Rafael POV
The pen drags across the page, skipping.
The word stops being a word and turns into a squiggle.
The bell slices through the room.
Three sharp rings.
The class flips instantly into a tide—
chairs scraping, backpacks smacking desks, voices tripping over each other.
I snap the notebook shut—too fast—
shove everything into my bag before the thought even forms.
Her line flashes in my head: we'll figure it out at break.
Nope.
I stand before my body decides otherwise.
From the middle row, Mateus gets up at his usual calm pace.
He tosses his notebook into his bag.
The cap of his pen skitters across the floor.
"I'll find that later," he says, not even bending down.
I slip into the narrow gap between desks—
backpacks jutting out, someone hunting for a pencil on the ground, people talking while they get up all at once.
A chorus of "sorry, sorry…" passes around the room like a habit.
I slide through the spaces while they still exist.
Don't look left.
I know where she is—light laugh, loud voice, hand in her hair.
Seeing is worse than imagining.
The door is open.
Light from the hall.
Air that feels looser.
I'm out.
The hallway hits louder—footsteps, overlapping conversations, that chemical-cleaner smell mixed with something that might be cheese bread.
Mateus strolls up beside me, no rush.
"What's the hurry?"
"The cafeteria line," I say. "Stuff disappears fast."
Half-truth. Maybe less.
"Mhm."
He shelves it without pushing.
We walk.
Dodge a backpack abandoned in the hallway, a circle of kids blocking half the path,
a runaway paper ball rolling across our feet.
I keep my eyes ahead.
Bright courtyard waiting.
Air that doesn't stick to my skin.
More people means easier to vanish.
"And the project?" Mateus asks, like it just occurred to him.
"What project?" I shoot back.
"Helena's. Scene, subtext, unspoken whatever."
He waves a hand.
"You and—"
He doesn't finish. He doesn't have to.
"I'll deal with it later," I say. "It's just homework."
My voice lands with no period—drifting off at the end.
And yeah, I hear it too.
The hallway bottlenecks as three classrooms spill people out at once.
We're wedged tight, shuffling, bumping shoulders with strangers going the opposite way.
My temple pulses—too much noise in too little space.
Almost there.
Maybe ten steps and the courtyard will swallow us.
"Monteiro!"
Someone yells behind me—lost in the mess—but lands dead center between my shoulder blades.
Could be anyone.
There are other Monteiros here.
I pretend it's one of them and pick up my pace—not enough to sprint.
Enough to claim coincidence.
"Rafael!"
The second one cuts through everything—clean, close, certain.
Mateus glances sideways.
Then at me.
"She's calling you, not me," he says. Flat. True.
I stop.
Not because I want to.
Because the alternative is running down the hall like a maniac.
I'm not giving Pipo that image.
The courtyard is close enough to touch.
Still, I turn halfway back.
Luísa makes her way through the flood of students like it's nothing.
Backpack on, hair in a half-tie already surrendering, steps quick.
She lifts a hand, like she needs to stake a claim in case I evaporate.
By the time she reaches us, she's breathing a little harder but still smiling.
Always smiling.
"You really think I'd forget rehearsal?" she fires off—no hello, no warm-up.
Rehearsal.
The word lands solid, even with a laugh wrapped around it.
"It's not rehearsal," I correct.
"It's a project."
"A project that needs rehearsal," she shoots back, like that's the simplest truth on Earth.
"Helena basically handed us the perfect scene. Do you realize that?"
She says perfect like most people say three-day weekend.
Mateus shifts back a step, like an actor quietly sliding off-camera.
Still there, but not in the shot.
"Scene, theater, feelings hiding under the surface…"
She ticks them off on her fingers.
"You look like someone who gets that better than I do."
"Gets what?" I ask, though the answer is already forming.
"Unspoken words," she says, steady.
"We have to create, practice, and perform a scene where what matters isn't what we say—it's what we don't."
She goes full Helena for a second—teacher-tone, bright eyes—like this is the highlight of her semester.
I lean back against the tile wall, just to stay upright.
Cold bleeds through my shirt.
"We can write something simple and be done," I say.
"No need to make it dramatic."
She laughs once, shakes her head.
"Simple how? 'Hey.' 'Hey.' 'Okay, bye.'"
She delivers it monotone, deadpan.
"It works," I shrug.
"Just memorize it."
"This isn't an essay, Monteiro," she counters, tightening her backpack strap.
"It's a scene. We need to be in the same place, same time, doing the same thing. Pauses.
Looks. Breathing. You know—acting."
"You can fake feelings," I say.
"That's what theater is."
She tilts her head, considers that.
"I can fake stuff," she admits, half-smile.
"Problem is, Helena asked for truth hidden underneath."
Truth.
Hidden.
Those two words together punch harder than they should.
"That's where it gets good," she says.
Good for who?
I cross my arms, my body locking down without permission.
"We can hand in something decent without treating it like an epic event," I say.
"We write it, split the lines, memorize at home, perform, done."
"At home?" she echoes, amused.
"You in a corner pretending the universe doesn't exist, me talking to my mirror? Great teamwork."
Her tone is light, but her eyes hold.
From the side, Mateus makes a noise—half laugh, half sigh.
"It's just a school project, Rafa," he says.
"Not open-heart surgery."
"For some people it is," I mutter.
He breathes once, deciding if he should push further.
