Saying goodbye to my parents was quick, almost too simple for everything we had been through. My mother insisted on smiling, my father cracked crooked jokes to hide the exhaustion, and I could only hug them tighter than I meant to.Rafael stayed a step behind, respectful, but present. Always present.
The bus ride back was quiet… he sat beside me and laced his fingers through mine. The sway of the bus, the lights sliding past the window, the low hum of tires on asphalt… everything felt far away. The only solid thing was his hand in mine.
Rafael leaned his shoulder against mine, slowly, like he was testing whether he could. I let him, and for a few miles we just stayed like that, breathing in the same rhythm.
I didn't say anything… maybe because if I did, I would cry… or because I knew any word would break the small shelter that gesture had become.
And he… he didn't try to start a conversation either. He just stayed there, attentive, as if making sure I wouldn't fall apart halfway down the road.
The truth was, I was fragile. Not because I'd spent days in the hospital—I hadn't… and maybe that was exactly what tightened my chest the most.
The guilt came in a thin, quiet thread, but it came. I hadn't stayed there as long as I should have… my mother said they were fine, that I should rest, that I didn't need to worry… and I had obeyed.
But I knew I had obeyed too easily because I wanted to be with Rafael.
And I recognized that the time we spent together, just the two of us, had been… necessary. The way he shared his own weight with me did me good in a way I still couldn't name. And deep down, I knew it had done him good too.
It was strange to carry both things at once… the guilt of not staying longer with my parents and the certainty that I needed those moments with him, that piece of truth we had shared.
When the bus finally stopped at the terminal, it was already fully night. We got off still holding hands, not out of habit, but because neither of us seemed ready to let go.
We walked a few blocks like that, the sound of our footsteps filling the space that had once been silence. Then we pushed the gate open… the familiar creak announced our arrival before any words did.
The landlord appeared at the door in seconds.
— Helena! — he exclaimed, hurried, wiping his hands on his pants. — So, how are your parents? Is everything okay?
I nodded, with a tired smile.
— They're fine. They're already home… everything went smoothly.
He let out a sigh of relief so sincere it loosened my chest a little.
— Oh, good… that's really good. I was worried.
My gaze slipped to Rafael for a moment; he looked at me too.
— So… I'm going upstairs — I murmured, trying to sound light, normal. — I need to get organized for college tomorrow morning.
The landlord nodded, then turned to Rafael almost automatically:
— And you, young man, do the same, alright? — he pointed a finger, half joking. — Tomorrow morning you both need to be in one piece.
Rafael just nodded.
— You got it.
I turned to climb the stairs, feeling my heart stumble for a second when I heard his footsteps heading toward the ground-floor house. That was how we returned: on the outside, as if nothing had happened… but inside, knowing that everything had changed.
I dropped my backpack on the floor and started separating the books I'd need the next day. Routine tried to come back… but my head didn't follow. I stood there, flipping through pages, when a bitter memory crossed my mind: the cruel things people said about him at college.
People who barely knew his name, inventing theories like it was a sport.
I had always thought it was ridiculous, but now… after hearing the truth from his own mouth… it was offensive.The worst part wasn't even the twisted versions… it was the total lack of logic. How could someone spread that his mother "died of heartbreak because of the fight" when she had died long before any of that happened?
It was so absurd it was embarrassing for whoever made it up.
I closed one of the books hard, irritated.
Why did he let that exist? Why did he carry alone a guilt that wasn't his? Why did he accept those sideways looks as if he deserved them?
I tossed the books onto the couch and dropped down with them, crossing my arms as if it were possible to argue alone with the entire world. I grumbled, frustrated, thinking of all the answers I'd give if I had the courage.
That's when I heard it.
The familiar creak of the gate.
My body straightened before I even realized it. I looked out the window, but I didn't need to see to know… he was leaving.
And this time, I knew exactly where he was going.
For a moment, I stayed there, watching his shape disappear into the darkness, feeling that strange mix of pain and admiration. Now that I knew the truth… those late-night exits carried another weight. They were quiet, hidden… but they held something beautiful, noble.
He didn't do that out of guilt—he did it out of loyalty. Out of love for the boy he had saved and, at the same time, hurt.
I sighed, letting my head fall back against the couch.
I stayed there longer than I intended, my thoughts going back and forth to the same place… or rather, the same person. Every detail of the day, every word of his, every look, all came back as if my mind were trying to remind me of something important.
And deep down, I knew what it was.
I wanted to see him just one more time before ending the day. I sighed and stood up. I went to the bathroom and let the hot water fall over my shoulders. When I came out, I put on comfortable clothes—a loose T-shirt, light shorts… nothing special, but enough to chase away the lingering feeling of hospital and road.
In the kitchen, I grabbed the tin of cookies my mother had sent. Rafael had devoured several while watching soccer with my dad; he hadn't noticed, but I had.
I paired it with two cups of coffee, checked the clock… I had seen him leave and return so many times in the silence of the night that my body knew the timing better than my head. A little over an hour… maybe a little less, depending on how much he needed to be close to his friend that night.
I did the math, estimated the time.
He should be coming back… I took the tin, the coffees, and went down the stairs carefully. The night air hit my face as soon as I pushed the door open.
I sat on the second step with the tray on my lap, the two cups of coffee releasing a light steam, the cookie tin set beside me. The warmth of the night clung to my skin, but my anxiety burned hotter than the air.
Now all that was left was to wait.Just that… just wait for him.