The morning passed faster than I expected.
I organized a few books scattered across the table, stacked notebooks, separated university notes for when I could finally go back. It was strange doing everything with one hand gripping a crutch and the other trying to keep my balance, but the act itself felt good.
When I finished rearranging the third pile of books, I heard footsteps on the stairs.A moment later, a soft knock on the door.
"May I come in?" the landlord asked, already halfway inside.
He was holding a glass of cold lemonade, the outside dripping with condensation.The light hit the pale yellow liquid, and for a moment it looked like the best gift in the world.
"I brought this for you," he said, placing the glass in my hand. "It's hot today. Thought it would feel nice."
"Thank you," I replied, feeling the coolness even before drinking.
"How's the knee?" he asked.
"Better," I said. "Still hurts a little, but… better than yesterday."
He nodded, with that satisfied air of someone who enjoys hearing progress, even if it's small.
"That's how it is," he said. "The body has its own pace. And we have to be patient with it, whether we like it or not."
I agreed.I was learning that in the most literal way possible.
He stayed for a few minutes, talking about the weather, about the caterpillars destroying the flowers in the garden, about whatever crossed his mind. And I listened with the strange feeling that this was a rare kind of conversation—one that asked nothing in return.
"I'm going to start lunch," he announced. "If you're feeling well, come down to eat with us. If not… I'll bring you a plate. Or Rafael will."
I nodded firmly.
"I'll come down."
He smiled immediately, pleased.
"Great. Especially because I'm inspired today," he said, opening the door. "And when I get inspired in the kitchen… it either turns out great, or it's a disaster so big we'll have to order takeout. The fun is finding out."
I laughed, and he left laughing too.
The door closed softly behind him, and the studio went quiet again.
I had just put the last book on the shelf, the bookcase finally organized, and I stared at it for a few seconds as if I'd won a world-shattering battle. Maybe I had.I was doing things on my own again.Small things, but mine.
I thought of the stairs.My knee was steady, I was steady.Rafael probably wouldn't like the idea of me going down alone…
But somehow… part of me liked it.His concern, the way he grumbled, furrowed his brows, looked away.Feeling cared for by him was too precious for me to pretend I didn't notice.
I went to the mirror, smoothed my hair, grabbed one crutch, and took a deep breath.
I could do it. I knew I could.
I opened the door to the studio and placed my foot on the first step, one hand on the crutch, the other gripping the railing.
At that exact moment, I heard the gate downstairs slam, heavy steps crossing the yard, a backpack hitting the floor with the most impatient sound in existence.
Then Rafael appeared in front of me. His expression didn't even have time to form—his eyes simply went straight up to me.
"Why didn't you wait for me?" he grumbled, climbing the stairs two at a time.
"Because I'm fine," I said, firm, not stepping back an inch.
He reached me, but didn't touch.He just stood close—very close.
"You could've fallen," he said, voice low and tight.
"I know," I replied. "But I didn't."
He inhaled deeply, as if counting to ten in every language he knew.
"Helena…"
I cut him off, because if I didn't, the conversation would turn into a lecture.
"I want to do it on my own," I said, looking straight at him. "You can stay beside me. If I lose my balance, you catch me. But let me try."
Rafael looked at me for a moment… annoyed, uneasy, but listening.
Then he placed one hand on the railing, right beside mine, without touching me.
"I'm here," he said.
I stepped down one stair.Slow, deliberate.
Rafael walked with me—no rushing, no holding me, but ready.
Halfway down, I glanced at him.He looked away instantly.
I almost smiled.
"See?" I murmured. "I'm doing it."
"I can see that," he replied—and there was a hint of hidden pride in his tone.
We went down together, at my pace.When we reached the last step, I felt the floor solid beneath my foot.
"I did it," I said, almost breathless. "Rafael, I did it."
Rafael let out a smile too.Not one of those half-smiles, shy or restrained.A full one. Warm. Alive.
And for a second, I was absolutely sure he was celebrating inside just as much as I was.
We walked into the landlord's house, still wrapped in what had just happened.
"I went down the stairs by myself!" I announced before even reaching the table.
I sounded like a kid bragging about an epic achievement, but I didn't care—because it was epic.
The landlord turned to me right away, spoon in hand, towel over his shoulder.
"By yourself?" he asked, eyes sparkling.
"By myself," I confirmed, still smiling.
He broke into such a proud smile that it felt like I'd just won an international marathon.
"See?" he said, excited. "The body knows how to come back. We just have to let it."
He served lunch, talking about seasoning, about the rice being just right, about how this dish "either turns out amazing or becomes such a tragedy we'll need to order food."
I laughed.Rafael rolled his eyes.The landlord kept narrating the lunch like a cooking show.
When we finished eating, the landlord stood up right away, collecting the plates.
"I'm heading to the university," he said, hand resting on the table, eyes meeting mine. "Are you going up or staying down here?"
I looked at him without even realizing.He was watching me with an almost childlike gleam, as if waiting for the answer to a game he already knew the ending of.
"I think I'll stay down here," I said.
He clapped his hands once, thrilled, as if that were the best news of the week.
"Perfect!" he exclaimed, grinning. "I'll even bake some cookies. We can eat them while we watch TV!"
I let out a short, honest laugh.
"Perfect," I replied, still smiling.
Rafael took two steps toward me—enough for me to feel that familiar, subtle scent of his, the warmth he always seemed to save for the right moments.
"I'll be back late afternoon," he said, voice low, almost in a tone reserved only for me. "I'll help you go up. Or…" His eyes flicked to my crutch leaning against the table, and a faint, crooked smile appeared. "Or I'll just go up with you. Since you 'don't need help.'"
He lifted his hand and touched my shoulder with the tip of his fingers.A simple touch. Light. Quick.But the impact was full.
My heart jumped to my throat, and my face heated instantly.It had been so long—too long—since he treated me like that.
"Okay…" I murmured, trying to sound calm. "I… I'll wait."
He nodded, turned, and walked to the door.