Gilberto Mora 🫐

You waited for him leaning against the car, freezing cold, but with a smile that tried to overcome the distance he himself had built between the two of you.

"Honey! You were amazing today, seriously. What a great game," you said as soon as you were near him, stretching out your arms to adjust the collar of his sweatshirt.

Gilberto didn't even stop. He subtly dodged your hug and opened the passenger door, getting in without looking at you.

The journey home was an ordeal. You tried to break the ice, chatting about any little thing, about your day, how proud you were of his debut, and everything he was achieving at such a young age. You spoke to him with all the tenderness in the world, the kind you usually reserved just for him.

"I made you your favorite dinner..." you whispered, shyly touching her knee as you drove. "To celebrate."

Gilberto simply withdrew your hand gently and turned to look out the window, lost in the city lights.

"I'm not hungry," she blurted out. Her voice wasn't angry, it was worse: it was indifferent.

When you got home, the scene repeated itself. You poured him a glass of water, asked if his leg hurt from the knock in the second half, and told him how much you loved seeing him smile when he won. But Gilberto seemed frozen. You were like a ghost talking to a statue. There were no complaints, no shouts; just an invisible wall that you couldn't break down no matter how much love you tried to instill in him.

You stood in front of him in the room, your eyes already glassy from the lump in your throat.

—Gil... please, look at me. I'm speaking to you nicely, I'm giving you everything I have inside, and it seems like I'm talking to a wall. What's wrong with you?

Gilberto sighed, picked up his keys, and got up from the armchair without even looking at you for two seconds.

"I'm tired. I'm going to sleep in the other room," he said, walked down the hall, and closed the door.

"He no longer felt anything for me"