The rain was pounding insistently on the hood of my sweatshirt as I made my way along the waterlogged sidewalk. It was not a soft or elegant rain; she was one of those who seem to want to pierce your clothes, your body and even your thoughts. The sky was completely dull, tinged with a dirty gray that made it difficult to distinguish where the afternoon ended and the night began.
Just around the corner before the gym, I saw them.
In front of a toy store, illuminated with warm lights and a window full of bright colors, an entire family watched the dolls and figures on display. The father had his arm on his son's shoulders; The mother, next to him, laughed as she pointed to something behind the glass. The light of the tent fell on them like a small golden shelter in the cold, enveloping them in an almost unreal warmth.
I stood still in the rain, watching them.
Three strangers who, without intending to, seemed to have a full life. Normal. Sure.
"What does it feel like to live like this?" I thought.
No threats, no deadly debts, no having to calculate how many fights you have left before someone decides you're worthless.
What will it feel like to live without the risk of losing everything in a single night?
In minutes.
I felt a lump in my throat. Not of sadness. Nor of envy.
Era... empty.
I kept walking when the traffic light changed, leaving that scene behind as if it had never been part of my world.
I arrived at the boxing venue. The old, half-rusty poster was still hanging by sheer force of will. I pushed open the door, letting the smell of sweat, leather, and disinfectant hit me immediately: home, somehow.
I shook the soaked umbrella and placed it in the umbrella stand by the entrance. A drop slipped down the handle, falling with a crisp tick that accompanied the constant noise of the ring.
Several couples were sparring, moving in circles under the cold white light of the venue. Sharp blows echoed against the gloves, mingling with the tense gasps of each exchange. The coach, as always, was in the middle of it all: shouting orders, correcting guards, pushing his students to the limit.
"Hand up, damn!" They're going to break your eyebrow! he bellowed, slapping the air to prove it. Pivot, Martín, pivot! Don't dance, this is not a party!
I stared for a few seconds, letting the scene go through me: sweat, beatings, discipline. The only place where I knew exactly what to do, even if it didn't save me from anything.
I walked towards him.
The coach noticed me before I could say hello. He turned, with that mixture of hardness and tiredness that he always carried in his eyes.
"Ah, Leo," he said, scratching his short, gray-haired beard. You've arrived just in time.
He nodded toward the locker room.
"Come on, change quickly. Today we close earlier... I have important matters to attend to.
His tone was serious. More than usual. I didn't ask, because I never asked.
The dressing room was almost empty. All I could hear was the faint hum of a lamp and the constant dripping of my wet sweatshirt as it fell on the floor. The musty smell mixed with the cheap soap that was always left in the sinks.
I took off my clothes soaked with automatic, almost mechanical movements. On the ticket office, my reflection in the small dented mirror returned an exhausted image: dark circles, a red mark on the eyebrow from that afternoon's accident, my hair messy from the rain.
I ran a hand over my face, taking a deep breath.
There was no time to feel anything.
I clenched my knuckles, listening to them crack. Then I put on the bandages, layer upon layer, adjusting them with the precision that custom gives... or need. Every tight lap was a reminder: I can't fail this weekend.
When I was done, I slammed the locker shut and walked out.
When I returned to the tatami, the sound of the gym enveloped me fully. The coach was already waiting, arms crossed, watching me with half-closed eyes.
"Well, Leo. He pointed to the ring with his chin. Fast heating. No, today there is no time to slacken off.
I stepped into the ring. The ropes were cold and slightly damp from the atmosphere. I started with gentle jumps, moving shoulders and hips, measured breathing. The trainer walked around like a predator in circles, evaluating every gesture.
"Lighter." He snapped his fingers. You're not a tank. You're fast, so move like one.
I accelerated the footwork. The slap of the shoe against the canvas marked a stable, almost hypnotic rhythm.
"Now combinations," he ordered.
I stood in front of the paos he was holding.
Jab, crossed, hook
The impact vibrated through my arms; the trainer stepped back to cushion it.
"Again. Cleaner.
Repeated. This time the hook went in better, tighter, more tense.
"That's right. He nodded, barely satisfied. But put that shoulder down for me when you enter the crusader. They're going to read it to you in the fight and they're going to blow you up.
I tried again.
Jab, cross, hook.
Sweat began to run down my temples. My breaths were already short, marked.
"Good. He pushed aside his paos and crossed his arms. Now defense. I want you to dodge without going back so much. Stay at a distance, stay in control.
He entered himself, throwing soft but calculated punches. I dodged by barely moving my head, feeling the air cut inches from my cheek.
"That's it, that's it," he murmured. Don't run away. Breathe in there.
My heart was pounding, not out of fear, but because of the constant pressure. Every second in that ring was a silent test.
