I spent the rest of the day without hearing from Rafael. I tried to tidy up a few things in the studio apartment, tried to organize my notes for the return to classes — which would start the next day — but everything felt mechanical, automatic. It wasn't until late afternoon that I heard a soft sound coming from the garden. I peeked through the window quietly, not wanting to be noticed.
There he was.Rafael, holding some gardening tools, trimming dry leaves from a branch as if he had all the time in the world. I stepped back instinctively, as if my own heart wanted to protect itself. The sadness came fast, followed by frustration, and then the landlord's words echoed in my mind: "Sometimes, the ones who try the hardest to seem distant are exactly the ones who feel the most."
I took a deep breath, clinging to that thought. That's when another idea came to me.
My mother had packed my suitcase with jars of homemade jam — as always, overdoing it. I loved all of them, of course, but the amount was absurd for one person. When I opened the kitchen cabinet, I saw two jars of grape jam, two of pineapple with pepper… I shook my head, remembering how my suitcase felt like a bag of bricks when I pulled it off the bus rack. Well, now I understood why.
I separated two jars and placed them on the table. It was a good excuse. I wasn't going after Rafael — not directly. I was just being polite, bringing some jam to the landlord. Nothing wrong with that.
In my rush, I forgot to put on shoes. I grabbed the jars and left, feeling the cold floor under my bare feet as I went down the stairs.
In the garden, Rafael was still focused on the plants, not even seeming to notice me. I walked past him without looking, my heart pounding, but I kept my steps steady. Deep down, I just wanted him to see that I could be around him without falling apart. I wanted — desperately — to not look pathetic in his eyes.
The landlord lit up when he saw the jars.
"Homemade jam? Ah, Helena, you hit the jackpot," he laughed, already taking one toward the kitchen. "I'll make some jam sandwiches. Make yourself comfortable — it's been a while since we've had something sweet around here."
Before I could reply, he was already slicing two loaves of bread. He handed me a sandwich with grape jam.
"Try this bread. I made the dough myself."
I blinked, surprised, and took the first bite. The bread was incredibly soft, slightly sweet, matching perfectly with the tartness of the grape jam. I smiled, genuinely.
"It's wonderful, Mr. Joaquim. If you ever open a bakery, I'll be your most loyal customer."
He laughed, satisfied, adjusting his glasses.
"I'm glad to hear that. So… ready to go back to class routine?"
I rolled my eyes lightly, but still smiling.
"No choice, right?" I said, making him laugh again.
We talked for a few minutes. The landlord always had simple stories, but they carried a kind of calm that made me feel safe. Then he wrapped another sandwich and placed it on the table.
"This one's for Rafael. He's been in the garden for hours, hasn't stopped to eat."
I nodded, though inside I sighed. I had come down with no intention of speaking to Rafael — just to be seen. Even so, I couldn't refuse the landlord's request.
"This one here, right?" I asked, picking up the sandwich.
He handed me some napkins too, an amused look in his eyes.
"Take these napkins with you, Helena. Knowing my son, he won't even wipe the dirt off his hands before grabbing the bread."
I smiled at the shared understanding.
"Thank you, Mr. Joaquim."
"I'm the one thanking you for the jam," he replied, his eyes warm.
I took a breath before walking toward the garden. I tried to convince myself there was no reason to feel nervous. Holding the sandwich like it was the most normal thing in the world, I approached Rafael, who was now watering plants calmly, shoulders relaxed like the outside world didn't exist.
"Your father sent you a snack," I said softly, offering it to him.
He lifted his eyes for a moment — just long enough for that quick, contained gaze to hit straight through me. He took the sandwich carefully, as if avoiding any unnecessary contact.
"…Thanks," he murmured, almost inaudible.
I didn't stay. I turned quickly, climbing the first steps of the stairs. But something in my hand made me stop.
The napkins.
I still held them. I sighed, turned back, and hurried down again, extending them toward him.
"Almost forgot…"
It was then that I noticed: my bare feet had stepped right into a thin puddle of water spread across the ceramic tiles. Before I could react, I slipped.
Everything happened fast. In a blink, I saw Rafael's face right in front of mine — his eyes wide, his breath sharp — and then his hands were holding my head gently, firmly, keeping it from hitting the ground.
"Helena! Are you hurt? Where does it hurt?" His voice shook in a way I had never heard before.
A sharp pain shot up my bent leg. I gasped, trying not to cry.
"My leg… it hurts a lot. I don't think I can straighten it on my own."
The noise brought the landlord running.
"What happened?" he asked, breathless. "Helena, how did you fall?"
"She doesn't look where she's going!" Rafael snapped, his voice heavy with irritation and worry all tangled together. "She slipped in the water. I'm taking her to the clinic now."
"No, you don't have to!" I blurted, trying to calm them. "Just help me up. I'll be fine. I'm used to bumps and twists — it's nothing big."
Rafael kept staring at me with those dark eyes. The landlord was already at my side, offering his hand.
"Come on, slowly," he said, steady and calm.
I grabbed the landlord's hand first, but it was Rafael's arm that actually held my weight. He slid his hand along my back, supporting me like he was afraid I'd fall again. His strength was undeniable — but the care… the care was what undid me.
"Don't put weight on your leg yet," he murmured near my ear.
I obeyed, limping slightly as they guided me to a chair on the porch. I sat down slowly, trying to hide the trembling that didn't come only from the pain. The landlord brought a small stool and gently lifted my leg onto it.
"Your knee is swelling," he observed, worried.
Rafael crouched in front of me, as if he didn't trust anyone else to handle this. His fingers were dirty with soil, but his touch was light, almost hesitant. He looked up at me and asked:
"Was it the knee?"
I nodded, trying to contain the discomfort. He placed his hand just above my kneecap, firm but careful.
"Can you move it?"
I swallowed hard, ignoring the warmth creeping up my chest. I tried moving just a little, but the sharp pain made me squeeze my eyes shut.
"I can… but it hurts a lot."
He took a slow breath, looking away for a second.
"You have no idea how much you scare me when you do things like this."
I wanted to answer, but the words stuck.
Then the landlord broke the silence:
"I'll go get some ice. That should help."
He went inside, leaving us alone.
Rafael was still there, as if he couldn't make himself step away. I felt his disguised anger — but beneath it, worry was spilling everywhere.
"Rafael…" I whispered.
He looked up again, and for one second, there was nothing cold or distant about him. Just someone who felt far too deeply.
"We need to go to the doctor, Helena. Get an exam, an X-ray… something to confirm everything's fine."
I shook my head quickly, like denial could stop the discomfort.
"No need. I just strained it a little. I'll be better tomorrow."
He gave me a look that made my stomach tighten.
"Are you a child?" His voice rose, not in anger — in fear. "Why do you have to be so stubborn? If you think you can handle this alone, I can't. I won't feel at ease until someone checks that knee properly."
Those words went right through me. It wasn't just concern — it was something deeper, heavier, something he carried because of me. My heart beat faster, and suddenly I realized he might be right.
I took a breath, lowering my eyes.
"…Okay. Let's go."
That's when the landlord came back holding the ice and caught the end of our conversation. He paused, looked at his son — serious, but not surprised.
"I'll call a taxi."