Sempre Com Você (Always With You)

Magnólia arrives at Café Entre Mundos seven minutes late, which is normal enough that Cesária doesn't comment on it. What makes Magnólia pause is finding Cesária already sitting, hands wrapped around a café com leite that hasn't been touched, steam rising in thin spirals. Cesária is never early. Cesária is precisely, ruthlessly on time—not a minute before, not a minute after, a quality that makes everyone else seem chaotic by comparison. The café is half-full with the afternoon crowd. A couple in the corner arguing quietly about something that involves hand gestures. An older woman reading a newspaper from three days ago. Two university students arguing about philosophy or economics or something equally pointless. The smell of coffee and butter and the particular warmth of a place designed to make people linger. Magnólia slides into the chair across from Cesária, already spinning through worst-case scenarios. Bad grade? Family fight? Someone died? "Okay, what happened? You're doing the serious face. You're scaring me." Cesária's dark eyes don't waver. She sets down her coffee cup with deliberate care, the kind of careful movement that suggests she's been practicing this moment. "I got in." "Got in where?" Magnólia's leg starts bouncing. She hates when Cesária makes her extract information like she's playing detective. "The volunteer program? The internship? The lab assistant thing?" "University of São Paulo. Engineering program. Early admission decision." Cesária pauses, and Magnólia feels something settle in her chest because this was always the dream. This was always the plan. This was supposed to happen in September, after graduation, after they'd had one last summer of being seventeen and infinite. "I got in." Magnólia reaches across the table without thinking, wanting to grab Cesária's hand, wanting to celebrate, wanting to do something with this moment that feels enormous. "That's amazing. That's literally everything you—" "I'm leaving in July." The words land wrong. Magnólia's hand freezes halfway across the table, her coffee cup catching the light from the window behind her. July. She processes the word like it's in a language she almost understands. "July?" Magnólia repeats. Her leg bounces harder. "Like... July this summer? But graduation isn't until—" "I got offered a summer internship. With the São Paulo engineering firm that recruited me. They want me to start immediately after my senior year ends." Cesária's voice is steady, rehearsed, the voice of someone who has prepared for this conversation the way she prepares everything. "If I turn it down, they move to the next candidate. This is the only way in." Magnólia pulls her hand back. The café suddenly feels too small, too warm, the noise of other people's conversations pressing in. She wraps her fingers around her own coffee cup, needing something to hold that isn't Cesária's hand. "So you're not going in September. You're going in July." "Six weeks after graduation." Six weeks. Magnólia repeats the words internally like they might mean something different if she thinks them hard enough. Six weeks is supposed to be infinite. Six weeks was supposed to be their last summer before everything changed. She'd made plans. Stupid plans involving road trips and sleeping on the beach and pretending time moved differently when you weren't thinking about the future. "And I'm not coming back until Christmas break," Cesária continues. She's still in her work voice, the one she uses in student council meetings. "After that, I'll be too busy with the program. The internship might extend into the fall semester. It's competitive. If I want to graduate early, if I want this trajectory..." She trails off, but the implication sits there between them like something physical. Everything ends. Everything changes. Now. The waiter appears to ask if Magnólia wants anything. She orders a café com leite without tasting the words. When he leaves, the space between them feels heavier. "There's one thing I want to ask you," Cesária says, and her voice is different now—softer, almost uncertain, which is so unlike her that Magnólia looks up. Cesária never sounds uncertain. "Before I leave. I want to take a trip. Just us. Down the coast. Seven weeks driving. I already looked into it. I've been looking into it for months." Magnólia stares at her. The way she said it—I've been looking into it for months—suggests planning on a level that goes beyond casual consideration. This isn't something she just decided last week. "Seven weeks?" Magnólia's mind is already doing math. Seven weeks meant the entire time before São Paulo. Seven weeks meant almost the full summer. Seven weeks meant there was a way to stretch this out, to make it last longer than she'd thought possible. "The route is already planned. I researched hostels, towns, the best beaches. We'd drive down the coast toward Uruguay, stay in small places, figure things out as we go." Cesária's hands unclasp on the table. "I need this. Before everything changes. I need this with you." Magnólia watches her for a moment. There's something underneath this request that doesn't quite add up, something Cesária isn't saying. But there's also something desperate in how she's framing it, like this trip is the difference between okay and not okay. "Why are you asking like this is the last time we'll see each other?" Magnólia asks quietly. "Because it is," Cesária says. "Once I'm in São Paulo, it's different. The summer before university is the last time we get to just be us. No university demands, no internship requirements. Just time." The words settle into Magnólia's chest like a stone. She wants to argue, to say they'll stay close no matter what, to promise things that probably can't be kept. But she also knows Cesária is right. People leave for university and they're supposed to leave. People get internships and they're supposed to let them go. "Okay," Magnólia whispers. "Okay?" "Yeah. Okay. I'll do it. The trip." Magnólia picks up her coffee cup, finally, and takes a sip. It's cooled enough to drink. "Seven weeks. Down the coast. Just us." Cesária's shoulders drop like she's been holding her breath. "You're sure?" "I'm sure." Magnólia isn't sure of anything, actually. She's terrified. She's heartbroken that Cesária is leaving. She's already spiraling about how she's going to survive this without the person who's been the constant in her life since she was seven years old. But she's also seventeen and in love with the possibility of something, even if she can't name what that something is yet. The café feels warmer now, or maybe that's just the coffee. Cesária's phone buzzes with a message. She glances at it and doesn't respond, which means she was waiting for Magnólia's answer before checking the world. "We'll need money," Magnólia says, already thinking practical. "And a car. And—" "I have money saved. My parents have given me birthday money for the last three years. I have enough for the trip and then some." Cesária pulls out her phone and opens her notes app. The list is already there, fully formed. Hostels. Gas estimates. Food budget. An itinerary with specific towns marked for specific days. She's been planning this for months. Magnólia reads through it, watching the evidence of Cesária's planning unfold. This isn't spontaneous. This is orchestrated. This is Cesária doing what Cesária does best—making something improbable become inevitable through sheer force of organization. "When do we leave?" Magnólia asks. "Two weeks. After we finish finals. Right after graduation." Cesária looks up from her phone. "If you're sure." Magnólia is not sure. Magnólia is terrified and excited and sad and angry all at once. But she's also seventeen and desperate to hold onto something that's already slipping away. "I'm sure," she says.