Then:
"You running from the assignment… or from her?"
The question hits the floor like a dropped dumbbell.
Behind it: voices about last night's game, someone shouting for a friend, a "wait up" echoing down the hall.
I say nothing.
He sees that silence, smirks tiny.
"I'm grabbing food before it's gone," he announces.
"If they still have snacks, I'll bring you one."
He pats my shoulder twice—light—like a coach subbing himself out.
Then disappears into the crowd like water through fingers.
Leaving me and her at the center of the hallway swirl.
The hall keeps moving, packed, but around us there's this weird bubble of space.
Or maybe I just imagine it.
Either way, it feels like it.
"He's not wrong," Luísa says, watching where Mateus vanished.
"It really is just a project."
"Exactly," I say.
"So let's not turn it into a production."
"I'm not," she laughs.
"I'm planning."
She nods toward the courtyard.
"Come on. Walk. Before we get swallowed alive."
The hallway flow pushes us outside whether I like it or not.
The courtyard opens wide—sunlight, someone yelling "pass the ball!", fryer smell drifting from the cafeteria.
We end up by a chipped wall under a skinny tree trying its best to make shade.
Noise still loud, but no one shoulder-to-shoulder here.
"Okay."
She claps once like she's about to run a meeting.
"Logistics."
Up go three fingers.
"One: time. Two: place. Three: bare-minimum commitment."
"You're taking this too seriously," I say.
"Helena is," she shoots back.
"I'm just keeping up.
And honestly? This is half acting, half therapy.
I'm not wasting that."
Therapy. Great.
"Time," she repeats.
"When can you meet?"
"After school I've got the shop," I say.
"Every day."
That part's true.
Today it sounds like a lifeboat.
"Shop-shop?" she asks.
"Like cars, tools, grease?"
"Yeah."
For a second she seems genuinely impressed.
But she doesn't let it derail her mission.
"Fine. Before school, then. Tomorrow. Half an hour early."
"Tomorrow?" I repeat.
She raises a brow.
"Yes, tomorrow. The project won't magically write itself by the deadline."
"Half an hour isn't enough to do anything."
"It's enough to start."
She shrugs.
"Library. 7:30. First bell's at eight."
She talks like the entire school agreed already.
"I take the bus," I warn.
"Traffic decides my fate."
"So do I," she says.
"Difference is, if I'm late, I run."
She says run like it's normal programming.
I glance at her sneakers—chalk smudges, loose lace.
Yeah.
She'd sprint without thinking twice.
"I don't know," I say, and the sentence trails off automatically.
"I'll see."
Her smile curves sideways—small, knowing.
"You ever notice every sentence you say ends in dot-dot-dot?"
She mimics softly:
'Don't know… maybe later… whatever…'
"You notice too much," I answer.
"It's my job," she says.
"Theater. We pay attention to pauses, silences, all the stuff you pretend not to get."
She steps back just enough to take me in.
"Relax," she adds.
"I'll handle the exclamation marks,
you take care of the ellipses."
"Perfect," I deadpan.
"Scene's gonna be one long confused sentence."
She laughs—full, bright, unbothered.
It rises above everything else.
"Tomorrow, 7:30, Allen Library," she says again—like stamping it in stone.
"If you show up, we start.
If you don't…"
Pause—dramatic, obviously intentional.
"…we've already got our first example of 'true feelings hidden between the lines.'"
"How?"
"Abandonment," she says easily.
"You don't go, I wait alone, pretend I'm fine, do it myself.
Boom. Art."
She grins like that's hilarious.
The word abandonment lands heavier than her joke deserves.
"You always push things that far?" I ask.
"That's not far."
She winks.
"That's drama class."
She adjusts her bag, steps back like she's already onto her next stop.
"So it's settled."
"I didn't say I'm going."
"You never say anything with a full stop," she says.
"But everything about you feels like almost."
That one slips under the ribs.
I don't know what to do with my hands for a second.
"See you tomorrow, Monteiro."
She waves quick.
"If the bus allows.
If the shop allows.
If the ellipses allow."
She's gone before I can find a comeback—
pulled into another cluster of people, laughing, talking to three at once,
vanishing toward the theater wing like she lives at the speed of light.
I stay where I am, shoulder against peeling paint.
The courtyard churns on—
ball bouncing, someone yelling "pass it, dude!",
cafeteria line stretching longer,
kids sprawled on benches and stairs.
The sun flashes off the court bright enough to hurt.
A teacher blows a whistle somewhere.
My hand slides into my pocket.
Phone's warm.
I unlock it.
10:10.
7:30 tomorrow.
I start doing math without meaning to.
If I catch my usual bus, I get here at 7:40.
f I sleep ten minutes less, maybe 7:35.
If I tell my dad I'm heading early for library stuff, he'll probably grunt "sure" while elbow-deep in an engine.
My thumb moves, flicking through screens I'm not opening.
Camera. Messages. Nothing.
"I'm not going," tries to form.
"It's not important."
"It's just a project."
All of them with the invisible "…" she mentioned.
I shove the phone back fast—
grab my bag strap—
take a breath that does nothing.
My eyes drift toward the library windows across the courtyard—
glass catching the sky.
Empty right now.
Tomorrow, 7:30… who knows.
I turn the opposite direction, start walking toward the cafeteria, steps firm like the choice is final.
Somewhere in me, something walks the other way.