I woke up with the room bathed in the soft morning light. My knee still throbbed a little, but nothing that kept me from moving. The night had been surprisingly calm—maybe because of the exhaustion, maybe because, deep down, I still carried the memory of the way Rafael had looked at me before leaving.
Carefully, I sat up and reached for the crutches leaning against the wall. I walked to the window and opened the curtains. Fresh air rushed in, along with the familiar sound of water hitting leaves.
Down below, the landlord was in the garden, watering the plants with his usual patience. When he heard the window opening, he lifted his face and smiled.
"Sleep well, Helena?" he asked, raising the watering can a bit.
"I did," I answered, leaning against the windowsill. "Just my knee reminding me that it's still here."
He laughed, a quiet, warm laugh.
"I can bring you some coffee if you want."
"You don't need to, really. I'll eat a piece of fruit and that's enough."
He made a doubtful gesture with his head and added:
"Alright, then. But for lunch, no excuses. I'll bring it up so you don't have to keep forcing that leg."
"You're going to spoil me," I joked, and he laughed again before going back to the flowers.
I stayed there for a while, watching the leaves move gently in the wind. The sound of water falling from the watering can.
The pain came now and then, small stings that reminded me of the fall. There was something different in the air—as if, somehow, that accident had changed things between me and Rafael.
I smiled to myself remembering him carrying me, tense and careful, as if I were made of glass. Maybe, for the first time in my life, my clumsy nature had brought me something good.
When hunger finally kicked in, I decided to go to the kitchen for some fruit.I leaned the crutches against the wall and bent slightly to open the fridge—when something on the table caught my attention.
A neatly wrapped sandwich and a thermos beside it.
For a moment, I just stood there, unsure if it was really meant for me.
Without thinking twice, I grabbed the crutches again and hurried—well, as fast as someone on crutches could—to my bedroom window. I leaned on the sill and called:
"Mr. Joaquim!"
He lifted his face from the garden, squinting against the sun.
"Hi, Helena!"
"Did Rafael… already leave for the university?"
"He did," he answered, setting the watering can down. "Must've left really early, I didn't even see him. But last night he said he'd come home for lunch, then go back for afternoon classes."
I nodded, trying not to smile too obviously."Got it… thank you!"
I closed the curtain slowly and looked again at the table.
My chest filled with a warm, sweet feeling.He had prepared that for me.The same Rafael who, days ago, could barely look me in the eye, was now leaving food and coffee before leaving.
But along with the happiness came a shiver that ran all the way down my spine.
He had the spare key.
He had come in while I was asleep.
For a moment, my mind staged its own scenes—imagining the soft click of the lock turning, his effort not to make noise, the quiet steps on the floor. Then the image of him standing next to my bed, watching in silence.
Did he see me sleeping?Did he stay there for a few seconds… maybe more?
The thought made my face burn.Part of me wanted to believe he didn't—another part… hoped he had.
I let out a nervous laugh, shaking the thought away.
"Great, Helena… now you're not only injured, you're performing in your sleep," I muttered, rolling my eyes.
But the feeling didn't fade.
The morning dragged on.I watched some TV without really registering anything, then lay on the couch, shifting positions every five minutes—part laziness, part discomfort.
The sound of the lock turning made me raise my head.
The door opened slowly—and he walked in.
Rafael.
He closed the door behind him quietly and walked toward the couch, stopping a few steps away. The bright late-morning light hit his shoulders, highlighting the simple shirt with its sleeves rolled up, showing discreet veins and the firmness beneath the fabric.
His hair was slightly messy, like he'd run his hand through it multiple times on the way.His face… tired, but alert.
For a moment, neither of us moved.
It felt like the kitnet had shrunk—like the air itself had shifted temperature.
He breathed in deeply, not bothering to hide his concern.
"Are you… doing okay?"
My heart jumped so hard it actually hurt.
I nodded slowly."I'm fine. Slept a bit. The knee's better."
He took one step closer. Just one.
"My dad's finishing lunch. He told me to bring it to you, but…" he paused briefly, "I was thinking about taking you downstairs so you could eat with us."
"Take me?" I raised an eyebrow.
"Yeah." He ran a hand over the back of his neck, a little embarrassed. "Figured it must be boring being up here all day, especially if you can't move much."
The sincerity caught me off guard, and I smiled before I could stop myself.
"I'd love that," I admitted, laughing. "Another hour in here and I'd start talking to the walls."
He gave a half-smile—rare, subtle.
"Ready?" he asked, voice low.
"Almost," I said, pretending to sound casual as I reached for my crutches.
He smirked.
"Let me help."
"I can do it myself," I answered quickly, on reflex.
Rafael raised an eyebrow, amused.
"You can, I know. But I'm not watching you tumble down the stairs again."
I opened my mouth to argue, but he was already close—too close—his hand extended.
His touch was simple—just support, just practicality—but my body reacted anyway. Heat spread from his fingers up my arm, into my chest, and for a second everything slowed down: our breaths, the soft brush of his shirt sleeve against my shoulder, the world suddenly too quiet.
We went down the stairs slowly. Rafael kept his hand firm on my back, like he didn't trust my balance for a second.
When we reached the ground floor, the smell of garlic sautéing filled the air.
The landlord appeared wearing a wrinkled apron and a dish towel over his shoulder.
"Ah-ha!" he exclaimed, clapping his hands. "You survived the descent! Thought I'd have to call the firefighters."
"Almost did," I muttered, glaring at Rafael, who only snorted and shook his head.
"She's stubborn. Thinks she can do everything alone," he said, setting the crutches aside.
"And you're bossy," I shot back, crossing my arms.
The landlord laughed loudly.
"You two sound like an old movie couple. Just missing the black-and-white and the soundtrack."
I felt my face heat instantly, and Rafael cleared his throat, looking away.
"Lunch ready?" he asked, a bit too sharply.
"It is," the landlord said, still amused. "Made everything just the way you like it. Fluffy rice, stewed meat, crispy potatoes, and cold orange juice."
The smell was irresistible. Rafael pulled a chair out for me. I sat carefully, trying not to show how much the gesture affected me.
The landlord talked about the weather, the new flowers in the garden… Rafael mostly listened, head down, stirring his food. Occasionally, his eyes met mine—and every time, my heart stumbled again.
And in the middle of that simple lunch, surrounded by warmth, scents, and laughter, I realized:maybe the distance between us wasn't made of steps, but of courage—or the lack of it.