One last move, one last clean dodge.
The coach lowered his arms and gave me a light tap on the shoulder, dry but significant.
"You're doing well. Very well. His eyes showed something strange about him: a small glimmer of pride.
I nodded, swallowing hard.
A high-pitched beep went through the entire gym. The coach blew the whistle hard, and the echo cut through the air like a knife. They all stopped; me too. My chest rose and fell at the frantic pace of my breathing, and I felt the beads of sweat run down my back, sticking to the fabric of the bandage and burning it over the fresh wounds. They stung like demons, but I had long since learned to ignore that kind of pain. It was easy. Compared to the other, this was a simple reminder that he was still alive.
I went to the small bench by the front door and dropped down on it. The furious blow of the rain against the glass competed with my gasping breath, preventing me from sinking completely into my thoughts.
"I'm freaking out with you, Leo," the coach said as he approached. He walked calmly, but his firm footsteps resounded as if the ground had known him for years. He had a bottle of water in his hand. Catches.
He threw it at me without warning; I grabbed her in the air, almost by instinct.
"Why do you say that?" I asked as I removed the plug with a snap.
The coach stood in front of me with his hands akimbo, a wide smile decorating his face. It was one of those smiles that only came out when he saw progress... or when he felt proud.
"You've only been here a few months and you've already mastered half of the boxing techniques," he said, placing his hand on my shoulder.
I sighed. Slow. Heavy. And I moved just a few inches to the right, just enough for his hand to slip and hang in the air. It wasn't personal... But I didn't want him to think he was, either.
"Only half?" I murmured, resting an elbow on my knee and patting my leg lightly to release the tension. I need to practice more.
The coach's smile disappeared, replaced by a much more serious expression. He crossed his arms, cocking his head.
"Hey... I've never asked you," he began, lowering his voice a little, as if he feared the rest would hear. I usually do it with all my students, but with you... I don't know, you always seemed busy. He took a deep breath. Tell me, what has prompted you to take this so seriously?
The question hung in the air like a charged cloud before breaking in a storm.
And he waited.
And I... I did not know how to respond without letting go of the absolute truth, without opening a door that I should never open.
"Insecurity, I suppose," I blurted out at the end, almost without thinking, almost like a coin toss hoping it will land on the right side.
The coach raised an eyebrow, intrigued. It was not enough for him. It wouldn't be enough for me either.
"Insecurity, eh?" I see..." he replied, although his tone said clearly I don't quite believe it.
So I added something else, something that sounded real, even if it was just one corner of the truth.
"The streets are very dangerous lately," I said, shrugging my shoulders. I'm afraid that I don't know how to defend myself in an emergency. That's all.
The coach watched me for a few seconds longer than usual, as if trying to read what was behind my words. But he ended up giving in, slapping me on the arm a couple of times before backing up.
"Well, at least you have a reason," he conceded. Come on, go back to the sack. You still have rope left.
And without further ado, the training resumed its natural rhythm: blows, accelerated breathing, instructions from the coach that were lost between the echo of the local and the still soft patter of the rain. I didn't think. I didn't feel. I just hit. Over and over again, as if each impact brought me closer to the number that was killing me inside.
As the class came to an end, the sound of the whistle announced the final break. I took off my gloves with my hands still shaking and headed to the locker room, picking up my things without haste. The coach, already preparing his backpack, gave me a nod of his head.
"Good job today, Leo. Rest.
"See you, teacher," I replied, throwing my sweatshirt over my shoulder.
As I left the premises, I was surprised to find the street illuminated by a quiet glow. It had stopped raining.
The asphalt was still shining, reflecting the lights of the streetlights, as if the entire neighborhood were covered by a thin layer of glass.
I took a deep breath of the cold night air. It woke me up almost more than any blow I had received that day. His body was crushed, his mind was scrambled and he didn't know where he was coming from... but he did know what he needed.
Something hot.
Something that would keep me going for a while longer.
So I put my hands in my pockets and walked to the nearest bar, one of those that never change ownership, or smell, or light. A place to order a strong coffee, one that would keep me awake for the time I needed to keep breathing without falling.
I passed in front of dozens of venues, each with its own smell, its own music, its own haste... but none of them said anything to me. They all seemed too crowded, too empty, too loud, or too quiet. Until I found that one.
A small café lit by a warm light escaping through the fogged windows. The music was soft, calm, and the murmur of the patrons was just the right volume: just enough to not feel watched, but not so quiet that I could hear my own thoughts.
Perfect.
I felt my pockets before entering. This time I was lucky: a crumpled five-euro note appeared between my fingers. Enough. More than enough.
