I throw off my sheets and step lightly toward the bathroom, my thoughts following me like shadows.
He’s in love with God. Not just someone who attends church out of habit or expectation. Not in a shallow, checkbox kind of way. There’s a sincerity to him—a depth—that you can’t fake. It reminds me of that saying: going to church doesn’t make you a Christian any more than standing in a garage makes you a car. He isn’t like that. His faith feelsgenuine.
That matters more than anything.
He’s a businessman, too. I’ve always admired that. It usually means discipline. Responsibility chosen over comfort. It suggests someone who follows through, works hard to not just let life happen to him.
And he’s honest.
That struck me almost immediately, the way he spoke about his divorce. He didn’t rush past it or smooth over the rough edges to make himself look better. He told the truth plainly, even when it would have been easier not to. There was a courage in that honesty that stayed with me long after the evening ended.
These are qualities I’ve always imagined in the man I would marry.
And suddenly, that thought doesn’t feel hypothetical anymore.
Which makes everything far more complicated.
So the question becomes painfully practical… would it even make sense to explore this? Or would I be wiser to go back to Belgium and continue the life I’ve carefully built there? The adventures, the friendships, the quiet routines that have become familiar and safe.
Do I even see a future here, in Brazil, beyond these two weeks?
And what if he didn’t feel what I felt yesterday? What if this is all one-sided, and I’m mentally rearranging my life around something that only exists inside my imagination? Is it really worth risking the life I’ve spent two years building for a connection that might not even be mutual?
But I don’t know how he couldn’t have felt it.
It was electric. A current humming quietly between us, invisible but undeniable, flowing back and forth in the pauses between our words and in the way our eyes kept finding each other again and again.
And most of all… could he be the man God is directing me toward?
The thought makes my chest tighten with both hope and fear.
I brush my teeth, then my hair, clinging to the small comfort of being productive, as if neat strands and minty breath can somehow bring order to thoughts that feel like they’ve been tossed into a washing machine on the highest spin cycle.
I make my bed next, tucking in the sheets and smoothing every wrinkle until the surface is crisp and orderly. There’s something grounding about it. If my room looks put together, maybe my life will feel that way too.
I slide open my closet and spot a soft gray tank top. Comfortable. I grab a pair of jeans to go with it—something simple but ready for the day. Slippers go on last so my feet don’t have to touch the cool tile.
Maybe I’ll make coffee and sit outside this morning. Let the sounds of the outdoors filter into my brain until everything feels less tangled.
I head toward the kitchen when a sharp squawk echoes from the living room.
I glance over at the parrot cage, still covered with its sheet from the night before.
“Hey, hey! Let me out! Let me out!” Squawk.
I can’t help but laugh. Pimenta does this every single morning, indignant that he hasn’t been let out as soon as light has hit his cage.
“I’m coming, I’m coming, Pimenta,” I call.
“Not fast enough, apparently!” Squawk.
I shake my head, smiling as I walk toward him. This parrot keeps me constantly on my toes. I have no idea where he picks up half of these phrases, but he uses them with impeccable timing.
I pull the cover off his cage, and he immediately shuffles along his perch, blinking at the sudden light.
“You’re going to have to give me a second,” I tell him. “I need to make coffee first, and then I’ll let you out.”
“Can I get a strawberry?” he asks, tilting his head with exaggerated innocence, as if he knows exactly how manipulative he sounds.
