The Giant and the Short

There are people we get over. Lucas was never one of them.

I thought about this at the exact moment the plane made its final turn before There are people landing, and Belo Horizonte appeared down below, spread out among the hills as if someone had spilled lights on purpose. I pressed my forehead against the cold window glass and felt my stomach churn—not from the landing.

It had been six years.

Six years without seeing those streets, without hearing “uai” at every corner, without bumping into anyone who knew the exact size of my problems even before I opened my mouth. Coming back meant encountering all of that again. And deep down, I already knew who the very first person I would search for with my eyes would be the moment I stepped out at arrivals.

“Stop being an idiot, Clara,” I murmured under my breath, shaking my head, and the lady in the seat next to me looked at me in a way that clearly said *too late, my dear*.

I grabbed my suitcase off the carousel and started walking toward the exit, and that was when my head decided to treat me to a full tour of my adolescence. Not the bad parts—not the nicknames, not the hallways where I tried to walk slower, more hunched over, more invisible. Those I had already learned to tuck away in a drawer deep down.

No. My head chose to remember Lucas.

The way he always walked by my side without seeming to notice that he needed to take a step and a half for every one of mine. I remembered one specific afternoon, the two of us sitting on the school stairs, me complaining that I looked like a lamppost in the middle of the court.

“Then I’m the bench by the post,” he had replied, without even thinking twice. “I always stick around.”

I laughed out loud by myself in the middle of the airport lobby, and a child looked at me as if I were suspicious.

That was when I saw him.

Sitting on a bench near the exit, messing with his phone, one leg bouncing to the rhythm of some music only he could hear. He had changed. Not in size—he was still exactly the same, thank you very much, universe—but he looked more whole. Broader shoulders, a light beard starting to darken his jaw, something in his hands that I didn’t remember noticing quite as much before. He was wearing the same worn-out plaid shirt he had insisted on not throwing away since he was eighteen.

I felt that stupid chill drop into my stomach before I could even control it.

I decided not to give nervousness a chance to grow. I walked quickly, from behind him, and covered his eyes with both hands.

“Guess who.”

He didn’t even hesitate.

“Clara.”

“How?!” I pulled my hands away, indignant at the lack of suspense.

He turned, smiling that way that always looked like he was saving a joke for later.

“Your perfume.”

I stood still.

“You still remember?”

“You never left my head.”

The world went silent for a second—just the sound of rolling suitcases and loudspeakers announcing flights I wasn’t listening to. He realized what he had said almost at the same time I did, because his face changed real quick, like someone who just realized they left the oven on.

“I mean...” He ran a hand over his face, looking somewhat awkward. “As a friend.”

“Of course,” I replied, forcing a smile that, on the inside, hurt a little more than I cared to admit.

He stood still for a second, as if he didn’t quite know what to do with his own body, and then opened his arms, half-hesitant.

“Come here.”

I bent down—I always bend down—and he stretched up a bit, and for a few seconds we stayed in that awkward hug, the kind that lasts a little longer than it should between two friends. I smelled his perfume, the same as always, only more adult, and his hand clenched tightly against my back, as if he were afraid that if he let go, I would walk away again.

Neither of us said anything when we finally pulled apart. There was no need.

We walked to the parking lot and, somehow, the conversation just happened, effortlessly, without that awkward silence that usually comes after years apart. He asked about work, I asked about his family, he started a story about the neighbor’s dog that I already knew, deep down, was going to end in some bad joke. I noticed that he still gestured way too much when telling stories, his hands almost hitting people passing by.

It was as if we had never stopped.

When we reached the car, I tried to put the suitcase in the trunk by myself—I lifted it with one hand, without even thinking—and Lucas appeared on the other side, holding the handle as if he were helping a lot.

I looked at him.

“Are you helping or keeping me company?”

“Emotional support counts too.”

I laughed, shaking my head, and got into the car before he saw that it had worked—the smile, I mean. It always worked.

Inside the car, I asked if he was still making his usual horrible jokes.

“Why couldn’t the actress keep a secret?” he blurted out, without any introduction.

“I have no idea, Lucas.”

“Because she was always in the cast.”

I made a dramatic pause.

“That is terrible.”

“It still works,” he celebrated, tapping the steering wheel lightly, and I realized I was genuinely laughing, not just being polite.

At the first speed bump on the street, he braked a little too late and my head gently brushed against the car ceiling.

“Oh my god!” He took his eyes off the road for a full second, looking way more worried than the situation called for. “Are you okay?”

I brought my hand to my head, more surprised than hurt.

“I’m fine.”

He took a deep breath, relieved, his shoulders visibly dropping.

“Good thing.”

I couldn’t resist.

“With me?”

“No.”

“With the ceiling, then.”

“Obviously. I’ve already upholstered this headliner twice.”

I laughed, and he laughed along, and for a second I thought maybe six years wasn’t all that long after all.

At the next traffic light, we fell silent. A good silence, the kind where you don’t feel the need to fill it. I brought my hand to my hair and started tying it up, without thinking, an old habit from when I got nervous.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Lucas watching me—not glancing, but with that intense attention of someone storing something away in their memory.

“What?” I asked.

“Nothing.”

Lies. You could tell by his face that it wasn’t nothing. But he turned his gaze back to the light, which was still red, and I decided not to press. Some things were better left alone—I, more than anyone, knew that.

We arrived at my building as it was getting dark. He insisted on carrying a box—the lightest one, of course, but I let him, because fighting with Lucas over that had practically become a tradition of ours. We went up together, he telling yet another random story, and me laughing more than the story deserved.

At the door, with the key already in the lock, I turned to him.

“It’s good to be home.”

He replied softly, almost by accident.

“I think so too.”

I didn’t quite understand what he meant by that—whether it was about the apartment, the city, or the two of us standing there in that hallway. He didn’t explain either. He just stood there, with that usual smile, waiting for me to go in.

I went in. Closed the door. Leaned against it for a second, smiling like a fool.

He’s still the same, I thought. And I’m still the exact same, idiot enough to think that means something.

I dropped the suitcase in the hallway and walked over to the living room window, just to see the street one last time before unpacking. Down below, Lucas hadn’t gotten into the car yet. He was standing outside, one hand leaning on the roof, looking up at the building.

At my window, actually.

He stayed like that for a few seconds—still, serious, as if choosing the words for something he needed to say. Then he shook his head, by himself, the way you only do when you give up on an idea right as you’re about to carry it out.

He got into the car. Started the engine. Drove away.

I stood there, my forehead almost touching the glass, trying to figure out what the heck that had been.

And it was only later, already lying in bed, staring at the bedroom ceiling, that the question finally formed completely in my head—not *does he like me?*, because that one I had decided, years ago, I would never answer.

The question was different.

What was he about to say?