When he opened the door, a bell rang, and a middle-aged woman immediately raised her head. She looked at me with a calm smile, the kind that seems trained but not entirely fake. His presence filled the place, and I had no idea why... but there was something about his face, in the way he bowed his head, that was familiar to me without being able to identify it.
I took a seat at a small table, leaving my backpack on the chair next to me without thinking about anything or anyone else. If someone wanted to sit there, they would find another place.
The waitress approached with a notepad in her hand. His voice, sweet but with a tired touch, sounded almost rehearsed.
"Good evening, darling. What should I put on you?
I looked away from the poster hanging on the wall. Something hot. Something strong.
"This," I murmured, without looking directly at her. An espresso latte. Very hot, please.
She nodded with a warm smile, too warm for a stranger like me, and headed to the bar to prepare the order.
While I waited, I stared at the place. There were old photos on the walls: couples, families, smiling children. Some images had an everyday air, others seemed to be taken from an album of memories that they wanted to preserve at all costs. One in particular caught my eye: a little girl with the same eye cut as the waitress... and then some. Something that I could not locate.
"Here you go, honey," the woman said, gently placing the cup in front of me.
The steam from the latte rose immediately, warming my face. She stayed a few seconds longer than necessary, as if to make sure he was well taken care of.
"It looks like you're soaking wet." Have you had a difficult day?
There was nothing special about the question. But it made my throat reflexively tighten.
"More or less," I replied, shrugging my shoulders. I didn't want to sound edge-edged, but I wasn't going to open up to a stranger either.
She leaned lightly on the neighboring table, keeping a respectful distance.
"Sometimes a hot coffee fixes everything," he said with a smile that seemed less professional and more... human.
I didn't know what to say. I didn't want to talk, but I didn't entirely dislike his tone either. It was a strange feeling, a mixture of discomfort and something like calm.
"I suppose," I said at last, raising the cup to my lips.
The first sip burned, but in the best possible way. I felt my muscles relax a little, as if the heat was melting away some of the tension of the day.
She nodded, as if satisfied with my reaction, and prepared to leave. But just before he walked away, he said kindly:
"If you need anything else, just call me, yes?"
"Sure," I replied, though I probably wouldn't.
The waitress walked away, waiting on other tables, while I stared at the reflection of the steam in the window. Something about her... I didn't know how to explain it. A familiar air. An echo of the institute. Of the day. Of someone.
But I didn't have the strength to think any more.
I just wanted to finish my coffee, feel the heat down my throat and, for a few minutes, forget about everything I was carrying.
I finished the latte slowly, draining every last drop. Not because it was especially good, although it was, but because, for a few minutes, it had managed to stop my head from roaring. I put the cup down on the saucer gently, almost with a strange respect for that little moment of peace I had just had.
I slung my backpack over my shoulder and stood up without looking at the waitress. Not because he is rude, but because... Well, seeing her smiling triggered an uncomfortable déjà vu in me that I preferred to ignore. She muttered a "see you later, honey" addressed to no one in particular as she cleaned the bar. It wasn't for me, clearly. It was his way of speaking.
Even so, my steps accelerated for no reason.
I pushed open the door of the premises and went out into the street. The air smelled of wet asphalt, of recent rain. The sky was still gray, heavy, as if another downpour could break out at any moment. I walked leisurely, hands in my pockets, letting my sneakers splash with every puddle.
The neighborhood was quieter than usual. There were no cars passing by. There were no neighbors taking the dog out. You couldn't even hear the television in a living room with the windows open.
Just my steps.
Just me.
I turned the corner and then I saw him.
A black car. Not just any one: one of those that don't look old, but not brilliant either; that do not stand out, but do not blend in with the environment either. No markings. No bumps. With the engine off, but with an aura that is too ... present.
It was parked on a corner where there were almost never cars. The windows, slightly tinted. The interior, impossible to see. The front grille, damp from the rain, shone with a faint reflection from the lampposts.
I stopped. Very subtly. As if he were looking at the sky or checking a message on his mobile. But no. I was watching the car.
"Coincidence?" I thought.
I didn't like coincidences.
I moved a few steps closer, but keeping enough distance so as not to look like a snooping idiot. I glanced inside out of the corner of my eye. Nothing. Nor movement. Nor figures. Nor shadows.
But something didn't fit.
I had seen that type of car before.
In other neighborhoods.
In other places.
Always in corners.
Always off.
Always observing.
A chill ran down my neck without asking permission.
I kept walking as if nothing had happened. Relaxed legs, normal breathing, the same indifferent posture as always. But inside... Inside she was completely alert.
Because if that car was what I thought it was... Something was going too wrong.
I tried not to think too much about the scene and tried to get home as soon as possible. Being on the street suddenly stopped liking me.