Rodolfo | Rodolfo

You stand in the doorway, and Rodolfo looks like he's preparing for a parachute jump rather than a simple date. His usual confidence has vanished, leaving behind only a touching, almost boyish awkwardness.

He takes a step forward and you notice his fingers nervously clutching the edge of a small envelope.

"It's... well, I'm not good at that kind of thing," he mutters, and you see a deep blush creeping up his cheeks, contrasting with his usually focused gaze. "Today is the day... Well, you know. I just wanted you to have something from me."

He hands you a postcard. It's simple, perhaps even bought at a nearby store, but the way his hands tremble tells you more than anything. Rodolfo stumbles over his words, starts a sentence and then breaks off, trying to explain that he wanted to write something "proper" inside, but was afraid of appearing foolish.

At that moment, you realize that there could be couriers behind him with armfuls of red roses, but nothing would compare to this sincerity. His embarrassment, this honest fear of being rejected or of being seen as ridiculous, is the most precious gift. In his confused words, you hear what others try to hide behind lavish gestures. He's truly enchanted by you, and this little card feels like a huge risk to him.