The Afternoon Café The rain was falling heavily, but the atmosphere in the café was warm, illuminated by yellow lights and whispered voices. Clara held her cup of cappuccino with shaking hands, even though it wasn't cold. She waited, as always, anxious and confused. Miguel arrived punctually, with a smile that was already as familiar as it was forbidden. He sat down in front of her without hesitation. They didn't need words; His look was enough to melt any guilt she carried. That afternoon, Clara asked herself for the thousandth time why she was still there. Her husband, Paulo, was a good, caring, and trustworthy man. But it was also predictable, and Clara wasn't sure when she started to want something different. Perhaps it was chance that put Miguel on his path or her own restlessness that led her to give in. The touch of hands under the table felt more intimate than anything they had done before. "I can't go on like this," she murmured, but her voice carried no conviction. Miguel smiled sideways, with the confidence of someone who knew she would return. "You can, Clara. Because this is where you feel alive." And he was right. Clara knew that that coffee, that look, that touch – all of this made her feel something that she seemed to have forgotten in her everyday life. She knew there was a choice to be made, but for now, she chose to lose herself in the illusion.