The days at my parents' house flowed lighter after the conversation with Marina and Rosana. Somehow, opening my heart to them had made me breathe again. I felt that maybe it really was possible to enjoy being there without drowning in my own thoughts.
That afternoon, I was sprawled on the beanbag in the corner of my room, headphones filling the silence. My pencil moved across the paper, drawing rooftops and facades. It amazed me how much my lines had improved in such a short time. As if every stroke carried something new I hadn't realized I had learned.
My phone, resting on my lap, vibrated and slipped to the floor. I groaned and pushed the beanbag aside to reach it, but in the movement, my eyes landed on something on the wall.
Scribbles.
They weren't new. They had been there for as long as I could remember. Random lines made with pen or pencil, a bit clumsy, but somehow they always gave the room a sense of warmth—like this space had been someone else's refuge before it became mine.
But this time, my stomach flipped.
I knew those lines.
I had seen something like them recently… just not here.
The strokes—strong, sure, full of personality—carried emotion in their shape. They were better than mine, more confident. But they were the same. The exact same style I had seen not long ago.
My body went cold.
Everything I was holding fell—the notebook, the pencil, the phone. The words burst out before I could think:
— Mooooom!
Seconds later, she rushed into the room, eyes wide, heart racing:
— What happened, Helena? Are you hurt?
I pointed at the wall with a trembling hand.
— Who lived in this house before us?
She blinked, surprised by the question.
— It belonged to one of your father's old employees. He was moving and offered to rent it to us. Actually… — she paused, searching memory — he lent it to us at first. Your father only started paying later, when things got better. It was a huge help back then.
I swallowed hard, feeling my throat burn.
— And… do you remember his name?
My mother shook her head slowly, frowning at my sudden interest.
— I don't, sweetheart. I just remember how grateful your father was. We were desperate at the time, packing our things without knowing where to go. The money from selling our old house had disappeared into debts, and with what was left… there wasn't much room to start over. Then this man showed up with the offer.
She paused, smiling softly, as if remembering something tender.
— He brought his son with him that day. Your father and he spent hours talking in the office, sorting everything out, and I went outside with a piece of cake to offer to the boy. But when I got there, I found you… laughing. — her voice softened — I hadn't seen you laugh like that in days. You looked happy beside him. So I didn't interrupt.
I said nothing. My chest tightened like air had been replaced with cement.
A boy.
The pieces began to move inside me.Gears that had been still for years.
The drawings on the wall.Those strong, familiar lines…The same ones I had seen in Rafael's room.
My heart raced.
— Mom… — my voice shook. — That boy… do you remember his name?
She thought for a moment, brows drawn.
— I don't… it's been so many years. But your father surely does—
Her voice faded, distant. I didn't need confirmation anymore.
The memory surfaced whole, like a movie being rewound at high speed.
The gap-toothed smile in the old photos.The trophy held up with innocent pride.The serious gaze I only learned to understand much later.The childish scribbles on my bedroom wall, ones I never questioned, ones that now made sense.
And then — the memory my mother once mentioned and I had forgotten — the boy in the garden, making faces just to make me laugh.
It was him.
The same face in the pictures on the wall of the house downstairs.The same one walking beside me through the university halls now.
The world seemed to slow, heavy, like the truth was revealing itself frame by frame.
It was Rafael. It had always been.
I had thought that the sense of safety between us was something new — something born from late-night talks, shared notebooks, and unexpected gestures. But it wasn't.
Rafael had been there since the beginning.Watching over me.Long before I ever knew.
The realization hit like lightning, slicing through everything:
While I wondered when I had started trusting him, I understood that, in truth—
there had never been a beginning.
Rafael had always been my safe place.