The cold night air hit my nose and chest head-on, but I enjoyed the icy sensation that met the warmth I produced. It felt good to exercise that way, with headphones blasting all sorts of music into my ears, from blues and jazz to Rio funk. I ran at least twice a week to stay in shape and also to clear my thoughts.

Three months had passed, and the girl was still with me. She had shown improvement thanks to therapy, but she was far from the ideal condition. It would take a lot of patience and dedication to understand and absorb everything, but I didn't mind. To be honest, from the beginning, I felt that things would take time to be resolved, but I didn't mind that. I was a wealthy man and had enough free time to help a girl who had lost so much of herself that she only saw the end as the only means of redemption and possible solution.

That night, when I asked her to lie down with me, I did it for one reason: to make her feel safe. And also so she wouldn't have to deal with so much darkness alone.

That dawn was quiet. But in the same week, I saw her tossing and turning and crying, undoubtedly having nightmares about things I couldn't change or erase from her mind. In those moments, I temporarily broke the agreement and woke her up, hugging her. Then, as soon as she woke up enough, I moved away as quickly as possible and explained why I had touched her. She never seemed hurt, just grateful and shaken by the memories.

When this started happening more frequently, I thought it best to address the issue of therapy with her. I told her she wasn't obligated to do it, but it could help her. And I would personally make sure to take her and pick her up every time. I was surprised when she accepted the suggestion. I thought it would be harder to convince her.

After a month of attending sessions, the frequency of nightmares decreased. And even when they did happen, she didn't cry and toss and turn like before. In fact, she didn't even move enough to wake me up. I only knew it had happened the next day during breakfast. Sitting at the table and sipping her cappuccino, her vacant gaze and lack of expressions already revealed what had happened during the night.

Her emotional "shutdowns" could happen sporadically, and I understood that they weren't my fault and weren't entirely avoidable. Despite doctor-patient confidentiality, Dr. Solloman often explained to me about possible post-trauma sequelae and what I could do (or not) about them. As it was a recent and probably prolonged episode, shutting down was the brain's way of defending itself when it felt that imminent sensations would take over. In order not to fall into some kind of violent reaction, emotions were temporarily deactivated.

The sequel that made me more melancholic and worried, however, besides the obvious issue of lack of speech, was that aversion to physical contact. The post-nightmare hugs no longer happened, so all attempts at closeness were quickly vetoed when she noticed the behavior of fear and total discomfort.

Even worse, it was at those times that I felt Solloman was evading or stalling, bringing up related subjects but never answering clearly. I even felt a little upset about it, since he always gave me strength and learning, but couldn't talk about what bothered me the most. He must have his own reasons, though, and I didn't bother him anymore.

The closest thing we had to a hug was eye contact. Sometimes I noticed that she was watching me, and I didn't say anything, allowing her contemplation. I felt my face getting warm at those times, but I didn't allow myself to think about why. So I started looking at her too, with the same intensity. She never looked away. And I felt that those were the moments when her heart opened, when none of her fears prevented her from staring at me deep into my soul.

She no longer had a voice, but she was still full of life. And she proved that to me in that way, in those silent dialogues. Her dark irises shone unmistakably. Sometimes she smiled too; not with her teeth and not entirely, but it was obvious that they were genuine smiles and not an attempt to reassure or comfort me.

Yes, sometimes she tried to do that. Weakened and crushed by life, but empathetic enough to care about me.

To care... About me.

I started running slower, ready to walk and drink some water. Thinking about her sometimes made my heart race in my chest, and my thoughts tangled so much with each other that my reasoning was lost for a while.

There were other occasions when this... Thing took hold of me. Like when she came out of the shower smelling like jasmine, wearing simple things like a matching blouse and shorts, or floral dresses, or even long pants with a T-shirt. Her hair was always tied up in a tight bun, but sometimes she let it loose and the strands fell like a cascade over part of her face. And I watched, dumbfounded, her fingers playing with the tips of the springs.

When I hugged her during the nightmare times, my intention was only to calm her down. But I confess that in the middle of everything, my body absorbed the smell of her skin and her hair, as well as the curve of her back and the warmth that radiated even on the coldest nights. I was grateful that we were in the dark, so she would see a pepper in place of my cheeks.

Of course, I tried not to think about it. But talking was much easier than doing. After all, here I was, in the middle of a slightly crowded sidewalk, blatantly thinking about what I was trying to forget?

Actually, no. Forgetting was an unreal word for that situation. The question was... just not highlighting too much. An futile struggle, I knew deep down, but one that I stubbornly tried to take seriously.

Only time could provide the answers to all that. And I could wait, if necessary.