Page 3 of Please, Forgive Me
MARIA GABRIELA
“Gooood morning… the sun is up on the little faaarm…”
Don’t ask me why, but that song is always the first thing in my head when I wake up. Honestly, I can’t tell if I should check myself into a clinic or just laugh like a lunatic.
I went with the second option. Getting committed would be way too much trouble—and really, I’d rather laugh a thousand times than cry once.
I looked out the window of my apartment in Florianópolis. No ocean view, sadly, but I still liked what I saw: buildings, the city in motion, the promise of a brand-new day. Life here could get chaotic, but I always found a way to handle it with a bit of lightness.
Because honestly—if you can’t laugh at life, then what are we even doing here?
Today I slipped into a breezy, floral dress I’d grabbed from one of those can’t-miss online sales. Perfect for the weather here—light, loose, and it made me feel like I was heading to a picnic instead of the office. I paired it with simple strappy sandals and my old watch, the one I bought back when I still believed I’d be a businesswoman.
I guess I still have that dream…
Maybe it’s just been sleeping under the mess of my routine.
While waiting for the bus, of course I was already humming another tune—because let’s face it, my life might as well be a private musical. The bus pulled up at 7:30 on the dot, like always, and I claimed my usual window seat.
In a way, that daily ride had become my little pocket of reflection—or more often, a chance to get lost in daydreams I’d never admit out loud.
I actually enjoy riding the bus.
Well… except for the times it’s packed and some stranger’s elbow digs into your ribs, which is almost always. Still, there’s something I like about it.
I suppose I could be driving by now if it weren’t for… well, the debt. But I don’t dwell on that too much. I’m paying it off—slowly but surely, like my mom always says. In the end, it’ll all work out.
Or not…
So there I was, doing my best not to think about Diego—my boss, of course—and failing spectacularly. He had this maddening way of sneaking into my thoughts at any hour, like he had a spare key to my brain.
Didn’t matter how much I tried to distract myself with the rhythm of people outside or the blur of buildings—he always came back.
Not healthy. I knew that. But since when are feelings rational?
Still, fine. Life was full of challenges, and I liked to believe I could handle anything.
And I was determined. Today was going to be a good day. I’d walk into that office, ignore Diego’s smug little smile, and just do my job.
Just one more month.
I could survive that… right?
“Is that really what you call work clothes?!”
Diego Bittencourt.
My boss. The source of my wildly inappropriate thoughts—always mixed with a generous dose of irritation.
He was leaning against my desk, arms crossed, wearing that look that reminded me exactly who held the power here, but at the same time managed to seem almost… playful.
I lifted my eyes from the computer screen and stared at him for a few seconds while he scanned me from head to toe, that infuriating half-smile tugging at his mouth. The one I hated. Or maybe loved. Honestly? I couldn’t tell anymore.
The problem with Diego was his beauty, which only made things worse. Thirty-five years old, tall, broad-shouldered, darkhair always perfectly styled, and eyes that, depending on the light, could scatter my focus in an instant.
Everything about him was perfectly proportioned—and matched only by his arrogance and unbearable narcissism. Narcissus didn’t stand a chance against him. Seriously.
“Oh, right. Because you, Mr. Bittencourt, are the ultimate icon of corporate fashion, aren’t you?” I shot back, pulling a face before turning to the stack of papers on my desk.
