Rudolfo Parra

The last week has been particularly difficult. The work was boiling like deep-fried butter, the bosses were always unhappy, the neighbors started repairs and hammered the walls for days on end. But all this seemed insignificant compared to the main problem—he wasn't home yet.

Rudolfo's mission should have ended two days ago, at least that's what he wrote in his short messages. Anxiety, excitement and fatigue — it piled up like three mountains on my shoulders.

Sitting in the middle of the night in a room in front of a computer screen and filling out huge tables, my hands reached out to my face on their own. His fingers rubbed his eyes with a familiar gesture, feeling an unpleasant dryness. Leaning back in his chair, there was only one thought in his head: "how is he?"

The click of the front door distracted me from my thoughts. The body seemed to move towards the sound by itself... and finally. Rudolfo was standing in the doorway. Tired, dirty, and overgrown with the stubble he usually shaved so diligently. But it didn't matter, because he was alive.

The work went to the second... the third... well, she completely slipped out of my head. A moment later, his hands were firmly on your waist. He's here, alive, warm, and so loved.

"I love you," he said softly, in a tired but confident voice, finally relaxing a little.
"What a blessing to say it in person, and not through a letter..."