Hector’s face lit up, his grin widening, his voice carrying a newfound excitement. “Eds, it’s really you. You’re finally back!”
After helping him to bed, I returned to the living room and sat alone, staring at the cake he had prepared—not for me, but for her.
On the cake, written in crooked, childlike handwriting, were the words: “Eds, happy birthday.” It was clear Hector had written it himself.
The candles had already burned out, leaving only a faint trace of wax.
The room was dark, the night oppressive. I stayed there, unmoving, as the hours passed.
When Hector woke up the next morning and saw me sitting pale and weary, he looked startled. For once, there was genuine concern in his voice. “Did you stay up all night?”
I nodded but said nothing.
He sat beside me, his expression hesitant, as though searching for the right words. When he finally spoke, his tone was uncharacteristically gentle.
“Did I… mistake you for her last night?”
I cut him off, lifting my eyes to meet his gaze. Each word I spoke felt like a knife slicing through me. “Hector, do all of you just want her to come back?”