2. Manoela Ferraz

London has never felt as cold to me as it does today.

Not because of the temperature outside — which is actually milder than usual — but on the inside. Because of the quiet mess that's been following me ever since I got back from my father's house after class.

He was lying on the sofa, his face pale and his hands trembling, clutching the remote as if it could distract him from the pain he refuses to admit he feels. I brought him some tea, but he didn't drink it. Said he was tired. And I understood.

Maybe more than I'd like to.

He's been getting worse for weeks. He hides it, of course. My father has always been one of those men who believe illness is weakness, that suffering is a luxury. But I see it in his eyes. The exhaustion. The fear. The fragility he tries to conceal behind bad jokes and the evening news.

What's worse is not having my mother here to share the weight.

She died just over a year ago. Cancer. The kind that takes you quickly, leaving no time to bargain. And it was her pain that brought me back to my father — after years of distance, accusations, silences that stretched too long.

In the end, he was the one who helped me get the scholarship to come study gastronomy here. And I promised I'd make it all worth it. Even when my heart ached. Even when I lost the boyfriend I thought I'd spend my life with.

He told me he needed space. Translation: he had someone else.

That was three days after my mother's funeral.

I didn't even get the chance to truly hate him.

I just felt... hollow.

That's why I'm here, at eight-thirty at night, on my third shift of the week at The Hollow Oak. The pub gets busy on Fridays — and tonight is no different. Too many people, loud laughter, good music, and glasses piling up on the counter as if there's a prize at the end of the night.

"Manu!" The manager calls out to me. "Table seven ordered two more rounds. Step on it!"

"Already on it," I reply, grabbing the tray with the drinks.

I smile at the customers, even when I don't feel like it. I take orders. I jot down tips. I trade jokes with the friendly drunks and ignore the comments from the creeps. It's part of the job.

London has taught me how to fake it well.

It's when I'm back at the counter grabbing more ice that I see him for the first time.

He's walking toward me — tall, elegant, with a posture that suggests some kind of power. His light dress shirt is rolled up at the forearms, revealing subtle but defined muscles. He has a bit of stubble, and his wavy blond hair is slightly messy, as if he's run his hand through it more than once.

But it's his eyes that stop me. They're golden.

Yes, golden.

Like honey warmed in afternoon light.

He steps closer and orders a bitter beer. I give him my best professional smile.

"We've got an IPA that does the job well," I say, pouring it without missing a beat.

"You sound like you know what you're talking about."

"Working here for two years has given me an informal degree in hangovers," I joke, and he smiles.

It's a small, shy smile — like he doesn't do it often. And yet, it's beautiful. A little sad. But beautiful.

"Seems like I came to the right place."

We chat for a few seconds. Exchange lines about the weather — so British it's almost ridiculous — and he comments on the suspicious sunshine we had today. I reply that I get suspicious too when the sky decides to be kind. He laughs, and the sound is rough, low, almost intimate.

But soon one of his friends yells out, teasing us, and he heads back to his table. Still, I notice he turns his head to look at me one more time before sitting down.

And me? I go back to work as if nothing happened.

But something did happen.

The pub grows fuller, louder, more chaotic. The customers are clearly drunker now. A woman threw up behind the sofa in the outdoor area. Two guys got into an argument over a bet on the pool table. Typical Friday.

My shift ended twenty minutes ago, but I stayed to help. And also... to see if the golden-eyed blond would come back to the counter.

He didn't.

When I finally take off my apron and get ready to leave, I head to the women's restroom to wash my face. On the way, I hear a muffled sound coming from the men's room. Something between a sob and the sound of someone... throwing up.

I knock lightly on the door.

"Hey? You okay in there?"

No answer.

I push the door open slowly. There he is. The man with the rolled-up shirt, kneeling on the floor, hands on his knees and his head hung forward. The smell isn't great. But what concerns me is his state.

"Hey... are you all right?"

He lifts his eyes slowly, as if emerging from a deep place. His eyes are glazed, red-rimmed.

"Emma..." he mutters, barely a whisper. "The baby... I saw her... I..."

I don't understand any of it. But I recognize the kind of pain.

This man isn't just drunk. He's broken.

"Do you want me to call your friends?" I ask, crouching down a little to his level.

"No... please..." He reaches out and grips my wrist — firm, but not aggressive. "Take me home."

"To your house?"

He just nods, with difficulty. His forehead is sweaty. His eyes are glassy. All his pride left behind on that cold pub bathroom floor.

I sigh and straighten up.

"Okay. Wait here."

I go back to the bar and talk to the manager. I tell him someone got sick, and I'm going to help. He huffs but doesn't stop me. My shift was already over anyway. I grab my bag, put on my coat, and head back to the bathroom.

"Let's go," I say, reaching out my hand.

He tries to get up, stumbles, and laughs at himself. So I help him carefully. He's heavy, but more conscious than I expected. With his arm draped over my shoulders, we make our way to the parking lot.

"Where's your car?"

He points, with a trembling finger, at a black Volvo. We walk over, and I help him unlock it.

"Are you sure you want to go alone?"

"Just take me there... that's all... please."

I nod slowly. I still don't know why I'm saying yes to a man I just met — a complete stranger — but something about him, the way those golden eyes still burn even in pain, tells me he's not dangerous. He's just... broken. Like me.

"Give me the keys," I ask, holding out my hand.

He fumbles through his pockets and hands them over without resistance. His fingers brush mine for a second, and his skin is cold.

"Get in," I say, walking around the car and opening the driver's door.

He settles into the passenger seat with difficulty, resting his head against the window as if that single movement drained every last bit of strength he had left.

I start the car, and we pull out of the parking lot slowly. The city is still alive out there — full of lights, voices, and chaos. But inside this car, everything feels quieter.

We don't exchange a single word.

And yet, I feel like tonight is going to change something.

I don't know what.

I don't know why.

But I feel it.