Somehow, the last shifts at the restaurant arrived amidst chaos. The suspension weighed on him as a reminder of his failure, at home the coldness was an insurmountable wall, and at work... well, at least for him, the tension was evident.
He punched the time clock with the same routine as always, but the feeling was different, as if each tick of the machine reminded him that his time there was running out. He walked down the hallway towards the kitchen, passing in front of Mr. Henrick's office. The man barely looked up and gave him a fleeting gesture, to which he responded in the same way before continuing on his path. Something in that brief exchange made him feel as if he were walking against an invisible current, as if the air thickened with each step, forcing him to move forward with effort.
He thought that night about how he had waited for her for hours, about his clumsy attempt to respond to her cold and distant message. He knew what he had said sounded pathetic, that he had revealed too much. And now he was there, forced to pretend that none of that had happened.
He stopped just before crossing the kitchen door and closed his eyes tightly for a few seconds, trying to gather his courage. Maybe only he was giving so much importance to all this. Perhaps Bella felt nothing, and all that consumed him was nothing more than his imagination.
He took a deep breath and finally entered, rolling up his sleeves as if that could give him firmness.
"Good afternoon," he greeted, his tone more confident than he actually felt.
Bella looked up and smiled at him with the same usual naturalness. "Welcome. You're just in time, as always."
"I'll start with the dirty dishes."
"Please," she said without stopping her work, sliding the knife precisely over the vegetables.
The sound of running water and the clinking of dishes filled the space between them. Just as he was beginning to immerse himself in that bubble of routine, Amelia burst in from the counter.
"Hello," she greeted with a strangely normal smile.
Tomás simply returned the gesture.
"Happy about your last few days? How much time do you have left?"
Bella didn't give him time to answer. "What do you need? We're working here."
"Is the carpaccio going to take much longer?"
"What carpaccio?" Bella asked, frowning.
Amelia pointed to the order slip, where the orders hung without anyone having taken them yet.
"Damn it!" Bella moved immediately, tearing off the paper with urgency.
Amelia smiled smugly before leaving.
"I'll have it out in fifteen minutes," Bella announced, her gaze fixed on the sheet.
"Okay, I'll go beg at the tables," Amelia replied with her usual mocking air.
Immediately, Bella began giving orders as if leading an army, even though it was just the two of them in the kitchen. However, they moved as they always had, in perfect synchronicity. Desserts, stir-fries, french fries, and finally the carpaccio. Everything came out in record time, as if that crisis had never existed.
When the hustle finally subsided, Bella looked at him with a nostalgic smile. "I guess these kinds of things won't be so exciting anymore."
Tomás swallowed and tried to respond naturally. "I guess."
He looked down for an instant, barely a fraction of a second, but enough to see Bella biting her lip in discomfort.
"I'm going to unload the merchandise," he said, looking away.
"Yes, of course. Don't worry."
And he left.
He knew he was running away, but he also knew that Bella didn't want to say anything. That almost imperceptible gesture—to anyone, a simple unimportant slip—for him was a silent plea: Don't say anything, please.
So he didn't say it.
And that day ended like that, between emptiness and nothingness.