We all turned around and met up with Wilson - whom we had sincerely forgotten in the midst of the agitation of the conversation - sitting in one of the headboards of the dining room, apparently as if he was trying to get away from the conversation, observing us without blinking. We exchanged several glances until he suddenly repeated his question

- and then how can you explain what happened to Diego?

Apparently no one knew what to answer him. The sudden mention of him had certainly taken us by surprise. We look at each other, seeing each other for the first time in the whole night, faced with that depressing reality. None of us had to go through something like that until that day. It had been something so sudden and out of place, when they found him hanging from one of the pipes of his apartment, that we were forced to put all our responsibilities aside and meet in that distant and sterile house with white walls and abandoned in the middle of the suburbs. We would never have believed that he was possible to do such a thing. He was happily married and had a couple of children to his name, a good job in which he earned well with enough time for his family and in general had a good life. He had never shown signs of depression or wanting to commit suicide, But apparently all that was superficial because, when they found him, they found one of the pockets of his pants, a note of crumpled paper in which were inscribed in capital letters "why do I have everything, but in reality, I don't have anything?" We had mentioned his name on arrival, giving us the obligatory condolences for his death, but there was no way to continue evading that reality now. There was no way to deny what had brought us there, Diego is now dead and that had been caused by this deadly cancer of society in which we live, called solitude.

After almost five minutes of an uncomfortable silence to find the appropriate words to answer, although none managed to pass that knot we had in the middle of our throats. Al had been quiet looking at his glass, Sandra was cleaning with a soft white napkin the tiny tears that had slowly formed in the corners of her eyes, Alejandro evaded the public's eyes - absorbed by that final question - and I decided to refrain from make some kind of comment about it. In the end, all Alejandro could say, in an act of humbleness, strange to see in someone like him, was

- I... I... don't know

And I am more than sure that at that moment he was speaking for all those who were present in that dining room. Time kept passing and the more it did, the more that conversation died. Nobody had anything else to say, so all we did was say goodbye to each other and promise to meet again soon, preferably under better circumstances, although we all knew that there was no lie more vile and irrational than that.