When the door opened, the silence poured out with the hot steam. Hector came out. His clothes were still wet, his hair dripping with water. The club towel that had stuck to his skin had slipped over his shoulder. He stopped for a moment when he saw me. There was that familiar thing in his eyes: relief. That careless trust that comes from knowing he would always find it there.

But this time he didn’t say anything.

Neither did I.

He leaned back against the wall, lifted his head, and closed his eyes. “I played well today.”

I just looked.

Then he turned, noticing me for the first time. He noticed the silence on my face.

“What happened?” he said.

“Nothing has to happen, Hector. Everything… doesn’t.”

His gaze wavered. He looked away. Because that’s always the case when I come to talk to you about something openly. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to hear me—he wasn’t ready to understand.

“Don’t start again,” he said, but the tiredness in his voice spoke more than anything. “I’m tired. I really am.”

“Me too.” I said it for the first time. “I’m tired too, Hector. Because I’m always the one carrying you. The silences, the things you don’t understand, the looks you pass on… One day you’ll really notice, but that day it won’t be me