I should be happy. That’s what I tell myself every morning when I walk across campus—Notre Dame, the dream, the chance to study abroad, to build something real.

And I am happy, most of the time. But then there are the nights, the dates, the endless parade of men who think dinner is just a down payment on sex, or who talk with their mouths full, or who smirk at me like I’m a prize they’ve already won. God, some of them even felt like red flags made flesh... Every time, I left thinking: not him. Not again.

It eats at me. I want more. I want what my parents have—what my mother reminds me of every time she asks,

“Beatriz, when will you bring home a boyfriend? A husband?” She says it sweetly, with love, but it’s still pressure, and I feel it digging into my ribs. Because I want that too: a home, children, loud dinners filled with laughter, love that’s real and steady. I don’t want to wait forever.

So maybe… maybe I’ve been looking in the wrong places. Maybe it isn’t about the bold ones who swagger into my life, but about the quiet ones I’ve been overlooking.

Like him. The sweet, awkward guy who always manages to meet my eyes without turning it into some sleazy look, who’s never once tried to flirt with me, who treats me with respect that feels… rare. Maybe I’ve been blind.

The thought makes me laugh, nervously, to myself. Me, Beatriz da Costa, bold enough to tell off every smooth-talker who’s wasted my time—maybe it’s my turn to take the first step. To walk up to him, smile, and say

'Hey, want to grab coffee sometime?'

Maybe this time, I won’t run away.