The trip back was quieter than the way there. It was Sunday, the sun streaming through the bus windows, and most students were tired, either dozing off or scrolling on their phones. All I could think about was getting home and having a calm afternoon to rest before the week began again.
When the bus parked in front of campus, the buzz started up again. As soon as the doors opened, everyone spilled out in hurried groups, already talking about their Sunday night plans.
I glanced toward the other bus, hoping to see Rafael. He was coming down the steps alone, backpack slung over his shoulder, just like always. I quickened my pace toward him before he could walk away.
— Would you… mind if we walked home together? — I asked, adjusting the strap of my bag. — That way we could keep each other company.
He stopped, looked at me with a serious, almost disapproving expression.— And you're not afraid of what people will say?
I shrugged, letting a small smile slip.— After yesterday, I'm probably already talked about. And honestly, it doesn't make any difference to me.
Rafael lowered his gaze, as if he had no reply, and kept walking. I followed, in silence. But this time, the silence wasn't uncomfortable. It was just… silence. A space that seemed to belong to us.
We walked that way until home: me climbing the stairs to my small apartment, him entering the ground floor. And somehow, the simple certainty of being under the same roof gave me peace.
Later, I made some coffee and sat by the window, pretending to admire the calm street. In truth, my eyes lingered on the yard below, where Rafael tended the garden with almost delicate patience. It was strange to think that the same boy from all the rumors could kneel in the dirt to adjust flowers as if they were too fragile for the world.
That's when I heard his voice. He was on the phone, speaking softly, but the closeness of my window let me catch every word.— Right, Dad. By the end of the afternoon. I'll have everything ready.
My heart sped up. The landlord was coming back.
When he hung up, I didn't think twice: I ran down the stairs and found him still in the garden.— Did I hear right? Your dad's back today?
Rafael looked sideways at me, as if calculating how much I'd overheard. He nodded.— He is.
— Then let's make dinner for him! — I blurted, excited. — He must be tired from the trip. It'll be a good surprise. And it'll show we're glad he's back.
He frowned, hesitating.— I'm not sure that's a good idea.
— Of course it is! — I insisted, already animated. — I'm good in the kitchen. We can make something simple but special. Roast meat, a different salad… even a dessert, if there's time.
Rafael sighed, like someone wanting to refuse but not finding a good reason.— If you think it'll make him happy… fine.
I grinned, already spilling out ideas. He just watched me, serious, though there was something in his eyes less cold this time, almost giving in to my enthusiasm.
Back upstairs, my heart raced as I planned what to prepare. I opened my small pantry and smiled at the ingredients waiting for me: potatoes, cream, cheese, fresh herbs. My favorite dish — creamy potato gratin — wasn't fancy, but it was comforting. One of those flavors that warm the soul. I thought it would be perfect to welcome someone home.
I packed everything into a bag and headed down again, already planning details.— While it bakes, we could run to the corner and grab some ice cream — I murmured to myself, laughing at the idea.
Too excited, I forgot the doorbell and burst into the ground-floor apartment like a storm.
That's when I froze.
Rafael was stepping out of the bathroom at that exact moment, a towel hanging at his waist, wet hair dripping down his neck. He stopped instantly, eyes wide.
— You do know the doorbell is for ringing, right? — he said, dryly, though his surprise wasn't well hidden.
My face burned all the way to my ears. I spun around, nearly tripping over my own legs.— S-sorry! I… I didn't… I just… — I stammered, words failing me.
I heard his steps retreat, the door of his room shutting. I took the chance to pull myself together and, discreetly, turned back. The apartment was simple but impeccable. The kitchen opened into the small living room, and from there I could see the narrow hallway leading to the bathroom and bedrooms. The furniture was well-kept, no excess, but there was care in every corner.
I set the bag of ingredients on the table and, while waiting, began to notice the frames on the wall. It wasn't the first time I'd been there — I had been inside when Rafael was sick. But that night, I'd been too scared to see anything beyond him.
Now, with clearer eyes, I saw another side of Rafael.A boy on a bicycle, hair messy from the wind.A smiling kid, sitting between his parents, so much like his mother it hurt to notice.And one photo in particular made me stop: Rafael, missing teeth, holding up a trophy almost bigger than him. The plaque read: First Place – Children's Drawing Contest.
Before I could smile more, the door opened. He came back, now in black shorts and a loose white T-shirt, barefoot. The random sketches printed across the shirt caught my attention — something only someone who loved drawing would wear.
I couldn't hold back.— I didn't know you liked drawing. — I pointed discreetly to the photo. — Is that why you chose architecture? What kind of contest was that? I'd like to see your drawings.
He looked away, his face closing slightly.— It was just a time when I still had illusions… that the world could be good.
The words dropped heavy in the air. Something clenched inside me, a near-uncontrollable urge to move closer, to comfort him. It felt like I was standing before someone I knew well — someone carrying an old wound too heavy to bear alone.
But Rafael quickly shifted the subject.— And you? What did you plan for dinner? — he asked, peeking into the bag on the table, his expression serious but… curious.
I smiled, despite the weight of his words still lingering.— Potato gratin. My specialty. — I chuckled. — I hope your father likes it.
He raised an eyebrow, feigning disinterest.— Hm. We'll see.
But the way he looked at the ingredients betrayed him: he was more interested than he wanted to admit.
The small kitchen came alive as I moved from one side to the other. Rafael stayed close, mostly watching rather than helping. Sometimes he passed me a utensil, held a bowl, or adjusted something I asked.
I put on soft music from my phone, the gentle sound filling the space and breaking the silence that always seemed to hover between us, though it no longer felt uncomfortable. We cooked together as if it was something we had done many times before, every gesture falling into place naturally.
— Now it's the oven's turn to work for us — I said, closing the oven door after sliding in the gratin. — How about we walk to the corner for some ice cream?
He hesitated a second, but then nodded. And so, side by side, we stepped into the cool night air of the neighborhood, sharing steps without needing words.
When we came back and opened the apartment door, the sight in the living room made me stop in my tracks.
The landlord was sitting on the couch, in socks, a beer bottle open on the coffee table. He looked tired, but raised his eyes the moment he saw us.
— You're back already! — I exclaimed, a small jump of joy in my voice. — We didn't even finish the dinner yet!
He laughed, opening his arms.— It was this wonderful smell that made me get here faster.
He stood slowly and came closer. Before he could say anything else, I ran and hugged him, startling him for a second. But then he smiled, squeezing my shoulder.— I didn't know I was missed this much!
Then he turned to Rafael, eyes shining differently.— It's been a long time since I've seen you look this light. It's good to see you two getting along.
Rafael looked away, dodging.— Did you manage to settle everything on the trip, Dad?
While they exchanged words, I hurried to the kitchen and saw the gratin golden, ready to serve.— You can set the table — I announced. — It's all ready!
Surprisingly, the energy in the room shifted. Between plates, cutlery, and hurried steps, light laughter appeared, small talk filled the space. The scene reminded me of my parents' home, where every meal was more than food — it was comfort itself.
We sat together, the three of us. I served portions and slid the first plate to the landlord. He tasted it, closed his eyes, and then smiled, satisfied.— This is delicious, Helena. You really have talent.
I glanced at Rafael, who tasted in silence. He said nothing, but the look on his face said it all: he approved.
And in that moment, the simple dinner felt like much more than a meal.It was a piece of home.