His first message arrived on Tuesday morning.
Rafael Monteiro:
"Your team at the institute is admirable. I wanted to thank you again for receiving me. I'm thinking of coming back, if you don't think it would be a bother."
I smiled to myself, looking at the phone screen for too long. The words were formal, but what came between the lines was softer. There was delicacy in the way he wrote. And I, even wanting to keep my distance, replied.
Helena:
"It wouldn't be a bother. But if you show up again with your sleeves rolled up and the face of a CEO on a spiritual retreat, the sewing students will faint."
Almost immediately he replied:
Rafael:
"If you're around, I guarantee they'll keep breathing."
My heart beat faster.
That's what he did. He threw phrases into the middle of the routine, like someone shooting small sparks, and I spent the rest of the day trying to put out the fire that came afterward.
Little by little, our conversations became frequent. We started exchanging messages every day—sometimes about the project, other times about trivial things, like coffee, books, or random phrases.
He always said something that made me laugh. Or think. Sometimes both at the same time.
But the worst part was that, little by little, he was entering my routine. And that hurt.
It hurt because I wanted more. It hurt because I still didn't think I deserved it. And it hurt, above all, because I felt like I was turning into someone who could fall in love—and that terrified me.
On Friday night, during family dinner, my father casually mentioned that Rafael Monteiro had called.
"He wants to review the strategic planning. He said he'd like to talk to you too, Helena," he commented, taking another piece of meat.
My mother, who until then had been cutting the fish with surgical concentration, stopped the movement.
"With Helena?"
My father nodded, distracted.
Isadora dropped her cutlery with more noise than necessary.
"But why? He has our entire project team at his disposal."
"He said that Helena has a sensitive view on the impacts of the social project," my father replied, as if he were quoting a statistical figure.
My mother kept the social smile on her lips, but her gaze burned. I knew that look. The same one she gave when I said I wasn't going to the beauty salon, or when I chose a dress "unsuitable for my biotype."
"I think it's great that you're getting more involved, daughter," she said, with rehearsed sweetness. "But be careful not to create... expectations outside of reality."
It was like a stab. Small. Precise. Fatal.
She wanted to remind me of my place.
And maybe she was right.
The next day, Rafael showed up at the institute unannounced. He was wearing dark jeans, a black T-shirt, and sneakers. The stubble made his face more human. Less CEO. More man. And the worst part: more dangerous for my heart.
"I didn't think you were coming," I commented, surprised.
"I thought you were avoiding me," he retorted, staring at me too directly.
"Maybe I am."
He smiled slightly.
"May I know why?"
"Because I still don't know what you want."
He stopped, crossing his arms as he looked at me.
"I want to get to know you."
"And what else?"
"I don't know yet. But I'm willing to find out. With you. Without rushing. Without masks."
That dismantled me.
I wanted to back away. Create a barrier. Say that he was just playing around, that men like him don't fall in love with women like me.
But instead, I took him to the environmental project's greenhouse, the calmest corner of the institute. The children had already left, and the late afternoon light filtered through the leaves like in an old painting.
"This is my favorite place," I said, trying to change the subject.
"Now it's mine too," he replied, his voice lower. "You're different here."
"Different how?"
"Lighter. More you."
I closed my eyes for a moment, feeling my throat tighten.
"Sometimes I think I don't even know who I really am anymore."
"I can help you remember, if you want."
And that's when he extended his hand, without rushing. Not to touch me. But as an invitation.
I looked at that hand for a long time. And, for the first time in years, I allowed myself to accept it.
His fingers closed around mine firmly, but gently. I was trembling. He noticed, but said nothing. He just gave me time. And that was all I needed most.
That night, back in my room, I lay down with my hand still feeling the warmth of his.
He didn't kiss me.
He didn't try to seduce me.
But he looked at me as if I were made of precious glass, the kind that is not touched with brutality.
And that delicacy broke something inside me.
Because never, in my entire life, had I been treated as someone worthy of care.
And now, with just a few gestures, Rafael Monteiro was changing everything.
Everything.
Including… the way I looked at myself.
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