I woke up two hours earlier than necessary.
I couldn't sleep well all night, waking up from time to time as if something was wrong. As if I had forgotten an important detail or as if the world was about to turn upside down.
Maybe it was.
Rafael Monteiro was coming to the institute today.
And not as an arrogant businessman looking for the spotlight—at least, that's not how he seemed. The way he wrote the email, direct and objective, but without coldness... told me that he wanted to see more. Not of the statistics, not of the goals—but of the people. And maybe, of me.
I dressed carefully. Not as my mother would like—no high heels or overly tight silk blouse—but not as I used to either. I picked out a pair of tailored black pants that shaped my body without disguising it. A white shirt with a slight neckline, just enough to show that I was present. I lived too long trying to disappear. Maybe today was the day to allow myself to exist.
I tied my hair in a low bun and applied light makeup. When I looked in the mirror, I didn't find myself beautiful. But I didn't hate myself either.
And that was already a lot.
When he arrived, I knew even before I saw him.
The electronic gate opened and the reception's movement became different—more attentive, more tense, as if a figure from another world had invaded our humble corner of the city.
I met him at the door of the main building. He was wearing a navy blue shirt folded up to the elbows, no tie, no suit—which immediately confused me. He wasn't the Rafael Monteiro from the magazine covers. He was the man from the balcony. The one who looked at me as if he wanted to decipher me.
"Good morning, Helena," he said with a discreet smile.
"Good morning..." I tried to contain the tremor in my voice. "Welcome to the Institute."
He extended his hand to me, as he had done at the party, and, once again, I held his with the strange feeling that there was something there. Something that held me. That recognized me.
"I hope you're prepared for a long visit. I'm curious."
"That's good... I think."
He laughed, and the tension in my shoulders eased a little.
We started with the workshops courtyard.
There, young people from nearby communities were learning carpentry, sewing, gardening, music. Rafael listened to everything attentively, asking relevant questions, observing the environment as if he were truly interested. And he was.
"This isn't just charity, it's an investment in autonomy," he said at one point, while listening to one of the coordinators of the sewing wing. "You are training people who will build their own path. That has real value."
I looked at him in surprise. Most people with financial power who visited the institute used words like "noble initiative" or "philanthropic action." Rafael spoke like someone who understood. Like someone who valued.
"I imagined you were more... distant from this," I confessed, as we walked down the hallway towards the library. "CEOs tend to have a more... cold view."
"CEOs are taught to appear cold," he replied. "But some of us learn to listen, if we're lucky."
I smiled. For the first time that day, it was a light smile.
"You listen very well."
"Only when it's worth it."
And again, he looked at me that way. As if he was seeing everything I was and everything I was trying to hide.
In the library, we sat at a reserved table with two cups of coffee. He had asked to talk more calmly. I felt the nervousness return, as if, when we moved away from the others, I had no more excuses to hide.
"When did you start here?" he asked, stirring his coffee with a small spoon, distracted.
"Four years ago. But I only took over the social development core last year."
"And no one knew that?"
"They know. But they prefer to say that my mother 'gave' me this job so I could feel useful."
He frowned.
"That's absurd."
"It's the standard. I'm the daughter 'who didn't fit in'. The one who doesn't meet expectations. So they always belittle what I do to keep the family's emotional hierarchy functioning."
Rafael looked at me intently for a few seconds.
"Do you have any idea how strong you are?"
I laughed, skeptical.
"No. Not at all."
He leaned slightly forward, his elbows on the table.
"Maybe because you've spent your whole life trying to fit into a mold made for someone else. No one taught you to look at yourself with justice. Only with judgment."
"And why do you care so much about that?"
I couldn't hide the question. It confused me. Men like him weren't interested in women like me. Much less in their feelings.
"Because I see you, Helena. And seeing you... makes me want to stay."
My heart stopped for a second.
His words lingered between us like a promise. Or a threat. I didn't know yet.
I looked away, staring at the window, trying to control the flood of thoughts that invaded me.
"You don't know me," I murmured.
"Not yet. But I want to know you. If you allow it."
I closed my eyes for a second, trying to breathe.
It was easy to want to believe.
It was difficult to accept.
But something in me—very small, almost imperceptible—began to desire that.
Not just to be seen.
To be chosen.
To be loved.
Even if it seemed impossible.
We were silent for a while. A comfortable silence for him. Uncomfortable for me.
My body seemed to be always on alert. As if it were ready for criticism, mocking laughter, the rejection that would inevitably come. And that's what confused me about Rafael Monteiro: he didn't try to fill the silence with catchphrases or generic compliments. He just looked at me as if he didn't want to be anywhere else.
That made me vulnerable. And I hated feeling vulnerable.
"Can I ask you a question?" he said, breaking the silence.
I nodded, reluctantly.
"When was the last time you looked in the mirror and said, 'I like who I am'?"
I let out a low laugh. Acidic. Almost bitter.
"Never."
He didn't react with pity. He didn't try to console me in a cheap way. He just nodded slowly, as if respecting a pain even without fully understanding it.
"Can I tell you what I see when I look at you?" he asked, his voice low, as if the world around had disappeared.
I swallowed hard.
"I don't know if I want to hear it."
"Maybe you need to."
I looked at him with a mixture of defiance and fear.
"Then speak."
He rested his arms on the table and leaned slightly forward. His eyes, brown and intense, didn't leave mine for a second.
"I see a woman who has learned to hide so well that she doesn't even recognize herself. Who carries an absurd strength, but who has spent her whole life apologizing for existing. I see a brilliant mind, an exhausted heart, and a smile that appears only when she forgets what others think. And I see a beauty that doesn't follow any standard—and that's why it's real."
My hands clenched into fists on my lap. I wanted to fight with him. To scream. To say that he was wrong, that he didn't know me, that it was easy to say these things when you came from a world where everything was easy. But nothing came out of my mouth.
The truth is that a part of me wanted to believe in every word.
But it was too scary.
"You shouldn't say those things to me, Rafael."
"Why?"
"Because I might believe it."
He was silent for a second. Then, he replied firmly:
"I hope you do."
The visit continued, but the tone had changed. The atmosphere was denser, charged with something I didn't know how to name. Desire, maybe. But it was more than that. It was the feeling of being seen and heard attentively, cleanly, without apparent ulterior motives.
On the way out, he walked with me to the main gate. The sun was beginning to slant in the sky, casting golden shadows on the ground.
"Thank you for receiving me, Helena. Really."
"Thank you for... seeing beyond."
He gave me a warm, but restrained look. There was still a care in his gestures, as if he didn't want to scare me. And that made me respect him even more.
"Can I call you?"
I felt my stomach tighten.
"You can."
"Will you answer?"
I smiled, finally.
"Maybe."
He laughed, shaking his head.
"I like your 'maybe'."
"It's what I can give for now."
"For now, it's enough."
He got into the car with that calm and confident air. And I stood there, watching the vehicle disappear around the corner.
And I realized that something was changing.
I didn't know what yet.
But, for the first time, I didn't want to run.
That night, lying in my bed with the lights off, I stared at the ceiling and let the memory of the conversation invade every corner of my mind. I repeated each of his words as if they were verses of a forbidden poem. Every time he looked at me, every time my name came out of his mouth. Nothing sounded rehearsed. Nothing seemed manipulated.
And it was in that silence that my mind whispered, for the first time in a long time:
"What if he's right about me?"
I cried.
Not from sadness.
But from fear.
Fear of finally allowing myself to believe that, perhaps, loving—and being loved—wasn't a privilege reserved for others.
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