The insistent vibration of my phone came from the kitchen, tearing me out of a heavy sleep. I opened my eyes slowly and only then realized where I was: on the couch, in exactly the same position where I'd passed out.
And Rafael… lying behind me, his arm still loose around my waist, breathing deeply, completely surrendered to sleep.
I didn't even have time to feel anything.
I jumped off the couch, heart racing, crossed the living room almost tripping over my own feet. I grabbed the phone from the kitchen table. On the screen, it was my mother.
I answered quickly.
— Helena? — her voice was light. — Sweetheart, we've been discharged. We just need to sign a few papers and we can go home.
I stayed silent for a second, trying to really wake up, trying to respond like a functional person.
— I'm on my way — I said quickly. — Wait for me, Mom… I'll be there soon.
I hung up and tossed the phone back onto the table as if it were hot.
I ran back to the living room.
— Rafael — I touched his arm. He opened his eyes slowly, still half lost. — My mom… she called. They're coming home already. They're waiting for me.
Rafael blinked, his thoughts clicking into place one by one. And then, like a switch had been flipped, he jumped to his feet.
His gaze dropped to the coffee table. The open pizza box, empty cookie wrappers, cups with soda leftovers, a half-eaten chocolate bar.
— Helena, go — he said, already gathering everything in quick, efficient, almost military movements. — Go to the hospital… I'll take care of everything here. When you all get back, the house will be in order.
— But I can help… — I started, already knowing there was no time.
— Go — he repeated, firm. — They need you now.
I was already rushing to the bathroom, splashing water on my face, trying to look human in thirty seconds. I ran a hand through my hair, grabbed my bag, went back to the door.
— Helena.
His voice made me stop.
I turned. He was standing in the middle of the living room, looking at me.
— Be careful — he said. — And don't worry. When you come back, everything here will be fine.
I nodded. Unable to smile, unable to say anything more than a:
— Okay.
And I left with the feeling that the day had already started running before I could keep up.
When I got to the hospital, my parents were already waiting for me in the hallway, each with a small bag in hand. My mom was standing, adjusting the strap of her purse on her shoulder, her face lively. My dad, sitting on a temporary chair, looked almost impatient to leave.
As soon as I approached, my mother looked at me the way only a mother can—that emotional scanner that catches every micro-expression.
— Sweetheart… are you okay?
I nodded too fast.
— I am. — I tried to smile, forcing my breathing to stay normal. — And you? How are you feeling?
She smiled warmly, but clearly didn't buy my disguise.
— We're very well. — She lightly touched my arm. — You seem… agitated.
I looked away, resting my hand on her bag as if that could hide anything on my face.
— I just want to get you out of here — I replied. — The doctor already cleared you, right?
My dad nodded, cheerful.
— Just need to sign a few things.
I nodded, took a deep breath, trying to align my voice with my body, which was still somewhere else—half stuck in my living room, near him.
— Then let's go — I murmured, pushing my dad's chair forward.
And I guided them down the hallway, trying to look calm, even with the agitation pounding under my skin.
Handling everything at reception was faster than I expected. Signatures, documents, one last set of instructions from the nurse… and done. Minutes later, we were getting into a taxi, my dad carefully settled in the front seat, my mom and me in the back.
On the way, my mom talked as if she were coming back from a stroll, not from a hospital stay.
— When we get home I think I'll make some rice… or maybe soup. It's been days since I cooked anything.
— Mom — I interrupted, laughing softly — you're going to rest. I'll take care of everything.
She huffed, indignant.
— I'm tired of resting, Helena. I've just been lying down, I feel like I'm rusting.
— Just for today — I replied, firm but affectionate. — Tomorrow we negotiate.
She made a defeated pout, which only made me smile more.
For a moment the taxi fell silent… until my dad broke it:
— And Rafael? — he asked, with no malice at all, just curiosity.
My stomach dropped. I felt my face burn instantly.
— He… stayed there — I answered too quickly. — I left in such a hurry I didn't even wait for him to wake up properly.
My dad let out a short, amused laugh—the kind of laugh from a man who's seen the scene a thousand times in his life.
— Poor guy… — he murmured, shaking his head. — Men suffer.
My mom lightly elbowed him, pretending to scold him, but smiling too.
And I just turned my face to the window, trying to cool the heat that had climbed up my cheeks.
As soon as we walked into the house, the smell hit me first—freshly brewed coffee, warm, familiar. My heart gave a small leap.
The living room was immaculate. None of yesterday's mess, none of the forgotten pizza, empty packages, dirty cups. Everything clean, everything organized.
My mom went in first, curious as always, straight to the kitchen. When she crossed the doorway, I heard the unmistakable sound of a pair of excited claps.
— Oh, thank God! — she exclaimed, already laughing. — I couldn't take hospital food anymore!
I followed her and stopped at the entrance.
The table was set… hot coffee, cake, fresh bread, jam, cheese. And two or three extra things he had clearly just bought at the corner bakery.
I looked at Rafael.
He was standing by the sink, his hands still slightly wet, as if he'd finished washing something seconds before. When our eyes met, he gave me a short… relieved smile, like he'd been waiting for my reaction.
I smiled back. I couldn't help it.
— Sit here, Paulo — Rafael said, already moving toward my dad, carefully adjusting his arm. — It'll be more comfortable.
My dad thanked him, pleased with his efficiency.
My mom was already opening the jam jar like it was a Christmas present.
And I stood there for a second, still, feeling that scene fit into my life in a way that warmed my chest… the good kind.
The time we spent at the table passed almost too quickly.
Rafael and my dad talked like old friends, laughing at the same things, agreeing about soccer, grumbling together about TV news. With every comment, my dad gave that satisfied smile.
My mom… watched everything in curious silence, with that look of approval she didn't even try to hide. You could see it in her eyes: she had already approved of Rafael. No speeches, no invasive questions—just… watching… and understanding.
When the coffee was finished and the cake was practically a memory, my dad rested his good hand on the table, ready to try to stand.
But Rafael was faster.
He was already at his side, steady, attentive to every movement.
— Let me help you, Paulo — he said, offering his arm.
My dad let out an almost theatrical sigh, the kind of sigh from someone who accepts help but likes to pretend he doesn't need it.
And I, watching the scene from a distance, felt my heart beat faster… for the thousandth time that day.