I woke up with a heavy head, that familiar weight of someone who slept badly, drank too much, and thought even more. My hand went to my knee before I even opened my eyes. To my surprise, it felt better. Not great… but better.
I stayed there for a few seconds, staring at the nothingness above me, with zero will to get up. Food? Shower? Life? None of it felt urgent enough. Until I grabbed my phone.
It was past noon.
— No… — I muttered, sitting up in a crooked jump. I had things to do. A lot. Classes I needed to listen to, summaries I needed to prepare. Sunday wouldn't be nearly enough if I stayed in bed.
I got up fast, tripping over my own laziness, and went straight to the bathroom. Turned on the shower and, while the water heated, I was already brushing my teeth with my other hand. I shoved my head under the water and washed my hair as if that could somehow wash out the mental mess too.
Wrapped in a towel, I went to the wardrobe. The new clothes were there, pretty, organized… and I barely remembered what I had bought. My eyes skimmed the shelves. The older clothes stared back at me, comfortable, worn out, familiar.
I grabbed an oversized T-shirt and a pair of old shorts. That was it. Today I had no space for renewed or brave versions of myself. Today I just needed to exist without effort.
I dressed and went to the kitchen. Made a simple sandwich, spread butter like I was in a rush, grabbed a cold glass of milk. That would be my lunch. No glamour, no fuss.
I finished eating in two minutes.
I took a breath.
— Now go — I told myself, cleaning the table without even noticing.
Back in my room, I organized my notebook, pens, headphones, phone with Daniel's audio lessons. I sat at the desk like someone about to run a marathon.
I was going to listen to everything.The afternoon dragged on with no sign of anything from downstairs. No steps, no voices, no doors, nothing. Part of me was relieved; the other part was annoyed for being relieved.
When I finally noticed, my back was already tingling against the hard chair. I blinked, saw the daylight fading through the window. My stomach growled in a humiliating way.
I opened the fridge. Nothing… if I wanted something decent, I'd have to cook, and I had zero strength for that. Then I remembered the ready-to-bake pizzas at the little market around the corner. Perfect. Zero effort.
I grabbed my keys and went downstairs.
The landlord was on the porch, just like always, as if the world ran on his schedule. When he saw me, he smiled warmly.
— Good evening, Helena.
— Good evening — I replied, trying to sound normal. — I'm just going to grab a frozen pizza on the corner.
His reaction was immediate: pure disapproval, the kind of expression a dad would make.
He stood up:
— How are you going to eat that junk today of all days, when tomorrow you have to go back to university and need energy? — He put his hands on his waist. — I've had a chicken marinating since the morning. I was just about to start cooking it.
I opened my mouth to say it was fine, that I didn't want to be a bother, but he lifted his hand, cutting off my excuse before it formed.
— You're having dinner with us. And that's that.
I had no way out — and worse, no courage to refuse someone so kind. I nodded, awkward.
He pulled a chair and tapped it, signaling for me to sit.
I sat down. The smell of seasoning filled the air. And somewhere in the back of my mind, a bitter truth formed:
The very last thing I needed today was to share a table with Rafael.
But there I was, trapped by the kindness of a man who genuinely wished me well.
The landlord chatted the way he always did — easy, simple. Talked about the university, asked if I was anxious to go back, commented that routine was good for the mind. Then he complained about the corner market raising prices again, and said he was testing a new recipe for the chicken, one he'd seen on TV and "couldn't die without trying."
I answered on autopilot, trying to seem calm, even though I knew exactly what I didn't want to happen.
And then it happened.
He stood up and said:
— Come in, girl. Come on… the chicken is almost ready for the oven. And Rafael keeps you company while I finish the rest.
My heart jumped, but I followed him inside.
— Oh, no need — I tried, standing almost at the same time. — I can stay in the kitchen talking with you…
Too late.
Rafael appeared.
Barefoot, black shorts, a fitted T-shirt that let me see the outline of his chest every time he moved his arm. His hair messy, his face unreadable. But his eyes… steady, straight on mine. He didn't look away for even a second.
The landlord kept talking as if nothing unusual had happened:
— Put something on the TV, you two. I'll be right back.
Rafael grabbed the remote, still not looking away from me.
— What do you want to watch?
— Whatever — I answered too quickly.
He chose a home renovation show. One I used to love. Apparently… he did too.
We sat there in silence.
I felt like he was watching me the whole time.
And the worst part? I couldn't pretend I didn't notice.
We stayed there for a while, just the two of us and that renovation show that always managed to hypnotize me. Slowly, even the heavy air between us seemed to loosen, and the uncomfortable sensation of being observed turned into… a presence. Quiet… attentive.
That's when we heard the landlord's voice from the kitchen:
— Set the table for me, kids! I'm about to serve!
I stood up instantly.
— I'll do it — I said fast, before Rafael even moved a muscle. — Don't worry.
The landlord laughed loudly.
— And Rafael is just going to sit and eat? Here everyone works together! Go help her, boy!
Rafael obeyed without argument.
We went to the kitchen to grab the tablecloth, plates, glasses, cutlery… and every time we passed by each other in the narrow space, my whole body shivered. My shoulder nearly brushing his… his faint cologne… his breath close. I faked normalcy, but my hands trembled while placing the plates.
Dinner went by as always: the landlord talking nonstop, telling stories, laughing at his own jokes. I chimed in here and there, trying to seem natural. And Rafael… Rafael stayed silent.
When we finished eating, the landlord slapped his legs, satisfied.
— Now clear the table. I'll wash the dishes today.
We took the plates to the sink. While I organized everything, I noticed the landlord placing several small containers inside a grocery bag, but I didn't pay attention — assumed it was leftovers to store.
When I finally offered to help wash the dishes, he didn't even let me finish. He walked straight to Rafael, handed him the bag, and only then explained:
— I separated some food for Helena to eat during the week. That way she doesn't have to cook much and won't eat junk.
My face burned.
— You don't have to, really — I protested. — I'll end up feeling like I'm taking advantage of your kindness.
— Taking advantage would be leaving me worried — he replied firmly. — This way I know your fridge is full. Makes me feel calmer.
There was no escaping it. I sighed and thanked him quietly. Then reached for the bag in Rafael's hands.
— I can take it, it's okay…
But before my fingers touched the plastic, the landlord placed his hand over mine, like stopping a child from doing something reckless.
— None of that. The bag is heavy and you still need to spare that knee. Rafael takes it.
I swallowed any further protest. And so we walked through the living room toward the stairs — me a few steps ahead, him carrying the bag behind me, like that small distance was the only thing keeping me from feeling everything I was desperately trying to forget.