”
A silence settled between you then, but it was no longer the terrible silence of lies. It was the kind built from patience. From two people learning how to stand near each other without reopening every wound.
After a while, Roberto reached into the worn leather satchel beside his chair and pulled out a folded paper.
“What’s that?” you asked.
“My class assignment for next week.”
You blinked. “You’re showing me lesson plans again?”
“You used to edit them.”
“You used too many semicolons.”
“I still do.”
You opened the paper.
At the top, in neat handwriting, was the lecture title:
THE COST OF SILENCE IN HISTORY
Beneath it, one sentence had been underlined.
When good people stay quiet, lies learn how to wear respectable clothes.
Your throat tightened.
“That’s a very Roberto sentence,” you whispered.
He leaned back slightly. “My students say I sound dramatic now.”
“You always sounded dramatic.”
“True.”
You handed the paper back carefully, like it mattered.
Because it did.
Everything small mattered now.
The waitress passed by and called him profesor after overhearing part of your conversation.
