7. Manoela Ferraz

The smell of coffee, which had once been almost therapeutic for me, had now become a trigger.

Bitter.

Too hot.

Too heavy.

He was still there. Sitting at the table near the window, with that same air of silent power, as if nothing could shake him. But I knew. I saw it in his eyes. The doubt. The impact. The question that screamed in the silence between us.

Ravi looked at me as if he had just seen a ghost. And in a way, that's exactly what I was: an unresolved memory he never expected to see again. Especially like this.

Pregnant.

I spent the rest of my shift floating between tables, my heart pounding in my chest and my hands too cold to hold the cups safely. I tried to keep my head high, my shoulders straight, the mechanical smile that customers expected. But inside... I was falling apart.

And he was watching me.

I could feel it. Even when I didn't dare look up. Ravi kept glancing away from his partners to look at me, as if searching for confirmation of what he already suspected. The subtle curve under the apron. The tension in my body. The tremor in my hands.

I felt as if I were standing naked before him.

As if he could see everything—everything I'd been through over the past few months.

The plates felt heavier. The trays slipped between my fingers. The clatter of cutlery, the conversations and laughter around me, deafened me. And the only thing I could think was: he knows. Or at least... he saw enough to suspect.

When he finally stood up and left with his colleagues, the air around me seemed to start circulating again. As if I had been holding my breath for hours.

But the relief didn't last.

The moment the door closed behind him, a wave of exhaustion and anguish washed over me. A lump formed in my throat, and my legs threatened to give way.

"Are you okay, Manu?" Lily asked, her eyes kind and her brow furrowed.

"It's just the heat... and the tiredness," I replied with a smile that hurt to keep in place. "Nothing serious."

She nodded, perhaps too accustomed to all of us being exhausted. She didn't insist. And I was silently grateful.

I finished clearing the tables, put away the last dishes, arranged the cutlery. Everything on autopilot. I wanted to disappear, to go home and hide under the covers. But I couldn't even have that. Because lately, home wasn't a synonym for peace.

I said goodbye to my coworkers with a quick wave and left the café, pulling my coat tight against my body. The night in London was cold, with that fine drizzle that seemed to dance in the air before settling on my shoulders. Too much moisture. Too little hope.

The bus took longer than usual. I sat on the hard plastic bench, my hands resting on my belly—a gesture that had become unconscious over the past few months. Sometimes, it was my way of reminding myself that I wasn't completely alone. Other times, it was the quietest way of apologizing.

Because I had no idea what I was doing. And he—or she—deserved more than this.

The journey to my neighborhood took almost an hour. Gradually, the tall buildings and illuminated storefronts gave way to dark corners, narrow streets, and worn-out façades. When I got off, the street was empty. A single streetlamp flickered in the rhythm of the wind.

I climbed the two flights of stairs with effort, gripping the railing to keep my balance. The weight of my belly, still small, seemed to double with the exhaustion and accumulated nervousness of the day.

The building was old, damp, and full of heavy silences.

I opened the apartment door and stepped inside. Dark. Silent. Cold.

He wasn't home. Again.

On one hand, it was a relief. On the other... it was just more loneliness.

The tiny living room had a worn armchair, a torn sofa, and a television that only worked when it felt like it. The kitchenette was cramped, with old, cracked tiles. There were dishes in the sink and a faint smell of grease in the air.

I started cleaning—not because I wanted to, but because it was what I did when the world inside my head was too loud. Keeping my hands busy kept me from crying. The sound of water, of dishes clattering in the sink, was a distraction from the echo I had left behind at the café.

He saw me.

He saw.

I mopped the floor. Picked up the scattered clothes. Wiped down the surfaces. I turned on the hot water in the shower, but it came out lukewarm at best. And still, I forced myself to take a quick shower. I needed to wash the smell of coffee off my skin. And the smell of memory.

I put on an old nightgown and went to the kitchen. There was little in the fridge. Half a packet of rice, an egg, an apple that was almost past its prime. I took the apple and cut it in half, saving the other half. I ate in silence, sitting on the edge of the bed, listening to the noises from upstairs. People laughing, chatting, living.

I just... survived.

After everything was cleaned and put away, and still no sign of him, I sat on the edge of the bed. My eyes stung. My body begged for rest, but my mind... wouldn't shut off.

I placed my hand on my belly.

Still small. Still barely noticeable under loose clothes. But so real. So mine.

And now, perhaps... not just mine anymore.

"I'm trying..." I whispered, swallowing hard. "I'm doing the best I can. Even when it feels like everything is falling apart."

I closed my eyes, letting a tear escape.

I remembered Ravi's gaze. The way he looked at me. Not like before. Not with desire or curiosity. But with something deeper. As if... he already knew. As if the shock was just confirmation of what he'd felt since the first time our eyes met that afternoon.

And now?

What is he going to do?

What am I going to do?

I took a deep breath and gently stroked my belly. The only certainty I had was this life growing inside me. And for her, I had to keep going.

Even if everything hurt.

Even if everything seemed impossible.

I had to keep going.