I didn't know that hearing the sound of a notification could take my breath away.
But ever since Rafael started writing to me frequently, any vibration from my cell phone put me on alert. As if a part of me—which until then had been dormant—had woken up and didn't want to go back to sleep.
That morning, the message arrived early while I was having coffee on the back porch.
Rafael:
"Do you think I can convince you to go out with me tomorrow?
Just the two of us.
No reports, no projects, no excuses."
I swallowed the coffee too quickly and choked.
I took a deep breath.
I read it again.
And again.
And then once more, just to make sure he wasn't kidding.
Just the two of us.
It was a direct invitation. Simple. No beating around the bush. And yet, loaded with everything I feared most: expectation.
I replied hours later.
I delayed not because I wanted to play games—I didn't know how to play.
I delayed because the fear was real.
Helena:
"If it's a place without mirrors and without people staring, maybe I'll go."
His response was almost immediate:
Rafael:
"Done. Tomorrow at 7 pm. I'll pick you up."
And there it was.
The invitation I'd been waiting for my whole life and that, at the same time, made me want to run to my room and hide under the covers.
I spent the next day trying to choose an outfit.
Nothing seemed right. Black disguised me, but made me look dull. The blue dress was pretty, but too tight. My favorite jeans made me comfortable, but not... desirable.
And that's when I realized what I was trying to do.
Be desirable.
For him.
For someone who, for the first time, didn't make me feel like a freak trying to fit into a space that wasn't mine.
In the end, I chose a dark green dress of light fabric. A discreet neckline, three-quarter sleeves, defined waist. Not to please him. But because, looking in the mirror, I felt good. For the first time in a long time.
He arrived on time.
He was wearing a dark blazer, an open-collared shirt, and a calm smile that made me too nervous.
"You look beautiful," he said as soon as he saw me.
"And you have terrible aesthetic judgment," I retorted, trying to maintain my shield of humor so I wouldn't fall apart.
"Or maybe I see what others can't," he replied.
That phrase undid me. Again.
The restaurant was small, intimate, with low lighting and soft background music. No crowds. No shop windows. No Isadora to overshadow me. No mother controlling my posture.
Just the two of us.
He pulled out the chair for me, asked what I wanted to drink, and let the silence envelop us until I was comfortable enough to speak.
"Why are you doing this?" I asked in a whisper.
"Doing what?"
"Treating me like someone who matters."
He frowned, resting his elbows on the table, leaning slightly in my direction.
"Because you matter."
Just like that.
And, for some reason, it was worse to hear that than if he had said he was in love.
Because it was believable. It was true. It was too real.
And I still didn't know what to do with it.
After dinner, we walked to the car in silence. But it was a good silence. One that said more than any conversation. A silence of someone who was too full inside to try to fill it with words.
He opened the door for me. Before getting in, I hesitated.
I turned to him.
"Do you know what you're getting into?"
"No. But I know who's pulling me in. And I want to go."
I stared at him for a moment, trying to understand how that man, so outside my reality, could touch me in such a precise way.
"I'm complicated, Rafael."
"Great. I've never had patience for shallow people."
And he smiled.
That smile.
Warm. True. And absurdly dangerous for my tired heart.
I got home before ten.
My mother was in the living room with Isadora. They stopped talking when they saw me enter.
Isadora analyzed me from head to toe.
"You went out?" she asked, as if she already knew the answer.
"Yes."
"With whom?"
"None of your business."
She laughed.
"You're really deluding yourself, aren't you? Do you think a man like Rafael Monteiro is going to get involved with someone like you? Helena, let's be realistic..."
My mother said nothing. She didn't need to. Her silence was the same as always: the complicity of shame.
But this time, something in me... didn't back down.
"Maybe he has the courage to see what you two never could," I replied calmly. "And maybe that's what bothers you the most."
Isadora turned red. My mother pursed her lips.
And I went up the stairs with a racing heart, but with a new courage in my chest.
Rafael was messing with everything.
With my routine.
With my fears.
With what I thought I knew about myself.
When I closed the bedroom door behind me, my body gave way.
I took off my shoes slowly and sat on the edge of the bed, feeling my heart still pounding erratically. I knew it wasn't just nervousness. It was the weight of what that night had awakened in me.
Because I had felt something. Not just for him. But for myself.
It was as if, for one night, I had left the invisible prison in which I had lived for years. As if someone had finally allowed me to take a deep breath, laugh for real, look into eyes without fear of being despised.
And that someone had been Rafael.
My cell phone vibrated. Another message from him.
Rafael:
"You're even more beautiful when you're silent."
I took a deep breath.
I pressed the device against my chest.
And, after a few seconds, I replied:
Helena:
"I'm not used to compliments that don't end in mockery."
Rafael:
"Then get used to it. Because I don't intend to stop."
I felt a lump form in my throat.
I could pretend I didn't care. I could continue hiding behind sarcastic answers and emotional barriers. But something inside me had already given way. He was coming in. Slowly, respectfully, but firmly.
And I didn't want to stop him.
The next day, Rafael appeared at the institute with a coffee in his hand and an indecent smile on his face.
"I brought reinforcements," he said, handing me the cup.
"And intrusion," I retorted, unable to contain my smile.
"I'm testing my limits."
"You're doing well."
We spent the morning reviewing some proposals from the youth training program. But, in reality, the work was just an excuse to be close. And we both knew it.
He was intelligent. Observant. And, above all, kind. Not with empty pleasantries—but with the patience that comes from someone who is really interested in getting to know someone's soul. And that... was scary.
"Sometimes I think you're idealizing me," I said, closing the folder with the reports.
"No. I'm trying to see you as you are. The problem is that you hide all the time."
"Because it's safer."
"Maybe. But it's also lonelier."
I turned my face to him and, for the first time, let him see the pain. Without filters. Without defenses.
"You have no idea what it's like to grow up hearing that you'll never be enough. That you need to change to be accepted. That you can't dress, eat, speak, dream... as you want. Because you don't have the right body. The right voice. The right image."
He took one step closer. Then another.
He stopped inches from me.
"I can't erase what they did to you, Helena. But I can show you that there's another way to be loved."
I stood still. Breathless.
And he didn't touch me.
He just stood there, close enough for me to feel his presence. Strong. Warm. Real.
"You don't have to be afraid of me," he whispered.
"I'm more afraid of myself."
"Me too," he replied. "But I'm still here."
I closed my eyes, feeling something break inside me. A wall, perhaps. An old fear. A belief that I had dragged on for years, like a sentence engraved on my skin.
And when I opened my eyes again, Rafael was still there.
And even without a kiss, without a touch, without any promise spoken aloud…
I was already surrendered.
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