10. Ravi Bonetti

The car slid through the wet streets of London while I struggled to keep my eyes on the road, but it was useless.

Her face came to my mind like an impatient ghost—wide brown eyes, her mouth slightly open in shock, and the apron slightly stretched over the curve of her belly. It was impossible to forget. And even more impossible to ignore.

I wasn't sure what I would do. There was no plan. Just urgency. A longing that started yesterday afternoon and grew through the night, keeping me awake. Even after Pedro tried to reassure me, even after the silence of the apartment wrapped around me as it always did, that image stayed stuck in my head.

She's pregnant.

And it could be mine, or it could just be a stupid theory in my head, since we only spent one night together. What right do I have to show up and demand an explanation about her life? At the same time, if this child is mine, I have the right to participate in their upbringing, to be present and by her side.

I parked the car in front of the café. My reflection in the rearview mirror showed dark circles, but my eyes held something more. Something I hadn't seen in a long time: determination.

I crossed the sidewalk with firm steps and pushed open the glass door. The little bell chimed above, and the welcoming aroma of fresh coffee hit me like an involuntary memory.

She was standing with her back to the counter, organizing dishes with agility. Her hair was tied in a simple bun, a strand escaping and brushing against her neck. When she turned to take an order to a table, our eyes met.

For an instant, she froze. Literally paralyzed.

But in seconds, she composed herself—as if putting on an invisible armor—and walked toward me with careful steps. Her eyes were hard. Cold. Different from the last time I saw them, when she was crying on the bus bench, thinking no one could see her.

"Good afternoon, sir," she said, in a rehearsed tone. "Can I take your order?"

"Manu..." I murmured.

"What will you have?" she cut in, keeping her gaze impassive.

"For you to listen to me."

She sighed, impatient, pressing the notepad against the tray.

"Are you going to order something or not?"

"Black coffee. No sugar. And five minutes of your attention."

"The coffee I'll bring. The attention, I'm afraid not," she replied, turning away before I could say more.

She went back to the counter as if nothing had happened. But I saw it. I saw her hands trembling slightly as she held the cup. I saw the way her shoulders tensed. I saw the fear camouflaged on the face of someone trying to stay in control.

And yet, she came to me again, placing the cup delicately on the table.

"Here you go. Anything else?"

"You're pregnant, aren't you?"

She froze for a second.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Is it mine?"

She stared at me, firm, as if challenging my right to ask. But she didn't answer.

"Just answer me, Manu."

"Not here. Not now." Her voice came out in a whisper, her eyes wet even as her tone was dry. "I'm in the middle of work. This... this is all I have right now."

"I'm not leaving," I warned.

She let out a humorless laugh and rubbed her hand over her forehead.

"You're going to spend the whole day here staring at me, is that it?"

"If necessary."

"You can't force me to talk, Ravi."

"I don't want to force anything. I just... I don't want to leave without hearing you."

She hesitated, then looked away.

"Stay, then," she said with a tired sigh. "Do whatever you want."

And she went back to the floor.

The hours passed slowly. I ordered another coffee, then a lemon tart. I read emails on my phone, but couldn't reply to any of them. Every five minutes, my gaze was drawn to her. To Manu.

She served dozens of customers. Served plates, cleaned tables, smiled at children, thanked for tips. But she never looked in my direction again.

As if ignoring my presence was a form of defense.

And maybe it was.

But I wasn't leaving.

Sometimes, she disappeared to the back of the café and came back with her eyes even redder. I wondered if she had been crying. If she was hiding from me or from the world. If, like me, she had also spent the last five months trying to pretend that night hadn't meant anything... even though it had.

It was hard to reconcile that image—of the strong woman, working nonstop—with the memory of the scared girl who found me vomiting in a dirty bathroom and still took me home.

Manoela.

Manu.

The only woman who made me feel anything after losing everything.

Almost at the end of her shift, she came back. She stopped in front of my table with an exhausted face, but her gaze was softer.

"You're still here," she said, as if she couldn't believe it.

"I told you I would stay."

She pulled out the chair in front of me, but didn't sit down. She just rested her hands on the backrest and looked into my eyes for a few long seconds.

"Ravi... I can't have this conversation now. Not here. This is my job. It's what pays for the roof over my head, you understand?"

"I understand. That's why... I want to see you outside of here. Calmly. Just the two of us."

She looked away to the floor.

"I don't know if that's a good idea."

"One hour of your life. That's all I'm asking. Have lunch with me tomorrow."

Manu hesitated. Her face showed traces of someone tired of fighting, but who still had no choice but to keep standing.

"Fine," she said finally, with a sigh. "But only because you're not going to give up anyway, right?"

I smiled lightly.

"Exactly."

"Meet me here at noon. But only one hour. And just to talk. No too many questions."

"Nothing beyond what you want to tell me."

She nodded and went back to the counter.

And I finally stood up. Not with the certainty I wanted... but with the promise that, finally, I would have answers.